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Strike 3!

The call blasted from the stadium speakers, echoing through the mostly empty lower deck.

“That’s a fucking ball,” Yolanda Garcia yelled from her seat, shooting to her feet, hands thrown out in exasperation. A scowl tightened across her face. “Are you fucking blind? It’s not fucking soccer. That ball was at his feet.”

It was a Tuesday afternoon in early August. The sun was high and direct, hitting the field without any shade. The grass looked bright under it, a sharp green against the brown infield dirt. Whole sections of seats sat empty—midday heat kept people away, leaving whole rows open around.

Garcia wore jean shorts and a white Pirates jersey, her sunglasses catching the glare from the field.

“Sit down,” said the voice next to her—Emery Walsh. “Who the fuck cares? I thought we were here to eat nachos and drink beers.”

“What the fuck, Emery? Every game counts if they want to make it to the postseason.”

Emery rolled her eyes and took a long drink from her beer bat—the one she’d made Yolanda pay for. If she was going to be dragged to a midday baseball game in August, on her day off, in inferno weather, she sure as hell wasn’t paying for her own overpriced drink. She was dressed in shorts too, but she had refused a jersey; just a plain white tee, already sticking to her back from the sweat. A cap covered her face.

Yolanda huffed and dropped back into her seat, the warm plastic clinging to the backs of her thighs. Down on the field, the players reset for the next pitch, the infield dirt kicking up in small puffs as they moved.

“I don’t even know why we’re here,” Emery said as she scooped nacho cheese onto a tortilla chip and crunched down on it.

“Because I won the fucking raffle.”

The raffle was one the PEDS floor was running, something about donating money so the kids could go to the aquarium. Yolanda hadn’t cared about it at first, but once those seafoam-green eyes asked her to donate and talked about how cute the kids would look in their matching PTMC T-shirts, she caved immediately, like a fucking loser.  

She’d hoped the prize would be two massages so she and Trinity could have a quiet couples massage. Instead, she ended up at a midday baseball game with Emery.

“Oh, yeah, the one your little girlfriend asked you to donate for,” Emery said, switching into a high, exaggerated voice and fluttering her eyes.

“Shut up.” Garcia chugged her beer from her beer bat. “You weren’t even my first option.”

“Hey, now that’s fucking rude.” Emery adjusted her cap. “I know you wanted Santos here, hoping to make out in the stands, hoping to get caught on some kiss cam or some shit.”

“They don’t do kiss cams on midday games.”

“Wow.” Emery scoffed. “Of course you’d know that. Loser.”

The crack of the bat pulled their attention back to the field. The opposing player made it safely to first.

“They couldn’t give you better tickets, though?” Emery looked around the stadium. “It’s fucking field trip day.”

Emery wasn’t wrong. The date and time were terrible. When they parked, a group of yelling kids had jumped off a yellow bus, already pink-cheeked and dirty, some carrying baseball gloves too big for their hands.

Inside the stadium, banners read Welcome Camps! Hung from the concourse, which made both of them groan.  

Luckily, they weren’t seated by the kids. Emery and Garcia were close to the batter’s box, while the schools were spread along the first and third-base lines, hoping to catch a foul ball.

“I didn’t question it.”

On the Jumbotron, the camera panned to the children dancing to a pop song Yolanda didn’t recognize, stuffing popcorn into their little faces.

“So, how’s it going with you and your little intern?”

“She’s not an intern, and you know her name.”

“Yeah, yeah. Santos. Whatever.”

“It’s going fine.”

“Fine? That’s all I get?”

“What else do you want?”

“I don’t know. A little more?” Emery took another loud bite of her nachos. “You guys are dating, right?”

“Yeah. We are. We just made it official like two weeks ago.”

“Look at my little Yoli Poli, all grown up in a serious relationship.” Emery pushed against her shoulder.

“Shut the fuck up. I hate that nickname.”

But she couldn’t stop the smile that formed on her face. After the whole Fourth of July mess—lying about having plans, pacing her apartment, watching fireworks through her window while thinking about Trinity—she had made herself sick with it. The colors exploding outside only made her more restless.

Around eleven, her phone buzzed. A drunk text. Ur stupd I hot and a blurry photo of Trinity’s burgundy top and the strip of skin above her waistband. Yolanda gripped her phone and bit down on her lip. Trinity looked good, and Yolanda was indeed stupid.

She didn’t respond, but she did lie in bed zooming in on the picture. No one had to know that part.

The next day, Trinity avoided all eye contact. Every trauma case that came in, Yolanda made sure to ask for Dr. Santos’ presentation. If Robby and Langdon had anything to say, they had kept their mouth shut. Trinity was nervous; Yolanda could see it, but she wasn’t going to let her slip away.

She tried to corner her in the elevator, and that shit went sideways.

“Did you fucking lie about needing someone from the ED upstairs?” Trinity asked.

“Yeah.” No point in fucking lying.

“You’ve lost it.”

Garcia crossed her arms. “Says the one who sent a drunk text and has been avoiding me all day.”

“I’m not avoiding you,” Santos had said, eyes shifting away.

Yolanda stepped forward, pinning her slightly against the elevator wall, lowering her voice. “Then why won’t you look me in the eyes? Don’t want me to tell you that you looked so fucking hot last night? That I wish I was there to take it off?”

Trinity’s cheeks pinked, then the door opened, and she pushed Yolanda away without a word.

Yolanda felt the rejection immediately. Usually, Trinity had something smart to say back. It was part of the cat-and-mouse game they liked to play. Seemed like not this time. Maybe it was too much, so she backed off. Let Trinity cool down and herself.

She still called on Trinity at work, but only in a professional tone—no extra affirmations; no eye contact. Trinity looked confused every time.

After a few days of no texts and no calls, and after finishing a bottle of wine in one sitting, Yolanda came up with a plan: tell the truth. Simple in theory. Fucking hard to put into practice.

Yolanda liked Trinity, and she was sure Trinity liked her back. All she needed to do was tell her that.

So on a random Tuesday, she showed up at Trinity and Dennis’ apartment with a bag of Thai food. Trinity opened the door, eyes wide.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I brought dinner.” She lifted the bag like it was obvious.

“I didn’t invite you.”

“I invited myself.” She stepped inside without an invitation, nodding at Dennis on the couch.

“Farm boy.” She greeted him and headed straight to the kitchen, making herself at home.

Behind her, she heard Trinity and Dennis whispering.

“I have no fucking clue.”

“Kick her out.”

“She brought food.”

They both stepped into the kitchen while Yolanda plated the skewers, curry, and noodles.

She handed a plate to Dennis. “Scram. I need to talk to Trinity.”

Dennis frowned at the plate, hoping that it wasn’t level 4 spice like Garcia liked to order. “Why do I have to leave?”

Yolanda ignored the question. “I asked for no spice. Don’t want it to tear your asshole.” She opened the other containers. “Even though that would be fun to watch.”

Dennis grabbed utensils and whispered to Trinity,  “This is the one you like?”

Trinity nudged him out of the kitchen. She leaned her hip against the counter and watched Yolanda portion out the food.

“I added some spice to ours. Hope that’s okay.”

Trinity could only nod, because she had no fucking idea what was happening. Yolanda had ghosted her for a week, calling her Dr. Santos at work. No booty call, no soft, brown-eyed glances her way. Trinity had assumed whatever they had was done, which was disappointing, considering how good the sex had been. And now Yolanda was plating food like she did this every week. She used to, but not anymore.

“Here.” Yolanda placed a plate in Trinity’s hands.

Trinity looked down at it—her usual order. Yolanda knew that. She knew Trinity liked the place across the city because of the sauce, and she knew that Trinity and Dennis probably hadn’t eaten yet because they always argued about what to get.

“Thanks for the food.” Trinity set the plate on the counter. “But what the fuck are you doing here?”

“I told you, I needed to talk to you,” Garcia said around a mouthful of noodles.

Trinity crossed her arms. She wasn’t going to let the delicious smell of the curry distract her. “Well, go on then. Fucking talk.”

“You don’t want to eat first?” Yolanda pointed at her plate with her fork. “You get fucking angry when you haven’t eaten.”

“No, and don’t tell me how I fucking act.” The fucking audacity of Yolanda walking into her apartment and diagnosing her fucking temperament made Trinity’s jaw tighten. Surgeons and their egos.

“Fuck. Fine.” Yolanda set her plate down on the counter. “Well, do you want to sit?”

“No. We can do it right here.”

Yolanda took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and rubbed her forehead with both hands.

“How do I say this?”

Trinity stayed silent; she assumed that was a rhetorical question.

“I like you.”

Trinity stared at her, eyes wide. What the fuck. She had expected a—well, she had no idea what she expected, but it wasn’t that.

“I like you, and I lied about having plans on the Fourth.”

Trinity already knew that; she could smell the bullshit a mile away when she first told her. Hearing it out loud still stung. She would have respected a flat-out no over a lie.

“And I lied well because—fuck—um, you make me nervous.”

Trinity tilted her head forward, a small motion that said me? She didn’t interrupt.

“And I know that sounds absolutely insane because I don’t get nervous. I make people nervous. Then you walked into the trauma room on your first day with your stupid green eyes and your arrogant, smart attitude, I was a fucking goner.”

“We kept it casual because it was easier. You were still an intern. It was fucking easier.”

Yolanda tore a piece of meat off a skewer, chewing while she gathered her thoughts.

“But something changed. No fucking idea when, but it did. And I could see it in the way I acted, and that shit isn’t like me. So yeah, I ignored you and lied, but you were still in my fucking head.”

“I told Emery and she fucking laughed in my face. She wouldn’t tell me why. She said it would come to me. And then it did.”

Yolanda swallowed, shoulders tense.

“So um…yeah, I like you. And I think you like me too.”

Trinity muttered, “What the fuck?”

Yolanda stepped a little closer and took her hands. “I’m saying that I want to be with you in our own fucked-up way. Give each other a real chance. No more casual.”

Trinity looked up at her. This is what she wanted. The woman she had been sleeping with for ten months was standing in her kitchen confessing she liked her. She had no idea how to respond.

“I—uh—I” Trinity swallowed. She wished she had said yes to eating first. Maybe she would have choked and avoided this entire conversation.

She said the first thing that came to mind. “You hurt me.”

Yolanda didn’t even try to argue with that. “I know.”

“We don’t know how to be in relationships.”

“I know that too.”

“So then why?”

“Because I think we owe it to ourselves to see if it’s worth something beyond casual.”

Yolanda stepped even closer, closing the space between them. She lifted a hand and rested her palm along Trinity’s jaw. “And because I really like you.”

Trinity didn’t answer with words. She pushed up and kissed her, open-mouthed, pulling Yolanda in. Yolanda gripped her face and kissed her back, a week of separation and confessions leading the kiss.

When they broke apart, both breathing hard, Yolanda rested her forehead against Trinity’s.

“Was that a yes?”

“Of course that’s a fucking yes, you idiot.”

Yolanda laughed and stepped back, grabbing both plates. “C’mon, let’s heat these, and we can watch that reunion Bravo thing.”

“I knew you liked it.” Trinity watched the plates spin in the microwave.

“I still don’t understand why they only go to the house on the weekends.”

“Because the show is called Summer House.”

“Doesn’t that imply the whole summer?”

“They work during the week.”

“Could have fooled me,” Yolanda muttered, giving Trinity a quick peck before heading to the living room.

“You can come out now, farm boy,” she called as she sat on the couch.

Trinity grabbed drinks while Dennis’ door opened. He came out with his plate, looking between them, trying to figure out what happened. He’d heard Trinity’s rant about Dr. Garcia ghosting her and how she was done, no more chances. That seemed like bullshit now. Dennis had seen the hold they had on each other for months.

He sat in the single chair and lifted his feet onto the ottoman. “What we watching?”

“Field House,” Yolanda said, stabbing a piece of vegetable.

“Summer House,” Santos corrected as she sat beside her.

“Same shit.”

Dennis watched Trinity scooch in as close as possible to Dr. Garcia. At this rate, her plate would end up in Dr. Garcia’s lap. He saw Dr. Garcia lean in and whisper something that made Trinity give a nervous little laugh while Dr. Garcia smirked.

“None of that,” Dennis said.

Yolanda scoffed while Trinity leaned forward to grab the remote from the console table.

“Both of you, stop it,” Trinity said as she pressed play.

The host’s introduction filled the room. They ate; plates moved to the coffee table. Trinity rested her head on Yolanda’s shoulder, Yolanda’s arm settling behind her. On the screen, someone walked offstage while the cast yelled at a man to go get his girl.

Yolanda still didn’t understand why Trinity liked this show. They kept talking about teams. What teams?

Another crack from the baseball. She followed the ball as it flew toward third base, the kids along the line lifting their hands, ready to catch it. A little girl caught, and the kids around her shrieked, trying to see the ball.

“It’s going fine,” Yolanda repeated to Emery.

“Fine. Don’t give me anything.” Emery said, pulling out a sun stick from her bag, “I’ll just ask Trinity. Bet you she’ll tell me everything.”

“She won’t.”

“How would you know?” Emery smeared sunscreen across her face.

“Because I know her.”

“Fine, fine. Keep your relationship to yourself. I’ll find out on my own.” Emery slumped in her seat. “Can we leave?”

“No. It’s only the fourth inning.” Yolanda took a bite of nachos.

“How many are there?”

“Nine.”

Emery groaned and pulled her cap down over her face. “Fuck no.”

“You have nothing else better to do. If the game sucks, we can leave early.”

“Sucks already,” Emery muttered. “Go get me a hotdog.”

“Fuck no. I already got you a beer and nachos.”

Emery ignored that and handed her the beer-bat cup, “Refill it, while you’re up.”

“Hell no.”

“Jeez, are you a cheapskate with Santos too?”

Yolanda leaned in, “I am not cheap.”

“Could have fooled me.”

They were interrupted by murmurs from the crowd. They looked toward the field—nothing happening, just a batter getting ready. Then they turned toward the third-base line. A woman in a turquoise shirt had her hands up, waving. Yolanda couldn’t tell if she was dancing or trying to get attention.

She turned back to Emery. “How about you go get our beers instead?”

Before Emery could respond, a man in a turquoise shirt came running down the empty rows, waving his arms. “Help! We need help!”

He kept running, breath loud, scanning the seats. “Is there a doctor here?” he yelled.

Both Emery and Yolanda groaned. Even on their day off, they couldn’t get a break.

Emery raised a fist into her palm. “Rock, paper, scissors?”

The man yelled louder. “It’s a kid. She’s choking.”

Ah fuck.

Yolanda stood immediately and jogged toward the section, throwing a finger back at Emery, who wolf-whistled.

The man caught up to her, still breathing hard. “Oh thank god, hurry, hurry.” They jogged faster, grateful the section was mostly empty so they could move quickly.

When Yolanda reached the row, she heard the crying and shrieking. The same little girl who had caught the foul ball stood with her hands at her throat, trying to breathe. The other kids were panicking around her.

The camp counselor tried to push the kids back, giving Yolanda space.

Yolanda assessed the situation. She stepped toward the girl, and she removed her glasses, lowering herself to the girl’s height.

“I’m Dr. Garcia, and I’m going to help you, okay?” The girl—also in a too long turquoise shirt—nodded, panic in her green eyes

Yolanda stepped behind her. “What’s her name?”

The kids all yelled at once.  “Emmy!”

“Okay, Emmy, I’m going to pat your back really hard, okay?”

She didn’t wait for a response. She leaned Emmy forward and delivered five firm strikes between her shoulder blades.

The kids shrieked at the sound. In any other situation, Yolanda would’ve told someone to quiet them or move them away. She couldn’t blame them. If she were five and saw someone hit her friend’s back that hard, she’d yell too.

After five strikes, nothing came out.

Next step.

“Okay, Emmy, I’m going to reach around you. It’s going to feel like a hug, and I’m going to pull on your belly, okay?”

Again, she didn’t wait. She placed a fist above Emmy’s belly button, wrapped her other hand around it and pulled inward and upward.

On the third pull, a piece of food shot out of Emmy’s mouth and hit the ground. A wet chicken nugget sat on the concrete.

The kids screamed in relief. Emmy turned and threw her arms around Yolanda’s neck, crying.

“I don’t want to die.”

Yolanda blinked. Kids sure were dramatic. She lifted Emmy, brushing sweaty, light-brown hair off her forehead.

“No one’s dying today, okay?” Emmy nodded.

“You did good, but let’s take smaller bites, alright?” Emmy giggled and buried her face into Yolanda’s neck.

Yolanda carried her to the counselor and set her down. Emmy ran back to her friends.

Yolanda pointed a finger at the counselor.  “What kind of fucking kid counselor doesn’t know how to do basic first-aid?”

“You’re fucking lucky I was here.”

She glanced at the camp name on the shirt. “I’m going to fucking call the camp and tell them all about your fucking negligence.” She started walking back toward Emery.

The camp counselor could only nod.

As Yolanda headed back, the kids yelled, “Thank you, Dr. Garcia!”

She lifted a hand and waved.

She plopped down onto the seat. “Fuck. I think I deserve a beer.”

Emery sighed as she grabbed both of their cups. “Yeah, let me go get them.”

As Emery stepped out of the row, Yolanda called after her, “A hot dog too.”

Yolanda groaned as she stepped into Trinity’s and Dennis’ apartment. All the sun, beer, and food had caught up to her.

“Hey, how was the game?” Trinity asked, looking up from her laptop on the couch. She was in sweats, an oversized shirt, hair down, glasses on.

Yolanda kicked off her shoes and dropped onto the couch, giving Trinity a quick kiss first.

“Hot.”

“I can imagine. A midday game sucks.”

“And it was field trip day.”

Trinity laughed, closing her laptop and turning toward her. “No.”

“Yeah.” Yolanda moved her hand away from her eyes and looked at Trinity. “Kids everywhere. Emery almost killed me.”

“Fuck. I’d kill you too.”

Yolanda pounced on her, pressing her face into Trinity’s neck. “It’s your fault. Making me donate all that money.”

Trinity laughed as Yolanda spoke against her skin. “Not my fault you fell for it.”

Yolanda buried her face deeper, making Trinity squirm and laugh at the sensitivity of it.

Trinity pushed her off, “Did they at least win?”

Yolanda let her head fall to the side. “Of course they didn’t.”

Trinity laughed harder. “Sounds like a horrible day.”

“Wasn’t too bad.”

Trinity reached out and tugged lightly at the front of Yolanda’s jersey, her fingers brushing the fabric. “You look hot,” she said, the corner of her mouth lifting.

Yolanda let out a tired laugh, eyes half-closed from the long day.

Trinity shifted, moving to straddle Yolanda’s legs. She rested her arms around the back of Yolanda’s neck, brushing her hair away from her skin. Yolanda shuddered at the sensitivity of it, keeping her eyes closed. Trinity stayed there, running her hands lightly along the sides of Yolanda’s neck and over the curve of her ears.

She placed a kiss on her neck, and Yolanda opened her eyes to see Trinity with her nose scrunched up.

“You stink.”

Yolanda threw her head back. “I know.”

Trinity stood and tugged her up. “C’mon, we can shower together.”

Yolanda perked up and followed her toward the bathroom. “Should have said that from the beginning.”

Trinity laughed, still pulling her along. “How many glizzies did you have?” she asked as she turned on the water.

The next morning, the ED was buzzing, packed as always, but no traumas yet for Dr. Garcia to make her appearance downstairs.

Trinity sat typing up her charts. She was caught up for once, and she planned to stay that way, when she saw Victoria speedwalking toward her. Crash slid onto a rolling stool and pushed herself over.

“Have you seen?” Victoria asked.

“Have I seen what? If you’re talking about the cockroach in that girl’s ear, yeah, I saw.” And heard her. Trinity shuddered. “I might have to start wearing earplugs.” She kept typing.

“No.” Victoria pulled out her phone. “Let me find it.”

“Find what? I’m working, Crash.” Trinity ran a hand through her hair.

“Here.” Victoria shoved the phone toward her face.

Trinity pushed it back. “Fuck.” She held it at a normal distance. “What am I looking at?”

“Look.” Victoria tapped the screen to restart the video.

On the screen, Trinity saw a woman waving her hands, a kid choking, other kids moving around. A field trip at a baseball game. Before she could ask what the point was, a third person entered the frame.

Yolanda.

Yolanda in jean shorts, the muscles in her legs visible as she jogged toward the choking girl. Trinity watched her bend down, say something, then step behind the kids and deliver the back blows. When that didn’t work, Yolanda moved straight into the Heimlich. On the third pull, the food flew out. The girl hugged her, Yolanda carried her, talking to her, patting her little belly. Then Garcia turned to the counselor and ripped into her.

The caption read: Dr. Garcia is our hero!, followed by first-aid links and reminders about knowing the basics.

“Dr. Garcia is viral,”Victoria said. The video looped again. It was clearly professionally filmed, probably the ballpark’s cameras.

“What?” Trinity looked at her. Garcia hadn’t said a word last night. Just complained about the heat and the field trip. Not one mention of saving a child.

“Viral. She’s gone viral.” Victoria pointed at the screen. Two million likes. Victoria’s own heart icon lit up. Trinity stared at her.

Victoria shrugged. “What? First aid is important.”

Trinity opened the comments, eyes skimming.

The official Pirates account: Dr. Garcia is our MVP. DM us. Pittsburgh owes you one 🏴‍☠️

I can choke on something else – 69k likes

Dr. Garcia is HOT – 30k

This is why everyone must know basic first aid. imagine if Dr. Garcia wasn’t there. Glad the little girl is okay. Thank you Dr. Garcia - 8k

fire that counselor – 10k

ok, but like the finger in the face, yelling at the counselor, muy caliente 🔥 – 22k

does Dr. Garcia teach CPR? I volunteer for mouth-to-mouth 🙋🏻‍♀️ – 48k

Trinity kept scrolling, jaw clenched. Victoria leaned in.

“Yeah, a lot of them are just calling Dr. Garcia hot.” Victoria grimaced. Trinity raised an eyebrow. “Not that Dr. Garcia isn’t good-looking, but I just—um—not my type.”

“I don’t think she’s your type either, Crash.”

Victoria put her hands out, whispering excitedly. “We have our own celebrity in the hospital.”

Trinity handed the phone back, frowning.

Now she was pissed.

Before she could sit with it, Robby called out, incoming trauma, car pileup.

In the trauma room, they were all working together when Garcia stepped in, “What’s up, people?” she said, grabbing gloves from the wall dispenser.

“Decreased breath sounds on the left,” Trinity called out. “BP 86/54. Heart rate 140. Sat’s dropping, 88 on 15 liters.”

Robby adjusted the monitor leads. “GCS is twelve. Pupils equal and reactive.”

Garcia stepped to the bedside, eyes scanning the setup. “Mechanism?”

“Five-car pileup,” Robby said. “Front-seat passenger. No seatbelt.”

“Okay.” Garcia snapped the last glove into place. “Let’s needle him.”

“Left second intercostal, midclavicular,” Trinity said out loud, more for the room than for herself.

Garcia held the patient steady while Trinity inserted the needle. A sharp hiss of air escaped.

“Pressure’s climbing,” someone said, watching the monitor. “94/60.”

“Good,” Garcia said. “Let’s get ready for a chest tube.”

As everyone moved around the bed, Robby glanced up from the patient’s left side. “Bad loss yesterday, huh?”

“Fucking embarrassing. 10-4”

Robby shook his head, smiling down at the drapes. “They’re never going to make the postseason.”

“Not the way they’ve been playing. They need depth.”

Trinity moved to the tray, hands steady, even though her brain was still half-buzzing with the video she’d just seen. Viral. Garcia. Two million likes. And not a single word about it.

As they stepped out of the room, Trinity tried to slip away, but Garcia caught her arm.

“Hey, you okay?” Garcia nodded toward the trauma bay. “You were pretty quiet in there.”

“Just doing my job.” Trinity turned to leave, but Garcia grabbed her again.

“Seriously, what’s wrong?” Garcia’s eyebrows pulled together.

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.” Garcia guided them toward a corner, out of the way of the stretchers and wheelchairs rolling past. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” Trinity bit her lip. Talk to her. Wasn’t that the same thing she’d been mad at Garcia for? Hypocrite.

“It’s just that—”

A shriek cut her off; high-pitched, happy. Both of them turned.

A little girl in a pink glitter tutu sprinted toward them. Emmy. She lifted her arms as she ran, and Garcia bent down automatically, catching her and lifting her up.

“Emmy, what are you doing here?” Garcia adjusted her hold as Emmy immediately grabbed her stethoscope.

“Mommy brought me.”

A woman hurried up behind her. “Emmy, what did I say about running indoors?”

“Not to do it,” Emmy mumbled, still playing with the stethoscope.

The woman looked up at them. “I’m so sorry. I’m Emmy’s mom—Vivianne.” She shook both of their hands. “I just wanted to come down and thank Dr. Garcia for saving my little Emmy.”

“It was no problem,” Garcia said. “Just doing my job.”

“Small bites, right?” She turned to Emmy and poked her stomach, making the girl giggle.

“Of course. Once I saw the video—”

“Video?” Garcia cut in, eyes narrowing.

“—it was just so scary, you know? Seeing Emmy choke—” Vivianne’s voice wavered. “If something had happened…and you trust the counselors to take care of your kid…and—oh—”

Vivianne threw her arms around Garcia.

Garcia froze, eyes wide, looking at Trinity like what the fuck is happening. Emmy squished between them.

“Mommy, you’re squishing me.”

Vivianne pulled back immediately. “Oh, I’m sorry, baby. Come here.” She lifted Emmy from Garcia’s arms.

Vivianne brushed her hair behind her ear. “We just wanted to say thank you again. We’ll see you at the game. Have a good day.” She turned, carrying Emmy, who waved over her mom’s shoulder.

Garcia and Trinity slowly waved back.

Garcia turned toward the hand sanitizer dispenser, pumping out two handfuls and rubbing it up to her elbows. Trinity rolled her eyes at the overkill.

“What video is she talking about? What game?” Garcia asked as she scrubbed.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Garcia crossed her arms waiting. “Well?”

“You went viral.”

Garcia tilted her head. “Viral?”

“Yeah.” Trinity dug into her pocket for her phone. “Yesterday. At the game. You saving Emmy.”

She pulled up the video and held it out. Garcia squinted at the screen, eyebrows pinched. “What the fuck?”

“Yeah.” Trinity watched her scroll. Garcia opened the comments, eyes widening at the thirstier ones. A smirk started to form before she forced her face to stay neutral. Trinity snatched the phone back.

“Well that’s a fucking stupid reason to go viral,” Garcia said.

“Well, you did. And now everyone wants you.”

Garcia leaned against the wall, hands in her pockets. “Are you jealous?”

“No, I’m not fucking jealous. I’m mad.”

“Mad?” Garcia straightened. “Mad at what? I saved a little girl.”

“Yeah,” Trinity whispered, aware of where they were. She pointed a finger at her. “You lied. I asked you yesterday how the game was, and you said fine.”

“It was fine. They lost.”

“Oh my fucking god.” Trinity grabbed her head. “You didn’t tell me you gave a five-year-old the Heimlich maneuver.”

“I didn’t think it was important.” Garcia shrugged, genuinely confused. She didn’t tell Trinity every time she saved someone. It was her job.

“That’s the issue.”

“Huh?”

“We’re in a relationship, Yolanda. We’re a couple.” Trinity pointed between them. “You’re supposed to tell me things. I’m supposed to tell you things.”

Garcia blinked at her, the confusion on her face shifting.

“Oh,” she said, quiet. “You mean…you wanted to know because we’re together.”

Garcia exhaled. “I wasn’t thinking about it like that,” she admitted. “I was thinking about it like work. I didn’t think it counted as something to tell you.”

“Well, it does.” Trinity shoved her hands into her pockets, looking away. She didn’t want to do this here. “Doesn’t matter. We can talk about it later.”

“No.”

Monitors beeped around them; people walked past. No one was paying attention. That was a lie; Trinity had already seen Princess walk by pretending to read a chart.

Garcia stepped closer, lowering her voice. “I’m—sorry,” she said. “This is all just so new for me. I didn’t mean to not say anything. I didn’t think it was important.”

Trinity kept her eyes on the floor.

“I know communication is our biggest downfall,” Garcia went on. “I know that. And I don’t want to fuck it up.” She rubbed the back of her neck, frustrated with herself. “I’ll try to be better.”

Trinity finally looked up at her. “Why do you think I wouldn’t want to know about you being a hero?”

Garcia shrugged, smiling as she rolled her eyes. “Because it was nothing. I would have done it for anyone.”

“Anyone?”

“Ehhh, me and Emery were going to rock, paper, scissors to see who had to go.”

Trinity pushed her shoulder in disbelief.

“But once they said it was a kid, I was closer.”

“Good to know.”

They started walking toward the elevator. Garcia leaned in, whispering in her ear. “It was going to be best out of three.”

Trinity shook her head. “Well, the Pirates want you to DM them, so we can do that tonight?”

The elevator opened, Garcia stepping in. “Tonight.”

Before the doors closed, Victoria sprinted toward them, waving her phone. “Dr. Garcia! Dr. Garcia!”

She slipped into the elevator at the last second, breathless already talking. “Do you think I get an interview with you for my TikTok?”

The doors slid shut.

Trinity didn’t hear Garcia’s response, but she could guess it was something along the lines of fuck no.