Chapter Text
Watching 22 men chase a ball has never been something Trinity gravitated towards. 22 women, sure. The USWNT has been kind to her over the years, even if she had no idea what they were actually doing on the field. But, in a curious life update, she’s found herself incredibly invested in the World Cup. For no reason. Seriously. She just likes the sense of community it brings.
That sense of community is why she’s at Pittsburgh’s premier sports bar and beer garden at 3pm on a Sunday. Her and Whitaker had really gotten into the tournament over the last couple of weeks. They’ve got a bracket hanging on the wall, the blu-tac holding it there definitely a violation of their lease, and Trinity’s TikTok reposts consist mostly of Lamine Yamal and Norway fans doing their row chant.
It’s fun! It’s out of the ordinary for her, sure, but it’s giving her something to take her mind off the three weeks of hell on earth she’s experienced.
The first incident was the phone call with Yolanda after Panama’s last game. The intense phone sex had been great, the flirting afterwards even better, then Garcia clammed up and acted weird. Trinity, in all her wisdom, had reiterated the casual status of their relationship before proceeding to take her home and fuck her into the mattress.
The Fourth was a mess all round. Karaoke with Mel had been a fun distraction, but, in a shock to absolutely no one, she’d gone home afterwards with one thing on her mind. It had led her head to her pillows and hand to her cunt, and she’d coaxed a weak orgasm from her body with the taste of Yolanda’s sweat from her Panama jersey on her tongue and tears falling down her cheeks.
Then came July Fifth.
July Fifth was an interesting day. She’d woken up with a pounding headache and stickiness between her thighs, then noticed the red Panama jersey strewn over her desk chair. It almost brought shame, but part of her felt vindicated that she’d taken control of the narrative and got herself off instead of relying on someone else.
But, still, when Garcia texted her later that night, she speed-ran a shower and tidied everything—including hiding the tear-stained shirt—just in time for the other woman to knock on the door. They’d fucked, and although she came harder than she did by her own hand, it wasn’t exactly gratifying. They didn’t kiss. They barely touched outside of a hand through folds or fingers rolling a nipple. And when Yolanda made to leave, Trinity stopped her. Looked at her, waited for the courage to say something, but it never came. Instead, Garcia nodded once and exited the room, leaving Trinity to fall asleep to the sound of her own sobs.
Since then, they haven’t seen each other outside of work. Trauma rooms have been incredibly awkward and Trinity knows Princess and Perlah have been gossiping about them. If only she could give them something to talk about; it’s not like she knows what’s going on. Her messages with Yolanda stalled after she’d sent a thumbs-up emoji back to her booty call… booty text? it feels like whatever they had is over, but without confirmation, she doesn’t know if she’s supposed to be grieving yet. The limbo between situationship, hookup, girlfriend and ex is absolute hell.
If you ask Dennis, they’re broken up, but Huckleberry is a man and doesn’t know the intricacies of lesbian entanglements. She doesn’t listen to him.
The one thing she’ll take his advice on is beer. There seems to be a hundred taps in front of her, with choices ranging from mid-strength lager to IPAs to those pretentious craft beers that always make her gag. If only she’d sent Whitaker to do the grunt work. Instead, he’s entertaining Javadi and attempting to answer her soccer questions with the aid of his own extremely limited knowledge. Better him than her.
She asks the bartender for three of what must be the fruitiest beer on tap and drums her fingers against the counter while she waits. The bar is absolutely bouncing; there’s about twenty minutes till kickoff, and there’s a pretty even split between the La Roja and La Albiceleste fans. For her part, Santos is adding to the Spanish contingent, but she’s technically repping a different country.
In a fit of rage a few days after their last tryst, Trinity decided she needed to make some alterations to the Panama jersey Garcia had given her. Her fabric scissors were ready to crop it, but, instead, she decided to hem it underneath itself using a technique she found on YouTube. Something told her Garcia wouldn’t respond well to her gift being cut up, even if they weren’t on great terms. Now, the hem sits deliciously about an inch above her waist, leaving most of her midriff on display.
The jersey was a women’s cut, and given Garcia normally wears clothes a couple sizes smaller than her it clings to all the right places and hugs her shoulders well. It’s got a cute navy collar and white panels down the side, and the red suits her skin tone nicely, especially when paired with her light, baggy jeans and red and white Adidas sneakers. And, look, maybe she’s on the prowl tonight, and maybe she chose this shirt because her boobs look incredible. But she certainly hasn’t worn it to remind herself of Yolanda. That would be outrageous.
As she watches the server pour the beers, she feels someone slide up next to her. A white, hairy arm moves into her peripheral, and she immediately shifts slightly to her left. “What are you drinking?” comes a deep, gruff voice, and Trinity internally rolls her eyes.
“Beer.”
Finally looking up, she’s greeted by a man. He’s got unkempt stubble and an awkwardly grown-out taper fade that just makes him look messy. Ironically, he’s in the red of Spain. “Can I get you one?”
“Nope,” she says, dragging the first two closer to her as she eyes off the third. She immediately regrets not wearing her trusty, extremely gay Carhartt jacket, but surely the rest of her vibe is enough to make it obvious she’s very much a lesbian, a butch lesbian at that. He goes to say something else, but the third beer gets slid across the bar and she immediately picks it up before leaving.
She balances the three pints in her hands as she turns back to their table. They’ve got prime position on the deck; they’re facing the giant screen situated in the beer garden and have a great view while being protected from the sun by an overhang. Victoria has a nose for those sorts of things and had claimed it very quickly. Trinity places the beers down on the table to a chorus of thanks before taking a sip of her own.
The addition of Victoria to their little group was very new. As in, today new. The therapist she’s started speaking to as of four days ago—by her own volition, thank you very much—had picked up on her self-isolation after barely an hour of knowing each other. She’d given her homework to make some more friends, and Crash had seemed like the most obvious option.
She’s still a little mad at Dennis for choosing Robby over her with the whole housesitting thing, so Victoria is kind of a buffer, but she’s also happy to get to know the younger girl better. The party they’d thrown for her birthday had been the first step in the right direction; inviting her to hang out was the natural continuation.
“So,” she says, looking at Trinity with those wide brown eyes, “do you actually know what’s going on when you watch?”
“Sort of.” She gulps down another sip, eager to take her mind off the last few weeks. “I know offside now, and I know the positions. Pretty much all I need.”
“Right, and you learnt that yourself?” Victoria gives her a knowing smile then gags at her beer. She’s proven herself as a fruity drink (but not fruity beer) connoisseur since her birthday party last weekend, and maybe another type of fruity, too. Which, obviously. Trinity had clocked it the second she laid eyes on her. And she’s provided her own evidence.
“Obviously, Crash. Me, Wikipedia, and a 3am rabbit hole.”
Dennis rolls his eyes. “You can’t even lie convincingly.”
“What? The great people of Wikipedia were a massive help.”
“Yeah, and I’m sure you got interested cause you wanted to.”
She picks up a coaster and flicks it at his head. “Such a Fuckleberry.”
Victoria smirks at her over her beer, eyes wide but eyebrows conspiratorially narrowed. “So a certain surgeon had nothing to do with it?”
To avoid answering, she takes a long swig before putting the glass back down and letting out a sigh. “Nope. Nothing to do with it at all.”
“So you just got a Panama shirt for no reason?”
“How do you know this is Panama?”
“I can name all the world flags, Santos. Come on. It’s very recognisable.”
She raises an eyebrow and tips an imaginary hat. “I’d expect nothing less.”
They all manage to stretch their beers out until the first half hydration break. Trinity offers to go again, knowing Dennis has only had one resident paycheck and Victoria is still living off her parents’ card, and weaves her way through the forming crowd to make the barely-ten metre journey to the bar. She hails the bartender for three of the same drink before leaning back to look around the room. There’s two pretty clear camps, with one side of the bar mostly blue and white and the other draped in red.
As she sweeps the room, her gaze stops on someone wearing a distinctly different jersey tied in a knot at the waist. It’s got red and yellow vertical stripes that must represent Spain, while straight-leg jeans hug a fantastic ass. An ass she knows very well, which turns into a torso she should’ve recognised and soft curls she loves. Her eyes widen and she prays to every deity she can think of that the bartender moves quicker.
Just her luck. “Hey, sorry, keg’s out. I’ll be two minutes.”
“No worries,” she replies, but she screams internally. Glancing back over towards where Yolanda was, she realises she’s gone, but her respite is short-lived.
“Santos.” That silky-smooth voice, the one she’s heard every night in her dreams, approaches her. She turns around and comes face to face with Yolanda, who wears not only a somewhat pensive smile but apparently a litre of face paint too. One half makes up the English flag, while the other hosts the blue half of the French. She raises her eyebrows, but Yolanda speaks first. “What are you doing here?”
“Um.” She swallows and looks around. “World Cup.”
“Oh yeah?” Garcia raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t realise you’d got into it.”
“I had a good teacher.” The second the words leave her mouth she cringes. They’re not supposed to be on good terms. Trinity is supposed to be mad at her. But here she is, folding like an idiot under the intense gaze of her maybe-ex-situationship.
Yolanda nods before her line of sight sweeps over her body, and her eyebrows raise obviously when she looks at the jersey. “Nice shirt. I see you’ve made some alterations.”
She gets the sudden urge to tug it down but just runs her finger over the hem instead. “Um, yeah. Sorry.”
With a laugh, Yolanda shakes her head. “Don’t be. It looks better like this. On you.”
Surprisingly, she sounds nervous. It gives Trinity pause. She takes a second to look over her and study her, and finds that she’s drumming her fingers against her thigh and tapping her foot. They’re anxious tells of hers, ones she’d noticed way back when they started hooking up. It’s been a while since she’s seen them, though, and her heart softens a little at the realisation. “Thanks. And thanks for letting me have it. I know it probably meant a bit to you.”
Yolanda shakes her head and steps a little closer, but there’s still a metre or so between them. Just enough for Trinity to make sure she doesn’t get her hopes up. “I have another one. It’s exactly the same.”
She smiles, and all of a sudden it feels like last September again. “Oh, so I’m not special?”
Yolanda throws her head back and laughs. “No, no. Nothing of the sort. I’d argue the opposite.”
Trinity stares at her for a second, lips curling into the beginning of a smile. As she goes to speak again, the bartender slides the last beer across to her. She mutters a quick thank you before turning back to Yolanda, who’s looking at the three glasses.
“Who are you here with?”
“Huckleberry and Crash.”
“Oh, nice.” Yolanda nods, visibly swallowing, all her bravado seemingly disappearing. “Well, I wouldn’t want to keep you. It was, um. Good to see you.”
Her heart clenches at how timid she sounds. It’s so unlike Garcia, the butcher of the Pitt, and it’s enough to make her shake her head. “No, you’re not keeping me. Am I keeping you?”
“Walsh and Parker are here, but they won’t mind.”
“How about we catch up?”
Yolanda smiles, a small one that starts on one side before becoming whole. “Yeah, okay. Me, you, white chocolate and the nepo baby?”
Trinity laughs. “We can peel off. Crash doesn’t really know what’s going on and I’m sure Dennis can handle himself. Let me take these back then we can find somewhere to sit.”
“Sure,” Yolanda nods, “do you need some help?”
She looks at the three beers. Yes, she can carry them by herself, but with condensation dripping down the side it’s a risky endeavour. There’s no point carrying all the load by herself when she has someone offering to help her out. “I’d love that, thank you. Here,” she hands one over before taking the other two, “that one can be mine. I’ll drop these off real quick.”
“I’ll wait here.”
Trinity nods, offering her a small smile before darting back to the table. “Guys,” she says as she plants the beers down, voice frantic, “you’ll never guess who I just ran into.”
“Oh my god,” both of them say at once.
“Garcia?” Victoria stage-whispers, while Dennis strains his neck to look back in the direction she’d come from.
“Yes! Don’t look Dennis, oh my god.” Trinity stands up straight and smooths out her top. “I’m, um. We’re gonna… catch up.”
“Does that involve actually talking?”
“Yes, Huckleberry, oh my god. You think so little of me.”
“Just going off my past experiences, Santos.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She looks up at the screen and notices they’re playing again. It’s still nil-all, which, according to the TikToks she’d been consuming, sounds about right. “Sorry to ditch you guys.”
Dennis smiles at her; it fully reaches his eyes. Even though he’d been the first to say Garcia liked her previously, he’s become very protective of her since the Fourth and hadn’t been happy to hear Garcia had come over. Still, he trusts Trinity and knows she’s started seeing a therapist. “Don’t be. We get it.”
She returns his smile tightly. “I don’t want to lose my chance.”
“Nerrrrrd,” Victoria drawls. The alcohol is obviously getting to her.
“What Victoria means to say is good luck. We’re not leaving without you, though.”
Trinity nods. “Okay. Cool. I’ll come back at some point.”
Dennis flashes a thumbs up and Victoria waves her off, but not before chugging half of her pint. What college at 13 does to an mf.
She turns back around and sets her sight on the familiar head of curls she’s missed so much. Yolanda is leaning against the bar, watching the big screen with an intensity she’s come to associate with the surgeon. Her beer is half an inch less full than it was when she’d bought it, but she’d let Yolanda drink from her cup anytime. Trinity can’t help but smile as she walks towards her, and when she looks up, it only grows.
“Hey,” Yolanda mutters in the low voice she knows is reserved for her, “how are they?”
“Good,” she nods and takes a sip of the beer, brown eyes tracking every movement, “Crash is sloshed. We need to up her tolerance.”
“I heard you two threw her a birthday party. Did it not go well?”
Her heart clenches a little when she remembers the fact Yolanda hadn’t come. It had been a fantastic night, mostly consisting of lots of drinking and a game of Never Have I Ever that descended into personal attacks, as per usual. Her and Victoria had even ended the night making out against Trinity’s bathroom counter, only for her to accidentally let Garcia’s name slip. That had led to a heart-to-heart on her bed, Trinity telling Victoria about how much she likes the surgeon, whilst Crash told the tale of her crush on McKay.
Sure, Vic’s pretty, but she’s nothing compared to the woman across from her.
“The party itself was awesome, but, yeah. She threw up a couple times. We’re supposed to be going to the gay club the next time we’re all off, so she better build her tolerance before she gets overserved by the guys there.”
Yolanda nods. They’ve spent many a night at that club, grinding on each other until one of them snaps and orders an Uber. “Good call.”
There’s silence for a second. Trinity sips her beer and glances around the room, but Yolanda’s pull is too great. Her eyes land back on her almost immediately. “Do you want a drink?”
Yolanda nods and turns towards the bartender, but Trinity grabs her wrist. It’s the first time they’ve meaningfully touched since the Fourth of July—it’s hard to call what they did the next day meaningful—and every nerve in her hand, and the rest of her body, lights up.
“Let me.”
Yolanda shakes her head and flags the bartender down. “Don’t be silly. I’m a big girl.”
“I know you are, but—” she sighs. She doesn’t want to give herself away this early, but the chivalrous part of her she can’t turn off gets in the way. “—I want to. Please.”
Yolanda looks her in the eyes. The paint on her face is a little off-putting and sort of hides her expression, but she can see the cogs turning behind it. After a second, she tilts her head and nods. “Sure. I won’t say no to a free drink.”
Santos smiles. “What do you want?”
“Whatever you’re drinking was nice.”
“I never said you could taste it.”
Yolanda raises an eyebrow. “Would you have said no?”
“Probably not.” That earns her a laugh and she quickly orders the beer.
“So,” she starts once it’s handed to Yolanda, “why the face paint? And what’s that shirt?”
“Emery convinced me,” Garcia replies, her dimples distorting the English side. They’re so cute; Trinity has to stop herself from leaning in to kiss them. “I didn’t exactly think I’d see anyone I know here. Plus, I’ve gotta show how I couldn’t care less about these two teams.”
“How come?”
“Well, most of Latin America hates Argentina. I love Messi, don’t get me wrong, but the team are useless. And Spain are my coloniser. But somehow I think I’m leaning towards them.”
“True,” Trinity nods, “but you’re wearing a Spain jersey?”
“Ah.” Yolanda looks down at her shirt. “This is actually a Barcelona shirt.” She points to the crest and Trinity notices it for the first time; it’s far more rounded than the Spanish one.
“The club?”
Yolanda nods. “They’re probably my favourite club. But I wore this one specifically cause it’s based off the flag of Catalunya. They released it in 2013.” She turns around, showing Trinity a 10 printed on the back. “Had to get Messi on it. So it’s kind of a fuck you to both teams.”
“But it’s a Spanish club? Sorry, I’m still confused.”
She turns back around and takes a sip of her beer. “FC Barcelona has a really strong connection with Catalan independence. People were killed during the Spanish Civil War purely for their ties to the club. It’s part of the reason why they have such an intense rivalry with Real Madrid. So it’s sort of… supporting the Barca boys in the team without supporting the country.”
Trinity nods. Three weeks ago she wouldn’t have understood any of that, but now she can confidently say at least twenty-five percent of what Yolanda just said made sense. “Yeah, okay. And Messi is on the back because?”
“He played for Barca. C’mon, baby, you know this.”
Oh, that pet name. One of her favourites. So simple, yet so effective at making her want to get on her knees. As it is, she stumbles a little and has to steady herself against the bar. “Yeah, no, of course. Yeah. Messi, Barca.”
Yolanda smiles at her, eyes creasing as she stares. “You’re funny.”
She’s about to say something stupid like please take me back when she notices two people get up from barstools behind them. “Hey, wanna sit down?” Without waiting for an answer, she claims the seats and waits for Yolanda to follow.
They sit in silence a little longer, eyes trained on the game in front of them. It’s still a cagey affair, with Spain having most of the possession but the feisty Argentinians refused to concede. A few minutes before the end of the half, the Argentinian centre-back brings down a Spanish player, and Trinity yells with the crowd. “Ref, what the fuck! That’s a yellow! Come on!”
He gets booked immediately and Trinity starts clapping. It takes a few seconds for her to register the fact Garcia’s gone quiet, but when she does, she turns to look at her and finds her staring back with what can only be described as admiration in her eyes.
“What?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Nothing.” She sips her beer. “I’m just surprised how into it you are.”
“Dennis and I really locked in for the knockouts. Remember how I didn’t know any of the players? I know at least, like, ten now.”
“Ten!” Yolanda laughs, but it’s genuine. “Wow, Santos. You’ve come a long way.”
“Thank you.” She holds her glass out to toast to her newfound knowledge and Yolanda humours her.
By half time, their beers are finished and Trinity finds the bartender for a second round. Once again, Yolanda offers to pay, and this time she takes her up on it. Sure, her salary’s increased, but it’s nothing compared to a surgery fellow. A couple beers being bought for her here and there won’t take away her butch card.
Yolanda takes the first sip before turning back to her. “So,” she starts, tone almost apprehensive, “how have you been?”
“Good,” she replies genuinely, sipping her own beer. She’s still not sure how honest she wants to be with Yolanda in this environment; it’s public, and if things go south her escape options are limited. But, simultaneously, there’s always been something about the chocolate brown eyes across from her that keep her from lying. “I’m seeing a therapist.”
Yolanda recoils, and Santos feels it like she’d physically buried the knife. “Oh, wow,” she stammers. “I’m happy for you.”
“Yeah?”
She nods, lips tight. “Look, Trinity.” Santos sharply inhales as Yolanda collects her thoughts. It’s the first time she’s called her by her first name since that procedure in the trauma bay on the Fourth, and this time it’s like she’s been punched in the gut. Even when Yolanda had come over, everything was strictly last names. That’s part of why it felt so much like a full stop on their relationship. Garcia continues. “I’ve thought a lot about that day. I know I was probably overly snappy and a bit mean, so I apologise for that.”
Woah. That’s not what Trinity was expecting. Regardless, she nods and looks at Yolanda through her eyelashes. “That means a lot to hear.”
Yolanda pushes on. “I can’t say I’m sorry for the words I said, about you seeing a therapist. And I’m glad you took my advice on board.”
“I am too. I’ve only seen her once, but it’s a start.”
“It is.” A pause, then: “I’m proud of you.”
In none of her predictions of how today would go did Trinity think this would happen. “That’s… yeah, wow. Thank you.”
Yolanda takes a deep sigh and continues on. “I know you’re an adult and you can take care of yourself, but I worry about you, Trinity. Not only in relation to yourself, but… it wasn’t fair to me to pull that shit you did and then turn around and act like we were dating, like I had an obligation to do stuff with you. The whole fireworks thing really confused me.”
“Woah, hang on.” Trinity recoils, taken aback. “Pull what shit? And the fireworks thing confused you?”
“When I was in Jersey and we called.”
“And?”
“And you told me we were keeping it casual.”
“Well, you were the one who started talking about your sister, which confused me, then you said the same thing back. Glass houses.”
Yolanda pinches the bridge of her nose before moving her stool closer to Trinity’s. Instinctively, Santos rests her sneaker-clad foot on the footrest. Two toned legs bracket her own. “The stuff about my family slipped out, okay? Then I threw your words back at you on the Fourth because I felt vindictive. I wanted you to feel how I felt that day after you got me from the airport.”
“We went home and fucked, Yolanda.”
“Do you not see what I’m getting at?”
“I really don’t.” She kind of does, but she wants to hear Garcia say it.
“I didn’t want casual, Trinity. I don’t think I ever did with you, even if I convinced myself I did for months. Then, I try to open up to you about my family, and I get so fucking nervous that I hang up. I was gonna tell you when you picked me up from the airport. Say how much you meant to me. But you cut me off and I got bitter. So I tried to stick to your rules, default to sex, but I genuinely can’t.”
Trinity sighs through her nose and takes a long sip of her beer. Part of her doesn’t like how Yolanda is framing this. It feels like she’s placing the blame entirely on her, but deep down, she knows she’s just hurt. Trinity is hurt, too. But neither of them are entirely to blame. It’s not her fault Yolanda didn’t say these things, even if Trinity realistically knew how she felt, because it wasn’t just her feeling like that.
“Trinity?” Yolanda’s voice cuts through the silence, and she looks back up at her.
“Sorry. I… Yolanda, you can’t have expected me to just know that. We both agreed on the rules. We knew what we were getting into. This whole,” she gestures between them, “situation was our combined doing. Plus, if you say all this, why did you blow me off on the Fourth? I was trying to give you an olive branch, see if I’d really fucked this whole thing up. I… fuck. This therapy shit is fucking with my brain.” She rubs at her temples, drawing a laugh from Yolanda.
“Keep going.”
“I guess I just don’t understand why you threw it back in my face. I thought we were supposed to be adults.”
“We are.” Yolanda absentmindedly reaches forward to dance her fingers Trinity’s knee. The ACL surgery scar that she loves to trace tingles through the denim of her jeans, and she leans forward a little. “And I’m sorry I got petty.”
“I honestly was trying to mend things. It’s why I suggested watching the fireworks in the first place, why I was being so pushy. I was really looking forward to it. I wanted to get out a nice picnic blanket and sit somewhere outside where we could just be us. Because there is an us, isn’t there?”
Yolanda nods, and it’s the best thing she’s ever done. “I think there is.”
“You think?”
“Sorry,” she chuckles, downing some of her beer, “there is. There is an us, Trin, and I want to make you feel wanted. I want to be wanted.”
“Yeah. Me too.” Trinity looks at her, really looks at her, and sees honesty. Her eyes are downcast a little, staring at the Panama crest on her shirt, and the dark colour contrasts the white paint of her face. “Isn’t it so silly that we’re having this conversation while you’ve got a face full of paint?”
“Do I still look hot?”
“Of course.”
She laughs. “Look, why don’t we call it there for now? I don’t know about you, but I have more to say and I don’t want it to be right next to the patrons of this bar. And the second half’s starting in, like, ten minutes.”
Trinity looks up at the screen just in time to see Miss Piggy serenading Kermit while Shakira shakes ass in the foreground. Lovely. “Yeah. Good call. But I want to stay with you. And if you think of something you can tell me.”
“Sure.” Yolanda holds her glass out again and Trinity picks her own up, clinking them together in a toast. “To us.”
“To us.” They drink to it, and Yolanda sighs before putting it down.
“But you’ve been okay? The last couple weeks?”
Trinity shrugs. “Fine, I guess. Crash’s birthday, Dennis semi-moving out, Al-Hashimi on my case about charting, Robby gone… I dunno. Yeah, fine.”
“Farm Boy moving out?”
“He’s house-sitting for Robby. So he’s gone a couple nights a week.”
Yolanda raises an eyebrow. “Calling that moving out is probably a stretch.”
“Yeah, well. It’s a lot less loud around the house. And I haven’t been able to take full advantage of the downtime, so.” Although she’s mainly referring to their ability to have loud, nasty sex, part of her has yearned to call Yolanda when the apartment gets too quiet. Watching a movie and eating shitty ramen isn’t the same without her there.
Yolanda seems to catch the subtext. “Well, don’t hesitate to call from now on. Yeah?”
Trinity nods. “What about you?”
“Oh, you know. Same-same. I saw my therapist, too. Had a big chat. She made me realise a few things about how I’ve been treating you. I shouldn’t have been a dick on the Fourth, for example.”
“I thought we were quote unquote leaving it there?”
“Sorry, sorry.” Yolanda looks her in the eyes. “I’ve just spent most of the last two weeks thinking about you and what I would’ve done differently. I wasn’t sure if I’d get another chance.”
“I think this is more of a first chance, isn’t it? We never really gave ourselves a chance before.”
Yolanda nods, drinking from her glass. “Yeah. I think that’s a good way of putting it.”
“And if we fuck up, there’s always a second chance. I think a third is kinda gauche, though.”
That gets a laugh out of Yolanda. “We can go over the logistics later. But I don’t plan on fucking anything up.” Yolanda looks over Trinity’s shoulder and her face lights up. “I think we’ve got visitors.”
Trinity follows her line of sight and sees Dennis and Victoria approaching them. Crash stumbles slightly and Huckleberry has to grab her arms to steady her, drawing laughs from both of them.
“Dr Garcia,” Victoria slurs, “I love your facepaint.”
“Javadi,” she nods her head. “Thanks.”
“Steady on, Crash,” Trinity says, patting her on the shoulder. “You’re such a lightweight. We haven’t even moved on to liquor yet.”
“That’s why we came over here, actually,” Dennis interjects, “wanna do shots? Before the second half starts?”
“Absolutely,” Trinity agrees. “Yolanda can pay.”
“Hey!” There’s no malice in her tone, and a laugh falls from her lips. “How come?”
Trinity turns back to her and, boldly, drags a finger down her jaw. Yolanda audibly sucks in a breath. “Because I want you too.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s been successfully neutered by Trinity’s forefinger. As is their luck, Walsh and Ellis approach them just as Yolanda gets her phone out to pay. “Santos,” Ellis says, a knowing smile on her face. “Good to see you. Nice shirt. Didn’t know you followed the Panama national team?”
“Yeah, haha, Parker, funny as fuck man.” They get along pretty well, owing in part due to sharing a lot of their personality as well as a common perspective on medicine and the ED. Parker being friends with Yolanda has made for interesting conversations in the past, and she’s sure she must’ve been the topic of discussion on many a coffee date. “You haven’t chosen a side either, I see.”
Ellis looks down at her dark green tank top, covered partially by a black button-up. “I’m choosing peace.”
Walsh, who has chosen a side and is decked out in the red of Spain, complete with face paint, claps Yolanda on the shoulder and smiles up at Santos. “I heard something about shots?”
“How on earth? Do you guys think I’m made of money?”
“Yes,” most of the group replies at the same time.
Javadi hiccups. “You’re make of cells, oh my god. I thought you were all doctors.”
No one replies. Instead, Yolanda asks the bartender for six tequila shots, six limes, and his salt shaker. When he places them in front of her, she hands everyone a lime before shaking salt onto their hands. As she reaches Santos, she salts the skin where her tattoo lies then looks up at her. “Wait,” she says, and Trinity can only nod.
Emery and Parker do theirs simultaneously, as do Dennis and Victoria, but Trinity’s been given a task and she intends to fulfill it. Yolanda takes her time bringing her shot closer, then looks her in the eyes and takes her wrist in her hand. Without warning, she leans down, maintaining eye contact, and licks the salt off her tattoo. Trinity’s breath hitches as she downs the shot, then, with her hand still gripping her wrist, bites the lime she’d been holding between her fingers. Her throat bobs as she swallows and Trinity prays she doesn’t melt on the spot.
“Yum,” she says, smacking her lips together. If she knew Yolanda any less, she’d say she didn’t know how affected she is, but the glint in her eyes says otherwise. “Your turn?”
Time to level the playing field. She brings Yolanda’s hand to her own mouth and licks the bronze skin before biting the tip of her thumb and lingering for a second. It’s a tried-and-true method. Yolanda loves when Trinity’s mouth is on her, wherever on her body that may be. She stays there for a second, licking a circle around her fingernail before grabbing the shot and throwing it down quickly. Then, following Yolanda’s lead, she takes the lime with her teeth and sucks it dry.
This time, it’s Yolanda who’s speechless. Trinity revels in the way her eyes darken immediately and her mouth hangs open a little, as if she’s in a trance. She may as well be. It takes what feels like an hour for any part of her body to move.
“Okay there?”
“Shut up,” Yolanda grumbles.
“You started it.”
“I did.”
The silence is broken by Parker. “So that was wild. We’re going back to our seat, the second half’s about to start. I assume you’re not coming, Yolanda?”
“You guys go,” she says, eyes still locked in on Trinity, “I’ll stay here.”
“Thought so.” Emery pushes Parker back in the direction of their table. “Feel free to join us, med students!”
“I’m not… ugh.” Dennis corrals an even worse-off Victoria in the direction of their seniors, not without shooting Trinity a look that tells her the debrief later on will be generational. Finally, they’re alone again.
Trinity hooks her foot underneath the footrest of Yolanda’s stool and drags her closer. The movement makes Garcia lose her balance a little, and she leans forward to regain it by resting her hands on Santos’s thighs. “Hey,” she mutters, and it’s obvious the tequila has quickly entered her system.
“Hi,” Trinity replies, tilting her head with a smile, “what was that?”
“I wanted an excuse to touch you.”
Trinity takes her wrist and lifts it off her thigh before bringing it to her face. She stares at her warm skin for a second, mapping the veins and ridges of her toned forearm she knows so well, before bringing it to her lips and leaving the softest kiss right over her pulse point. Yolanda gasps, quiet enough that only she hears it above the excited chatter of the bar, and her own stomach swoops. It’s everything she’s wanted since the Fourth, since they fucked over the phone, since Garcia came over and made her come so hard that she thought she was ruined for anyone else then left her alone.
To be fair, she is. There’s no one she wants more, or will ever want more, than the woman sitting across from her.
And maybe they’ve hit some roadblocks. Maybe they’ve been awful at communicating and made the other think they’re only in it for their bodies. But merely two weeks apart and an hour of therapy has made Trinity realise there’s no use in dancing around what they really are to each other.
“Yolanda,” she mutters, eyes dropping to her lips. “Are we—I want—” with a sigh, she directs her gaze back up to her eyes, only to find Garcia already staring back at her. She brushes a stray curl back behind her ear.
“What do you want, Trinity?”
“I want you,” she whispers, and within seconds their lips are connected. It’s like coming home. She moves impossibly closer to Yolanda and brings one hand to the back of her head to bury itself in her curls while the other tucks itself under her jersey. The kiss deepens almost immediately, saliva mixing like it has hundreds of times before. Their lips open simultaneously and Trinity takes the initiative to dip her tongue inside Yolanda’s warm mouth, tracing the area she’d claimed as her own a long time ago.
There’s something about this kiss compared to every other one they’ve shared. Maybe it’s the act of being in public like this, during daylight hours no less, and having everyone see them existing with each other. But Trinity knows it’s mostly because of what’s been said, the acknowledgement that they’re on the same page. Her stomach flips, and she pulls Yolanda closer into her embrace as their lips continue to move.
“Trin,” she mutters in between kisses, “don’t get carried away, baby.”
“Why not?”
“We’re in public. We’re supposed to be watching the World Cup final.”
“Mhmm.” Trinity nips at her bottom lip before chasing them again. They kiss languidly until they both need to come up for air. “I don’t care.”
“I want to see who wins.”
“More than you want to kiss me?”
“Depends.” Yolanda pulls back fully, one hand climbing up her leg to rest on her bare waist. Although most of Trinity’s brain power is focused on her hand, she registers that her face paint is getting far worse for wear.
“You’ve got a little something,” she mutters facetiously, moving her thumb to wipe at the corner of her mouth.
“Ugh,” she groans, before catching the thumb between her lips and sucking. Trinity can only watch slack-jawed as her thumb disappears into her mouth and a warm tongue flicks at the tip. “Sorry,” she says when she releases it, “I couldn’t pass that up.”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Eloquent.”
“You can’t do that, man. Unfair.”
Yolanda raises a white and red eyebrow. “Why not, Trinity? Enlighten me.”
“You know why.” Her voice is whiny, embarrassingly so, and she has to drop her eyes to her lips to avoid exploding from the shame. It’s frustrating how well Yolanda knows her; she immediately curls a finger under her chin and lifts her head so they’re eye-to-eye again.
“I’m gonna go wash this off. Want to join me?”
“Absolutely.” Trinity stands up immediately. “I saw a single-stall when we came in.”
Yolanda laughs. “Easy, tiger.”
Her knees almost buckle. “Fuck is your problem,” she stage-whispers, a smile coming across her face, “do you want me to get on my knees right here?”
“I wouldn’t necessarily be opposed.” Her face softens as she gets off her stool. “But I also don’t think that’s a good idea, babe. Let’s not rush things, we should talk first.”
Trinity nods. “Let’s see how things go, agreed.”
“But for now,” she turns back around and traces the curve of Trinity’s waist, “help me get my face back from these colonisers.”