Fragile

Chapter 2 - Number Swap

Evelyn: I'd like that too.

Leah: Yeah?

Evelyn: Yeah.

Leah: Cool. Well, I'll let you get some sleep before you start regretting this.

Evelyn: I'll let you know if I change my mind.

Leah: I'll try not to take it personally. Night, Evelyn.

Evelyn: Night, Leah.

Evelyn: Actually... random question.

Leah: Go on.

Evelyn: Do you ever get nervous before games? Like, really nervous?

Leah: All the time.

Evelyn: Really? You always seem so composed.

Leah: That's the trick. You learn to hide it. But yeah, every big game, there's a moment where I think, "What if I mess this up?"

Evelyn: And then?

Leah: And then I remind myself that I love this game. That I've trained for this. That I deserve to be there. And the nerves don't disappear, but they don't control me either.

Evelyn: I needed to hear that.

Leah: Tough day?

Evelyn: Just feeling like I'm drowning a little. School, work, Riggs... It's a lot.

Leah: I get that. But if anyone can handle it, it's you.

Evelyn: You barely know me.

Leah: I know enough.

Evelyn: ...You're really good at this whole motivational speech thing.

Leah: Comes with the job. Captain and all.

Evelyn: Right. So you're a leader on and off the pitch, huh?

Leah: Something like that. But I'd rather just be a friend right now.

Evelyn: I think I'd like that.

Leah: Good. Now go to sleep before Riggs wakes you up at an ungodly hour.

Evelyn: Fine. But only if you promise not to let the nerves win in your next game.

Leah: Deal. Sleep well, Evelyn.

Evelyn: You too, Leah.

~   ~   ~

I wasn't nervous.

At least, that's what I kept telling myself as I sat in Starbucks, rolling my cup of hot chocolate between my hands like it was some kind of lifeline. The place was busy, filled with the usual hum of conversation, the whir of espresso machines, the occasional call of a name. But all of it blurred into the background when Evelyn walked in.

She spotted me almost immediately, a small, knowing smile tugging at her lips as she pointed to the counter and I watched as she went to the pick-up and grabbed a cup.  She was dressed casually—jean shorts and a fitted t-shirt that somehow looked effortless but still put together. Her hair was pulled back, a few loose strands framing her face. She looked... good. Too good. And suddenly, I was hyper-aware of how warm the leather jacket I'd thrown on that morning felt against my skin.

"Hey," she greeted, setting her coffee down on the table before sliding into the seat across from me. "What'd you get?"

"Hot chocolate."