Salads and pastries
Training ends just before lunchtime, and Ingrid does her best to suppress the gnawing dread that settles in her stomach as she peels off her cleats and shoves them into her bag. She had agreed to this -lunch with Mapi- but only because saying no had felt like more effort than it was worth. Now, as she follows Mapi out of the training ground and toward their cars, she finds herself regretting it.
“Just follow me,” Mapi says cheerfully, unlocking her car with a chirp. “I already picked a place.”
Ingrid blinks. “You didn’t-“ She exhales sharply, shaking her head. “Of course, you did.”
Mapi grins, clearly pleased with herself, rocking back on her heels like she’s proud of whatever decision she’s made. “Trust me, it’s good. And not far.”
Ingrid doesn’t trust anyone, let alone someone as insistent as Mapi, but she just nods stiffly, deciding it’s not worth arguing. As long as it’s quick, she can deal with it. Without another word, she climbs into her car, gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly as she pulls out of the lot and follows Mapi down the road.
The restaurant is small but nice, tucked away on a quiet street, the kind of place Ingrid would never step foot in on her own. She glances at the menu briefly but doesn’t take anything in, too focused on keeping herself composed in an unfamiliar environment. When the waiter arrives, she blurts out the first thing she sees -a small salad- and immediately regrets it when she catches Mapi’s raised eyebrow.
“That’s it?” Mapi asks, her voice lined with something Ingrid can’t quite place.
“I’m not that hungry,” Ingrid lies, shifting slightly in her seat.
Mapi watches her for a beat, then hums, clearly unconvinced but letting it go. “Your loss. I’m starving.” She turns to the waiter and orders something significantly heavier, then leans back in her chair, stretching her arms behind her head with an easy smirk. “You’re missing out, by the way. Food here is unreal.”
“I’ll live,” Ingrid replies, keeping her voice neutral as she glances around, already itching for the meal to be over.
“Debatable.” Mapi props her chin in her hand, tapping her fingers against her cheek as she looks at Ingrid curiously. “You know, you don’t talk much.”
Ingrid tenses. She hates when people point that out, as if she hasn’t spent years trying to make herself as unnoticeable as possible. And she realises, suddenly, that this was the third time Mapi had said this to her, and it had only been two days. She pretends it doesn’t bother her as much as it does.
“Never had much to say,” she mutters instead.
Mapi snorts. “Somehow, I doubt that.”
The conversation, if it can even be called that, dies there, but Mapi doesn’t seem to mind. She fills the silence herself, talking about anything and everything. Stories about past games, funny things that happened in training last season, random things about their teammates that Ingrid should probably remember but doesn’t.
Ingrid doesn’t say much, just listens, because it’s easier than talking. And, if she’s being honest, it’s…nice. She’s still anxious, still hyper-aware of everything she does, still overthinking every reaction, but it’s not bad. It’s tolerable. And maybe, in some small, reluctant way, she doesn’t hate Mapi’s company. Not that she’d ever admit it.
When Mapi finishes her meal and Ingrid finishes picking at hers, the Spaniard gestures toward Ingrid’s barely touched plate. “You know, if you weren’t hungry, you could’ve just said no to lunch.”
Ingrid shrugs, pushing the plate away slightly. “Didn’t seem worth the argument.”
Mapi’s mouth twitches, like she can’t tell if she should be offended or amused. Eventually, she settles on amusement. “You’re a weird one, Ingrid.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Mapi shakes her head but doesn’t push further, instead waving the waiter over to pay the bill. Ingrid lets out a slow breath, relieved that the ordeal is almost over. But the second they step outside, she feels it again -that uncomfortable, restless itch just beneath her skin. Mapi’s hand finds the small of her back, a gentle, guiding touch as they navigate the pavement.
Ingrid stiffens. It’s a small touch. Barely anything. But it makes her stomach twist unpleasantly.
She doesn’t pull away -not immediately- but the second they’re clear of the restaurant, she steps slightly to the side, creating space between them. She doesn’t know if Mapi notices. She hopes she doesn’t. It’s nothing personal. She just…doesn’t like being touched. Not since her. But she doesn’t say that. Doesn’t explain. Just stays quiet and hopes Mapi lets it go.
And she does.
“See you later?” Mapi asks, tilting her head slightly.
Ingrid hesitates. “Yeah, maybe.” It’s a lie. She doesn’t plan on repeating this anytime soon.
Mapi looks like she wants to go in for a hug -her body shifts forward slightly, her arms twitch like they might lift- but Ingrid really, really doesn’t want that. Thankfully, Mapi seems to pick up on it, just scrunching her nose with a small, amused smile before stepping back.
Ingrid pretends she doesn’t find it cute.
She barely breathes a sigh of relief before she’s in her car. But it isn’t over. Because Mapi was right. They do live in the same building. Just one floor apart, and that means they take the elevator up together.
It’s a quiet ride. Not uncomfortable, but…something. Mapi, for once, doesn’t say much, just watches Ingrid with a knowing glint in her eyes. Ingrid hates it. Hates how easily Mapi seems to read her. Hates how she doesn’t know what to do about it.
As soon as the elevator doors open, she steps out quickly, muttering a stiff, “See you later,” before disappearing into her apartment.
Not too quickly. Just enough that Mapi won’t try to follow.
The vacant, empty silence greets Ingrid once more as she quickly closes her apartment door behind her, pressing her back against the wood for just a second before exhaling. Her shoulders drop, and the anxiety in her chest eases -only slightly, but enough that she can breathe properly again.
She toes off her trainers, not bothering to put them away, and heads straight to the bathroom. The shower is quick, functional. She doesn’t let herself linger. Letting her mind wander is a dangerous thing, especially when she’s already been teetering on edge all day.
When she steps out, the steam clinging to her skin, she pulls on some loose shorts and her favourite hoodie -the oversized black one she’s had for as long as she can remember. It drowns her, the fabric hanging low past her hips, the sleeves falling just past her fingertips. Despite being tall, the sheer size of it makes her feel small. Less visible. Less in the way.
That’s when she feels safest.
She runs a hand through her damp hair and heads toward the kitchen, stomach twisting with something that might be hunger but could just as easily be exhaustion. She isn’t sure she has the energy to eat, but she knows she should. She’s already skipping meals too often as it is.
Just as she’s reaching for the fridge, there’s a knock at the door.
She freezes.
Her pulse jumps, and she stays still, waiting, listening. The knock doesn’t come again, but that doesn’t mean whoever it was is gone. Slowly, silently, she pads over to the door, pressing her eye to the peephole.
No one.
Her brows knit together. For a moment, she debates whether she should just leave it, pretend she hadn’t heard. But then, through the distorted fisheye lens, she spots something.
Something there.
Frowning, she hesitates, then carefully unlocks the door, pulling it open just enough to peek outside. Right there, sitting neatly on the welcome mat, is a small plate wrapped in saran wrap. A pastry. She blinks. Confused, she bends down, carefully picking it up, and that’s when she sees it -a small yellow post-it stuck to the plastic.
A sweet treat for you. -Mapi
There’s a little smiley face drawn next to the words, simple but warm, and before she can stop herself, Ingrid feels her lips twitch upward. Just slightly. She swallows, shifting the plate between her hands.
Despite how off she’s been all day. Despite how unpleasant she knows she’s been to be around. Despite how she’s kept Mapi at arm’s length, answered her questions with clipped words, avoided any unnecessary interaction -she had still done this. Still gone out of her way to leave Ingrid something. To be thoughtful. To be kind. Something about that makes Ingrid’s throat feel tight.
Plate in hand, she steps back inside, locks the door, and settles onto the couch, the warmth of the pastry still faintly lingering in the ceramic. She turns it over in her hands for a moment, tracing the edge of the post-it with her thumb before peeling it off carefully and setting it on the coffee table.
She knows what this means.
It means tomorrow, she will have to be the first one to talk. She will have to go to Mapi, approach her, thank her. The thought makes her anxious. Makes her stomach tighten. But for once, it doesn’t settle in her chest like a weight. It doesn’t linger, and somehow, that feels like progress.