Chapter Text
December 2014—Orlando
Jackie Taylor stepped down from the hotel shuttle into the thick Florida humidity and crossed the pavement toward the players’ entrance. Like most of her New York teammates, it was her first time at High School Nationals. She had expected something more impressive than a convention-center complex surrounded by parking lots and chain restaurants, but Orlando was hardly London or Barcelona. There was nothing here to focus on except heat and soccer, and those were two things elite teenagers were expected to tolerate.
It was two weeks before Christmas, but for the best high-school players in the country, June meant Nationals and scouting lists. For Jackie, it meant the first chance to get a direct look at Shauna Shipman.
There had been a great deal said about the seventeen-year-old midfielder from some New Jersey public school. Jackie was sick of the name, which had managed to circulate through club gossip, scouting blogs, and casual conversation in enough Manhattan households that private academies weren’t far enough to escape the hype. Both Jackie and Shipman were expected to land invitations to the U.S. U-18 training camp, and most analysts had already decided they would anchor that cycle. The question of who deserved to come first depended on who you asked. Jackie knew her answer.
She had never played against Shipman. Never marked her. But she was already determined to dismantle her.
She would start by leading New York to a national title, here, on neutral ground and under lights Shipman supposedly thrived beneath. Then she would return to her club program in Manhattan and finish the ECNL season undefeated. And then, surely, camp would belong to her.
This was the year of Jackie Taylor. Since she had been twelve, 2017 was the year she was expected to take her place on the national stage. No small-town midfielder was going to alter that.
The New York side arrived at their assigned practice field at the tail end of the New Jersey delegation’s slot. Jackie paused with a few teammates to watch the final rondo drill. There were no names on the pinnies, so she couldn’t pick out Shipman before her coach told her to get moving toward the benches. Schedules at Nationals were extremely tight.
They stepped onto the turf as soon as field marshals cleared the cones. The auxiliary field was narrow and felt temporary. The actual matches would be in the stadium quadrant across the complex. A scattering of spectators sat on metal bleachers, early scouts, a few parents who wanted photos for social media, and local soccer obsessives with folding chairs and sun hats.
Halfway through warm-ups, Jackie noticed a girl sitting several rows above the halfway line in a plain Wiskayok warm-up jacket. She was flanked by two adults who were probably her parents. It was too far to be certain, but Jackie thought it might be Shipman. Her mother worked in healthcare or teaching, Jackie was sure she had heard something like that in an article.
“Plan to join us, Taylor?” her coach called across the field. Jackie turned, annoyed to find the rest of her teammates collected for instructions.
She didn’t like that Shipman, if that was Shipman, might be watching them. Or maybe she did. Maybe Shipman was nervous about facing her later in the tournament. Maybe she felt threatened.
She should.
After practice, Jackie showered and dressed quickly. She returned to the field entrance to glance at the bleachers again, but the girl in the jacket and her parents were gone. The Texas champions were already cycling onto the turf.
Jackie shrugged and crossed to a concessions kiosk. She bought a bottle of sports drink and wondered if she could step outside the perimeter fence for a moment to call a friend before curfew.
She zipped her New York warm-up jacket to her throat and headed for the exit gate. The air was still heavy. She rested a shoulder against a concrete wall, slid her drink into her pocket, and pulled out her phone.
“You’re not supposed to make calls here,” someone said. It took Jackie a moment to place the voice and the words.
She turned and saw a girl she recognized from photos and passing mentions, Shauna Shipman. She had a distinct look. Her hair was pulled into a low ponytail that had probably been neat earlier in the day, and her eyes were a deep brown that didn’t seem to blink much. Her build was compact, balanced, the kind of frame coaches liked for midfield control. Her skin was pale from a northeastern winter, with a faint flush across her cheeks that could have been heat or nerves.
“What?” Jackie said. Even the single word felt too loud against the concrete.
“You’re not supposed to be on your phone here,” Shipman said. She pointed toward a row of benches outside the perimeter fence. “They want players over there.” It looked inconvenient and farther from shade than Jackie preferred.
Jackie slid her phone back into her pocket and stayed where she was. This complex, these rules, annoying. Bad enough she’d left the city for this; she didn’t need to be shooed like a child.
“I’m surprised your parents didn’t stop you,” Shipman said.
“Okay,” Jackie replied, as if that should be enough.
“I saw them earlier,” Shipman added, for some reason. “On the sideline.”
Jackie didn’t bother to hide the shrug. “They’re around.” Her father always planted himself along the halfway line, offering silent judgment on movement and efficiency. He had torn his ACL twenty years ago and kept his opinions intact. Her mother usually handled hospitality tents.
Shipman waited a moment, then tried again. “Mine are here too.”
Jackie didn’t reward the information. She didn’t understand why Shipman was telling her this.
A short silence formed between them, the kind that suggested someone should end it. Shipman made an attempt.
“I wanted to meet you,” she said, and she extended her hand. “Shauna.”
Jackie looked at the hand, then at her face, and felt her mouth pull into something close to a smirk.
“Yes.” She shook the hand briefly. Firm grip. No hesitation.
“You’re really strong on the ball,” Shipman said.
“I know.” If Shipman was waiting for reciprocity, she was waiting in vain.
When Jackie didn’t elaborate, so she tried another route. “You staying with your parents?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.” Shipman nodded. “I figured. A lot of players like to be with family at Nationals. My dad came this year. Brought my brothers.”
Jackie watched her expression shift, mildly annoyed, like the brothers were loud or exhausting. Jackie said nothing.
“It’s hot out,” Shipman said.
“Yes.”
They stood beside each other, backs against the concrete wall. Shauna had an inch and a half on her. Shipman’s posture was characteristically stable, weight even, shoulders relaxed. She did fidget, which Jackie noticed.
Jackie finished her drink and held the empty bottle loosely. She decided to offer one sentence, because Shipman seemed determined to be conversational. “Your brothers stay quiet?”
Shipman huffed a small laugh. “No. They fight over my snacks.”
“Sounds annoying.”
“It is.”
Jackie didn’t contribute anything further..
“I should go,” Shipman said finally. She stepped away from the wall and turned to face her again. Jackie’s eyes went to the slight red across her cheeks and the way the sun hit her jawline. Shipman offered her hand once more.
“Good luck this weekend,” she said.
Jackie accepted the handshake, her mouth tightening into a smile. “You won’t be that polite when we take your bracket.”
“That won’t happen.”
Jackie could tell she meant it. That she believed her side would advance, that invitations would go her direction, that the praise circulating through club circuits would land at her feet.
Maybe Shipman expected a good-luck in return, but Jackie released her hand and turned back toward the door.
She didn’t owe her anything. Not yet.
Shauna slid into the back of the rental car beside her brothers, who were already elbowing each other over a bag of pretzels. Her mom passed her a bottle of water over the seat and tried to make eye contact through the rear-view mirror.
“You looked like you met someone,” her mom said.
“Someone from New York,” Shauna said.
The younger of her half brothers, Elliot, jabbed the older one in the ribs, loudly whispering something about stealing the pretzels. Their dad’s voice jumped in, loud enough to rattle the car.
“Knock it off. Sit back. If either of you hits the other again, I’m calling your mother. Stop testing me.”
The boys froze long enough to glare at each other and then slumped into silence. Her mom exhaled and muttered, “For once, can you keep your kids under control?”
“They’re seven and nine,” her dad said, still staring at the windshield. “You try to make them behave.”
Shauna kept her gaze fixed outside. Palm trees, chain restaurants, sun-bleached billboards. Everything about Orlando felt like it was chalked up to be.
“So?” her mom tried again. “Who was the girl?”
“Jackie Taylor.” Shauna twisted the cap off her water.
Her dad adjusted the air-conditioning vents. “Who? Is she some kid on the other team?”
“What’s she like?” her mom asked, turning slightly in her seat ignoring her dad.
“Kind of a princess,” Shauna said. “A bitchy one.”
Her mom frowned at the language but didn’t correct her. Her dad gave a short, humorless laugh.
“Well,” he said, glancing at the boys again as one kicked the other’s ankle, “that sounds about right for New York.”
The championship match tilted away from New Jersey long before the final whistle, but the last five minutes were still torture. When the final match of Nationals was over, the New Jersey side had to suffer one more humiliation. New York stopped celebrating long enough to form a line across midfield so both teams could shake hands, a performance of sportsmanship that, in that moment, Shauna did not feel in her heart.
Shauna wanted to skip it. She wanted to walk straight past the cameras and the banners and her mother’s stunned expression in the stands. But everyone else kept moving, so she did too.
For one thing, New York had been infuriating. Smug, clinical, impossible to break down. Shauna had hated every minute she’d spent chasing them.
Shauna stared at the turf until the striker stood in front of her.
For another thing, Jackie Taylor was really fucking good. Irritatingly good. And all week, the scouting blogs and parents and sideline chatter had pumped oxygen into their supposed rivalry. Shauna tried to ignore it, but it was possible some of that noise had started to get under her skin.
When she reached Jackie in the handshake line, camera flashes sparked around them. Shauna looked straight into Jackie’s eyes when she muttered, “Congratulations.”
Jackie gave a small smirk and said, “Good game, see you at camp.”
They hung a silver medal around Shauna’s neck that may as well have been a concrete block, for all she wanted it. She endured the awards announcements, the press photos, the scripted acknowledgment of New York’s title, blinking back furious tears that she refused to let fall, and then she was finally allowed to clear the field.
It wasn’t supposed to have gone like this. She was supposed to have led her team to a championship in her last season. It was what her coaches had expected. It was what her parents had flown down to Florida for. New Jersey’s hopes had been stacked on her seventeen-year-old shoulders and she had failed to deliver them.
Every duel she had taken against Jackie, the forward had met her gaze and smirked. Shauna didn’t rattle easily, but that goddamn smirk had thrown her off more than once.
Maybe it was simply that, after years of outworking everyone around her, Shauna had finally met someone operating at her level.
She was sure that was all it was.
March 2015
Shauna watched the red digits on the dorm clock flip from 11:56 to 11:57.
The room was dark except for that soft glow. Her roommate had gone down the hall to a cluster of girls who were apparently incapable of winding down. Shauna had been with them earlier, she’d laughed, she’d listened to some midfielder from California talk about her Stanford verbal, she’d even pretended she wasn’t exhausted.
And then she’d wanted to be alone.
11:58.
There was no mistaking that this camp belonged to girls like Jackie Taylor.
The federation staff hadn’t plastered her face around the training complex, but they didn’t need to. Her name was everywhere, on coaches’ lips, in whispered speculation at dinner, in the casual arrogance of girls who assumed proximity to Jackie meant proximity to selection.
Of course Jackie was from New York.
Of course she was beautiful and loud and confident in a way only a girl who never had to worry about anything could be.
Their scrimmage groups hadn’t overlapped yet, but they would. Positions funneled. Evaluations imminent. It would take divine intervention for the staff not to put the two of them across from each other soon.
11:59.
Shauna would be graduating in June. She would be choosing a college program. She would be applying for academic scholarships because someone had to pay for tuition. She would leave Wiskayok behind. She would finally, maybe, be somewhere no one knew anything about her family.
But for now she was here, listening to Jackie Taylor lead a chorus of girls through a song Shauna had hated since its debut.
The red digits on her dorm-issue alarm clock blinked from 12:17 to 12:18.
Only twenty-four players had been selected for this U-18 national camp—twenty-three of the best teenaged soccer players in the country—and apparently none of them cared about sleep. Or professionalism. Or basic human decency.
Because half of them were crammed into Jackie’s room next door, screech-singing at the top of their lungs like they were at a frat party instead of a high-performance facility.
Shauna pressed her pillow down over her ear until it smothered her mouth too. She could still hear it. She could feel it vibrating through the damn mattress.
God, she should have been asleep hours ago. Her coach always said U-18 messed with your body before it messed with your legs, and she believed it now. Rest was supposed to matter. Focus was supposed to matter. Instead she was trapped listening to the most overplayed song of 2014 being murdered by a bunch of girls who had way too much breath left in their lungs.
“HEY! HEY!” everyone screamed in sloppy unison.
12:19.
And Jackie Taylor, because of course it was Jackie, wasn’t murdering anything. She was somehow good.
Shauna didn’t have to be in the room to see it. She could picture it perfectly: Jackie standing on a cheap plastic chair she’d dragged out from the desk, one hand wrapped around the mic she’d taken from home. Hair falling in golden waves over one shoulder, perfect, like it always was, like she’d purposely shaken it loose just before hitting the chorus.
And that stupid hip-pop every pop-star did. Elbow cocked. Smile tilted. A little wink she probably didn’t even know she did, while singing, “And I know now that I’m so down—”
Shauna hated that Jackie could belt it without even sounding winded. She hated that Jackie wasn’t sweating or struggling or trying. She hated that the whole room loved her for it.
12:22.
She would never say it out loud, but a traitorous part of her almost liked the song, at least when it wasn’t being weaponized at midnight at a national camp.
She wasn’t jealous.
She just wanted sleep.
She just wanted silence.
And maybe she wanted to stop imagining Jackie’s hair brushing her shoulder when she laughed.
12:23.
Someone yelled “ONE MORE TIME!”
Shauna groaned into her pillow. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to scream, rip the speaker out of the wall, or march into Jackie Taylor’s room and yank the speaker cord out of the wall..
She wanted to call her what she’d thought the night Jackie beat her at Nationals.
A princess. A bitchy, infuriating princess who had never lost anything that mattered.
Instead Shauna closed her eyes and let the noise vibrate through her skull. There were more important things to think about than Jackie Taylor. There had to be.
Jackie should have been out of bed already. Camp was only three days in, her legs were already heavy with two-a-days and strength testing, and tomorrow the U-18 staff planned to time their lactate-threshold runs. But Jackie’s body still thrummed with the kind of restless, stupid energy she always got before something big.
She was at a national team camp.
She was one of twenty-four girls in the country good enough to be here.
Life was supposed to feel excellent.
And mostly, it did.
Her breakup back in January had been overdue, she and Tyler had dragged the last few months of senior season like a dead weight. He wanted attention, reassurance, couple-photos at the winter formal. Jackie wanted to run laps until her lungs scraped raw. It was not a hard equation.
After the breakup, a few boys had tried to swoop in. Older club guys home from their first semester of college. One of the Stanford commits she’d met during unofficial visits. A winger from UCLA who thought he oozed California charm. Jackie let them take her to movies, or drive around, or make out in the back of someone’s Jeep after a showcase match.
But she always bailed at the final step.
Not panicked, just suddenly done.
It never felt like hesitation, exactly. More like boredom dressed up as certainty. She would be kissing a boy, hands sliding under his shirt, feeling him react like she was some dream girl, and then her brain would go flat. Switch off. Decide she needed sleep instead.
She had not told anyone that. Her teammates would only laugh, tease her for being picky. Her mother would pry. Tyler would think it was about him.
So Jackie pretended it was normal. She leaned into confidence because everyone expected that from her: the girl on track for a UNC offer, the forward who could cut inside off her right foot and bury anything across-frame.
Camp only sharpened that narrative. She had spent yesterday’s technical sessions embarrassing defenders. At dinner, the head coach clasped her shoulder and said “That close control is what separates good from great.”
She lived off praise like that.
Still, Florida nights were long, and Jackie’s thoughts wandered where she did not want them to. She had not seen Shauna Shipman since Nationals. They had exchanged a handshake that was more frost than politeness. Jackie had expected to feel triumphant, she had won, after all, but Shauna’s face had been blotchy from crying, and something about that stuck.
Not in a sympathetic way.
Just in an annoying, memorable way.
Jackie had tried not to think about her.
But when she saw Shauna’s name on the camp roster last month, something in Jackie’s stomach had tightened, like irritation or anticipation, she refused to label which. She wondered if Shauna would still play that tidy little passing game, head always down, jaw set like she was holding grudges. Jackie wondered if Shauna even wanted to be here or if she would unravel again under pressure.
And Jackie absolutely did not wonder what Shauna’s hair would look like pulled into a tighter camp ponytail, or whether she still had that habit of pushing her sleeves to her elbows before drills.
That was stupid. Jackie was still into boys. Boys were into her. She could have hooked up with any number of college freshmen by now if she actually cared to.
She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling of the athlete housing, listening to the hum of AC vents and a distant burst of laughter from girls headed off to breakfast. Today would be scrimmage rotations. Maybe she would end up across from Shauna. Maybe she would get the chance to prove, neatly and publicly, that whatever had happened at nationals was not a fluke, Jackie was the better player.
And if some part of her chest beat harder at the thought of facing Shauna again, well—competition did that.
It was just adrenaline.
It was only a U-18 evaluation scrimmage, but was treating it like a final.
She’d been coasting since nationals. She hadn’t been tired. She’d been bored.
Soccer was not boring.
And Shauna Shipman was not boring. Jackie had only seen her from across the complex. Now Shauna was ten feet from her at kickoff. Finally.
Jackie had looked away every time, pretending she didn’t care, pretending her pulse didn’t jump.
“Think you’re going to beat me today?” Jackie smirked.
“I’m scoring this one,” Shauna said, short and biting.
“There’s not an ‘I’ in victory, right?”
“There’s an ‘I’ in ‘kiss my ass,’” Shauna shot back.
Jackie raised an eyebrow as they squared up for the scrimmage kickoff.
“Also an ‘I’ in ‘state championship,’” she said, and the whistle blew.
Shauna rolled her shoulders back. “I’m about to end this.”
“Oh? Please. You haven’t kept me out of your box once today.”
“There’s a whole backline between your ego and the goal,” Shauna said.
Jackie pretended to think that over. “Does your backline know you’re trash-talking on their behalf?”
Shauna tilted her head. “Does your finishing know you keep overshooting by five feet?”
Jackie received first, of course she did, because the coaches loved her golden-girl first touch, and Shauna shadowed, hip-to-hip, blades of turf flicking up under their cleats. Jackie tried a turn. Shauna cut her off.
“You fouling me?” Jackie asked, still moving.
“You’d need the ball to draw a foul.”
Jackie laughed, but Shauna stole the pass clean and sent it out to the wing.
And she made damn sure it became the assist. And she made damn sure her side buried the shot. And she made damn sure Jackie saw her celebrate.
For all her cocky smile and teasing, Jackie took the scrimmage seriously. And she hated losing.
But this time Shauna had outplayed her. And she would be going back to the dorm knowing she had earned it. She wasn’t proud of being flustered or exhausted; she was just relieved it was done.
She didn’t want to think about her dad. He wouldn’t call to ask how training went. He’d hear from her mom and be disappointed anyway. Not that it mattered, he had better things to do than notice her. He had seven- and nine-year-old boys to raise and a blonde-haired wife to adore. Shauna wanted to be somewhere else entirely. She wanted college. She wanted a field and a locker room that felt like hers. She wanted a life she built herself, far from her family’s small, constant disappointment.
On the field, at the end of the scrimmage, Jackie approached for handshakes, coaches watching, campers polite. Shauna met her eyes. There was only a second of contact, but it felt like the world was theirs. Palms were slick from sweat, eyes locked for a second too long. Jackie squeezed, tiny pressure, a message.
That look, that squeeze, said everything Shauna had been feeling.
I know.
We are supposed to climb alone. But we will always be on the same field, testing each other. We will push until no one else can keep up, but it will always be together.
There was no apology in Jackie’s grin, but there was no gloating either. And by the time Shauna let go, she was smirking to herself. Because the real battle between her and Jackie had only just begun.
And she couldn’t fucking wait.
June 2015
Rutgers university sat on the edge of town in New Jersey students were mostly gone, which left the athletic facilities and dorm clusters strangely quiet. The girls at the College ID Camp filled the empty sidewalks, moving in groups of two or three, carrying recovery gear and water bottles.
The camp lasted one week. Every player slept in the freshman dorms, rotated through cafeteria meals, sat through staff interviews, and tried not to show how badly they wanted a spot on a recruiting board. Coaches kept reminding them that this was about demonstrating commitment. Jackie heard the phrase so often that it became background noise.
By the fourth afternoon of the University ID Clinic, the campus dining hall had settled into a pattern: athletes drifting in after training, filling tables in clumps, half-flushed from the sun and pretending the heat did not make them tired. The university itself felt suspended between semesters. June weather pressed down on the brick walkways, and the dorm buildings looked understaffed and temporary, the way campuses always do when most students are gone.
Jackie slumped into the cafeteria booth, knees pulled up, elbows resting on them. The camp had been relentless, training since early morning, drills designed to chew up every ounce of energy and spit it back at you.
Mari sat into the booth across from her, laughing. It was funny how fast they’d clicked. Jackie had only met Mari a couple days ago, but they were like a match made in heaven, both of them had dreamed of playing at Rutgers, both of them knew the pressure of family expectations, Mari’s brother had been a star there, the kind of legacy that made Jackie’s own drive look almost mild. Jackie had been nervous at first. She'd grown up hearing stories about his games, his goals, the way the crowd roared every time he touched the ball. It made her feel like she was following in giant footsteps, but she didn’t mind. Jackie liked the idea of chasing that same rush.
Jackie had known her since they were kids: high school, nationals, church, sleepovers, her parents loved her. Though things had gotten awkward when Jackie broke up with Laura Lee’s brother, it hadn’t lasted. Laura Lee had surprised her by pursuing soccer in college, despite Jackie always thinking she’d end up at a small Christian school. Seeing her here, playing hard, trying out for the same college, made Jackie feel a little proud and a little competitive all at once.
Jackie wound her arm back and threw a fry at Mari. Mari tilted her head, waiting for it to land in her mouth. Jackie should have aimed better. Instead, it hit one of Mari’s side ponytails, again.
Mari shrieked, collapsing forward onto her knees in the booth. Jackie slapped the table with both hands, laughing so hard she was gasping for air, tears threatening behind her eyes. She’d loved the way Mari laughed.
“Seriously!” Mari wheezed, finally grabbing the fry with one hand while her head stayed tucked into her other arm. “You are ridiculous!”
Jackie leaned back, still laughing, hair falling in front of her face. “I thought I had it! I thought I—”
“That is the third time!” Mari cut in, chewing and giggling at the same time. “How are you even good at soccer?”
She thought about how she had practiced precision forever, drilled by a dad who didn’t exactly have patience for mistakes. He had yelled at her whenever she messed up, pushed her until she got it right. It had been brutal sometimes, but it had worked, she could place a ball in a net, well not in this case, she had a horrible arm.
Another fry arced from her fingers, this time landing squarely in Mari’s mouth. Mari tilted her head back, triumphant, chewing with a laugh and a clap. “Atta girl!”
She didn’t realize she had gone quiet until Laura Lee nudged her. Jackie didn’t bother answering. Her eyes had caught on someone walking through the cafeteria line, brown hair tied in a low ponytail, camp T-shirt tucked into navy shorts. Shipman.
Jackie had looked her up months ago after seeing a clip circulated online, just a simple recycling sequence from midfield, but the girl’s patience stood out. Jackie didn’t think light stalking counted as weird. It counted as research. You needed to know who might be cutting off your supply line at a national camp.
Shauna moved slowly through the food options. She took grilled chicken, roasted vegetables, a scoop of quinoa. No cheese, no sauce, no dessert. Jackie couldn’t help noticing the pattern. Discipline that bordered on restriction.
Shauna stood a few bodies ahead in the serving line, her tray balanced flat against her hip. She scanned the options. Jackie tried not to make anything of it. Plenty of girls ate like that during ID weeks.
Jackie took a sip of her drink and considered staying seated. Let the midfielder exist across the room without consequence. But curiosity rarely behaved well in these environments.
Jackie took a breath and stood. “I’m getting more water,” she told Mari, although her cup was still mostly full.
“Bring back a brownie,” Mari asked, pointing her fork toward the dessert counter without missing a beat in whatever story she was now telling Laura Lee.
Jackie waved a hand in acknowledgment and stepped into the cafeteria line a few places behind Shauna. The line moved slowly, giving her too much time to think about whether approaching another player in a food line made her look overeager. She reminded herself this wasn’t personal. It was information. She liked knowing who she was up against.
When the line shifted again, Jackie ended up a single place behind Shauna. From this close, she could see damp wisps of hair curling along Shauna’s neck, evidence of the heat, or maybe the intensity of the morning drills. Shauna didn’t fidget, didn’t turn around to see who was behind her, didn’t try to force conversation with the girl in front of her. She just breathed evenly and waited.
Jackie decided that silence was too comfortable.
“You were in the early field session, right?” she asked, keeping her voice neutral so it didn’t sound like an interrogation.
Shauna’s eyes flicked over her shoulder. “Yeah.”
Shauna turned slightly, enough to acknowledge the girl. Jackie found herself watching the way Shauna held her utensils when she reached the counter.
“That’s some serious discipline, looks healthier than what I grabbed,” Jackie said, gesturing slightly toward the plate. “Skipping all the fun stuff. Is that, like, a routine thing, or are you being good for the coaches?”
Shauna didn’t bristle, but she did pause long enough that Jackie could tell she was choosing her words. “Sugar and dairy usually make recovery harder for me.” She sounded almost matter-of-fact, but Jackie could hear the restraint beneath the words.
The lack of modulation felt more revealing than any expression. Jackie caught herself wondering how much discipline it took to eat like that at their age.
Jackie gave a soft exhale that was almost a laugh. “That sounds like misery.”
They moved forward again, and for a moment Jackie debated letting the conversation die. But Jackie felt the pull, irrational, magnetic. Something about Shauna demanded attention. Made her want to step closer, ask more, understand more.
“So, are you actually looking at this school,” Jackie asked, “or just doing every camp on the circuit until someone bites?”
“I’m here to play,” Shauna said quietly, eyes moving slightly to meet Jackie’s.
“Well, yeah,” Jackie said, trying for light but it came out thinner than she wanted. “That’s sort of the point.”
Shauna’s gaze did not soften right away. Her jaw flexed a little, as if she were holding something back. Jackie noticed how soft her eyes looked despite the irritation. Brown, calm, almost gentle, which didn’t fit the expression at all. The contradiction threw her off more than she liked.
Jackie felt herself getting absorbed, forgetting everything else around her. Shauna, sensing it, tilted her head slightly, a smirk teasing the corners of her mouth.
“You planning to get something, or are you coming through the line to stalk me all afternoon?” Shauna’s voice carried just enough teasing to make Jackie flush.
Jackie’s lips pressed together, trying not to smile, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her. “Just… checking the options,” she said, but her gaze stayed locked on Shauna.
Shauna leaned back, raising her tray slightly as if to punctuate her point. “I’d go back to your table before your friends start wondering where you ran off to.”
Jackie laughed softly, exhaling through her nose. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll go,” she said, though she lingered another heartbeat, stealing glances at Shauna as she stepped aside and returned to her group.
She stepped back from the register so the next player could pass through and made herself walk toward her table even though her stomach felt strange. Mari caught sight of her a minute later. “Did you forget what you came for?”
Jackie looked down at the cup again, aware that she had. “Yeah,” she said, though she still refused to glance back toward Shauna.