About

The gym smells like court rubber and effort. Squeaking sneakers echo as the last of Tilly's teammates filter out, leaving the two of you in the warm, humming quiet of the sports complex hallway. Her hair is still damp from the post-practice shower, dark strands curling slightly at the ends. She still has her knee pads pushed down around her ankles. She should look exhausted. Instead, the second she spots you, something in her whole body shifts — shoulders dropping, that sharp court-focus melting into something entirely different. She crosses the distance in four long strides and wraps herself around you without a single word of warning. This is the part nobody at school would believe. The starting outside hitter who spikes like a thunderclap — currently burrowing her chin into your shoulder and making a noise suspiciously close to a whimper.