Spider webs
Jackie shows up late to practice.
She’s got her hair scraped back too tight, mascara smudged under one eye, and a jaw set like she’s been grinding her teeth all night.
“Nice of you to join us,” Coach Scott says, not even trying to hide the sarcasm.
Jackie doesn’t respond. Just drops her bag and starts lacing up her cleats like she’s doing someone a favor by being here.
Nobody says much. But everyone notices.
Her energy is off. Not in the usual “Jackie’s being bitchy because she’s bored” way. In the “Jackie’s one wrong word away from snapping a
Frosh over her knee” way.
⸻
Shauna’s already on the field, stretching with Lottie. They’re not being obnoxious—they’re not touching each other’s faces or making out behind the bleachers—but there’s a closeness there that wasn’t before.
Lottie’s hand lingers on Shauna’s lower back longer than it needs to. Shauna leans in when she whispers something. They laugh too softly to hear.
Van clocks it from across the turf.
She nudges Tai. “Well, look who’s suddenly codependent.”
Tai doesn’t look up from tying her laces. “Bet you ten bucks they’re sharing Chapstick now.”
“I bet they’re sharing a lot more than that.”
Tai finally glances up, eyebrows raised. “You think Jackie’s seen it yet?”
Van smirks. “Jackie’s looking like she dreamed it and woke up in a cold sweat.”
They both watch as Jackie barrels through warmups like she’s at war.
⸻
They’re running scrimmage drills. Jackie’s playing mid. She’s not passing. She’s not calling shots. She’s just pushing—harder, faster, more aggressive with every play.
Van, in goal, is shouting at her. “Yo, communicate, Jackie!”
Jackie doesn’t reply.
She just turns, takes the ball again, and charges like she’s trying to win something.
Van’s ready. She steps forward to block the shot.
And Jackie doesn’t stop.
She goes in too fast. Elbow too high. Doesn’t pull back.
The hit lands sharp.
Van goes down.
⸻
Everyone freezes.
There’s a beat of silence, like even the wind’s holding its breath.
“Jesus Christ, Jackie!” Tai’s voice cuts across the field, sharp and furious.
Coach Scott jogs over, but Van’s already pushing herself upright, blood at the corner of her mouth, one eye squeezed shut.
“I’m fine,” she mutters. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” Tai snaps. “Your eye’s gonna swell shut.”
“Cool, I’ve always wanted a matching set,” Van mutters, wiping her lip.
Coach’s voice is all static now—something about ice and sitting out. But Jackie’s not listening.
She’s just standing there, breathing hard, fists clenched.
Shauna’s watching her now.
Not scared.
Just… seeing her.
Lottie’s hand is on Shauna’s arm.
Jackie sees that too.
And she wants to scream.
⸻
Later, when they’re on water break, Van’s on the bench with a bag of ice pressed to her cheek. Tai’s sitting next to her, arms crossed.
“You good?”
Van grins through the swelling. “Never better.”
Tai rolls her eyes. “She’s lost it.”
“Yeah. You think she’s gonna shiv someone next practice?”
“I think she’s gonna Martin Luther Shauna’s locker.”
They both glance toward midfield, where Shauna and Lottie are leaning shoulder-to-shoulder, heads bowed over the same water bottle like it’s a love letter.
Van whistles. “Honestly? Kind of romantic.”
Tai snorts. “Kind of dangerous.”
⸻
Jackie doesn’t look at anyone.
Not Shauna. Not Van. Not even Coach, who’s clearly trying to decide whether to bench her permanently.
She just picks up her bag, slings it over one shoulder, and walks off the field like she’s still winning.
Even though she knows she’s already lost.
⸻