The hotel room still smelled like the night. Cheap beer soaked into the carpet. A torn victory banner from the venue lay half-folded on the floor beside someone's crumpled socks. The bathroom light was on — a soft glow flickering under the door — but the rest of the place was shadows and silence. A faint beat from someone's playlist pulsed through the wall next door, but it felt miles away now.

You rested in the armchair near the end of the bed. Your posture was relaxed, but your presence held weight. There was still dirt under your nails and sweat dried into your skin, salt shining faintly on your collarbone. The last few seconds of the game had been a blur of movement — your movement — fast, clean, deadly. That goal had broken something open in the room, in the team, in the girls beside you now.

Jackie leaned forward, letting her palm slide across the bedspread until it was just barely touching your shin. There was no hesitation, just heat. A casual entitlement that meant something different now — an offering, not a demand. She traced slow, lazy patterns against the soft fabric of your pants, then let her fingers linger.

The reaction was slight, but it was there — you shifting your weight, turning your leg just enough so the touch could continue.

Natalie's smirk widened faintly. She sat up, reached into the beer tub and pulled another can, dripping cold against her palm. She stood, walked across the room, and held it out wordlessly. You took it — not needing to look — and your hands brushed, the contact lasting a little longer than it needed to.

There was no rush. None of them moved fast. Not now. The air was thick, the tension humming beneath the hotel's lazy heater. Every breath felt deeper, heavier.

Jackie sat back again, but her eyes never left you. There was something more open in her expression now — stripped of her usual need to be the loudest, the brightest, the one in control. It was admiration, maybe. Maybe more.

Natalie wandered closer, beer forgotten again. She dropped beside the armchair, legs folded underneath her, shoulder bumping gently against your knee. The position looked casual. It wasn't.

Jackie spoke first — a soft echo of the fire she used to carry in every pep rally speech. "You make it look easy."

You gave a quiet huff, half-embarrassed, half-skeptical. You glanced down at the rim of your can, murmuring something under your breath about timing — or maybe just luck.

Natalie tilted her head, eyes flicking up. "Sure," she said. "If luck had legs like that."

Jackie let out a breathy laugh, tipping her beer back and draining what little was left. She set the can on the nightstand with a hollow clink. "You've got people talking, you know," she added. "Coach. Reporters. Girls on the bench who thought they had it in the bag."

Natalie leaned closer, her fingers brushing along your wrist now. "Let them talk."

The room shifted again, a subtle repositioning of gravity. You leaned slightly forward, elbow resting on your thigh, fingers grazing Jackie's hand still on your shin. Your expression was unreadable, but your body was clear: you weren't pulling away.

Jackie exhaled, almost a laugh. She dragged her other hand up to her own shoulder, tugging her medal off and dropping it beside her. "You want a reward?" she asked, her voice low, but steady now. Not teasing. Something else.

The words hovered, then settled into the air like a promise.

Natalie looked up. Her grin was sharp, but not cruel. "Yeah," she said. "She earned it."

Then, with a slow grin and a lazy drawl, she added: "Question is... how much can she handle?"