G.O.M.C.

They know she doesn’t mean it, or at least they hope so — Trinity and Yolanda are her best players. They are the ones who keep the team solid, moving forward, advancing in the league. 

Then again, maybe she’s serious. Their coach has that look in her eye, the look every player tries to avoid getting from their coach for fear of getting their head bitten off, and neither Trinity nor Yolanda plan on pushing it. 

“I don’t know what you need to do,” Baran continues, shutting the door of her office before walking over to settle in the chair behind her desk. “I’ve tried everything. I’ve had you two do every team building exercise, every ice breaker, every fucking thing I could think of, and this still happened.” 

The two players stand in front of her desk with their arms crossed and eyes down as they’re scolded, both covered in grass stains, bruises, dirt that was most definitely not meant to be kicked up on the pitch. 

“Anything to say for yourselves?” 

“She started it,” Trinity says quietly, nodding at Yolanda beside her. She knows it’s childish, but she wants the heat off of her. 

“The fuck I did,” Yolanda snaps. She jabs a finger in Trinity’s face and steps closer, raising her voice. “You wouldn’t pass the fucking ball to anyone! I tried calling you out on it and you—” 

“Shoving me like a child is not calling me out on it! You were trying to start a fight.” 

“Why would I do that? Tell me why.” 

Trinity falters, angry enough that reason has been abandoned and all she can focus on is how badly her shoulder hurts from when Yolanda had thrown that big insulated water bottle at her. 

But she can’t deny that maybe, just maybe, she deserved it. After all, she had thrown a cleat at the other woman’s head. 

It wasn’t her proudest moment. 

“Are you two done?” Baran asks. “Or am I going to have to sit through round two?” 

They go silent again, embarrassment creeping in. 

“You two are my most experienced players,” she says. Her voice is softer now, tired. “You need to help me lead this team. It’s the least you can do.” 

“I’m sorry,” Trinity murmurs. 

“We’re sorry,” Yolanda corrects. 

“Sorry isn’t good enough,” says their coach. “Everyone else looks up to you here. What about the new girls joining us this season? Do you want them to see you brawling on the fucking grass and then go thinking that’s how players at your level should carry themselves?” 

“It won’t happen again.” 

“It better not,” she shakes her head. 

They wait in silence, expecting more. But Baran only studies them, leaning forward and resting her elbows on the desk, until eventually she sighs and sits back in her chair again. 

“Is that all?” Trinity asks tentatively. “I mean… Can we go? My roommate has been waiting outside in the car for a while, and he’s my ride home.” 

Baran fiddles with the sleeve of her jacket, the light purple one that matches the water bottle on her desk, and wonders if she should say no and keep the two of them standing there in suspense for a little while longer. Maybe it would prove something, solidify her authority somehow. The brawl on the pitch today shook her sense of it. She thinks the whole team will be doubting her soon. 

“Coach—” 

“Go,” she says harshly. She looks up and meets Trinity’s eyes, then Yolanda’s. “Get out of here.” 

Trinity’s words come out sounding a little weak. “We’re sorry.” 

No response — unless the stare counts, hard and doubtful. 

The two players leave the office, shutting the door behind them. 

“I can’t believe you tried to throw me under the bus in there,” Yolanda snaps. She keeps her voice down just in case. “Actually, I can. That’s so fucking typical of you.” 

“No, no,” Trinity tries, raising her hands up as if in surrender. “No more.” 

“Oh, so now you’re backpedaling?” 

“No.” 

“Then what is this?” 

Trinity crosses her arms, looking down at her feet. She still only wears one white cleat. “I don’t wanna get benched,” she grumbles. 

Yolanda rubs her left bicep where the missing cleat had made contact. It’s sore and will probably bruise, but it’ll be fine. She doesn’t want to make a big deal out of it, because doing so would be admitting that Trinity had made some sort of impact on her. “Yeah, well, neither do I.” 

They stand like that for a long time, both hesitant to bridge the gap and both still bitter from the fight. But ultimately the game is more important, and they are still the star players of their team — there is some ego attached to that, and some obligation along with it. 

“What if we went out for drinks?” Trinity asks. She reaches up and lets her hair out of the half-up style she keeps it in during training, letting it fall loose and tucking some of it behind her ears. “We’ve never been around each other outside of practice or games.” 

“Like a date?” Yolanda asks skeptically, raising a brow. “I don’t want to go on a date with you. I don’t even want to look at you.” 

“See? This is why we can’t get along! You’re so fucking—” 

“Right, because it’s always me! You’ve never done anything wrong in your career, in your life, ever.” 

They both realize then why they have been keeping their voices down to begin with, and they both look back at the door to Baran’s office cautiously. 

“I’ll text you the address of a bar I like,” Trinity says eventually. “Meet me there. Or don’t. I don’t care. But if you do… I’ll buy you a drink.” 

“You don’t have my number.”

“Samira gave it to me,” she shrugs. “How do you think you got added to the team group chat?” 

The door to the office opens and Baran sticks her head out. “I thought I told the two of you to get going. I have work to do.” 

— 

Trinity sits down at the bar and expects to be alone for the rest of the night. She orders a beer and texts Whitaker that Yolanda isn’t waiting (because of course she’s not) and tells him she’ll probably come home soon if Yolanda doesn’t show. 

She looks up at the TV playing above the bar. It’s been turned to the FIFA World Cup, specifically the match between Ghana and Panama, and Trinity becomes so engulfed in the beginning of the first half that she doesn’t notice someone pulling out a stool beside her and sitting down. 

“Who are you cheering for?” Yolanda asks, raising her voice over the noise of the bar. 

It makes Trinity jump. She glances from the TV to Yolanda, blinks, and tries to gather her wits. 

Yolanda takes the lead. “Personally, I’m cheering for Panama.” 

Trinity nods, looking down into her beer. The glass is half-full. “Yeah, Panama is good.” 

They watch the game for a while, up until the first hydration break when the players briefly retire to the sidelines. 

By now, they’ve both had a drink and the effects are beginning to set in. They are more relaxed now, more open, and the exhaustion from training earlier has made both of them more agreeable — they are too tired to fight. 

“Hey,” Yolanda says quietly, nudging Trinity with her elbow. “So, uh… about today…” she trails off. 

“What about it?” 

She sighs, running a tired hand over her face. She isn’t good at apologizing, much less to people like Trinity who are equally as combative when the need arises. “I shouldn’t have shoved you,” Yolanda says, “and I shouldn’t have thrown my water bottle at you.” 

Trinity takes a sip of her second beer, feels it sink down into her stomach. “I appreciate that.” 

“Are you gonna apologize too, dumbass?” 

“Don’t call me—” Trinity stops herself, bites down hard on her bottom lip. “Yeah, sure. Sorry. I shouldn’t have thrown the cleat at you.” 

“And?” 

“And what?” 

Yolanda gestures to the TV. “Do you see how much they’re passing the ball back and forth during this game?” 

“Oh,” she realizes. She looks up at the TV. “I’m sorry for hogging the ball, too.” 

“Thank you.” 

A small silence comes over them, and neither knowing what to do, they turn back to the game. They watch wordlessly for a few minutes, letting the noise of the bar and the sound of the TV lull them into a state of calm. 

“So,” Trinity says, “what now?” 

“What do you mean?” 

She shrugs. “Are we good?” 

“I suppose,” says Yolanda. “I never wanted this whole feud with you to begin with. The ball just started rolling.” 

“Really? I thought you hated me from the day you joined the team.” 

Yolanda scoffs at that. She never hated Trinity, and she still doesn’t. Sure, she thinks Trinity can be a massive pain in the ass and that she has much more experience to gain under her belt before she can be as good as Yolanda, but Yolanda doesn’t hate her. It’s all part of the game. 

“Do you really want to know what I think?” Yolanda asks. 

“Sure.” 

“I think you grew up as an underdog,” she says. “You’re small, aggressive in a way that probably got you into trouble as a kid, and football was probably the one thing you felt like you were any good at.” 

Trinity looks down into her glass again. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, feeling a bit too seen for her liking. 

“But then you got older,” Yolanda continues. “You joined the middle or high school team and suddenly everyone was bigger, stronger, working out in their free time and getting their hands on supplements and shit they probably shouldn’t have had access to. And you were still just… small.” 

“Where is this going?” Trinity asks quietly. She can feel Yolanda scooting closer to her on her stool, invading a little more of her space. She can’t say she entirely dislikes it. 

“Do you have any idea where you are right now? Who you are?” 

Trinity shrugs. 

“You play this sport for a living,” Yolanda says. “You’re one of the best there is. Wake the fuck up,” she gives Trinity’s shoulder a shove. “You’re not the underdog anymore.” 

Trinity turns to face her then, and for once she doesn’t feel the nagging sting of resentment when she meets Yolanda’s eyes. It’s something else that fills her, something warmer, and part of her wants to reach out and take Yolanda’s hand that’s resting on the bar. 

“What about you?” Trinity asks. “What’s your big, tragic story?” 

“Oh, no tragedy for me. I’m just the best.” 

“Yeah, right.” 

“You don’t think so?” 

“I think there’s more to the story,” Trinity says. She acts on her urges, reaching out and taking Yolanda’s hand, flipping it over to her palm and studying the lines of it. “I think there has to be something that’s hardened you.” 

Her hand tenses under Trinity’s, but only briefly. “And what do you think that is?” 

“I can’t say,” she shrugs. “I don’t know you that well.” 

“Do you want to?” 

Trinity slides her hand into Yolanda’s, then rests their joined hands in her lap. “Wouldn’t hurt.” 

They turn back to the game again and order another round of drinks, watching past halftime and into the second half. They make casual comments about the game, about this player and that player and predictions for future matches in the World Cup, and when Ghana wins one point to none they still sit at the bar to watch the commentary afterwards. 

“I want to impress her,” Yolanda says quietly. She fiddles with the edge of the napkin beneath her glass. 

“Who?” 

She gives Trinity a look. 

“Oh,” she realizes. “Al-Hashimi?” 

“Best coach,” Yolanda nods, “of any league, anywhere.” 

Trinity smiles at that. She has a guilty streak herself when it comes to trying to impress their coach. “I know the feeling.” 

“Whatever you’re doing, it’s working. She always watches you so closely during practices, during games.” 

“Me?” Trinity asks. “You’re the one she always has her eye on.” 

Yolanda rolls her eyes. Warmth crawls up her cheeks and chest, spreading across her whole body. And maybe it’s just the effects of the alcohol, but Yolanda thinks it is more than that. 

What is left unsaid between them is that they have just figured out the origin of their feud: attention from the coach. They both know how it sounds, the guilt that comes from wanting someone in authority over them, but neither comments on it. 

“She was really good back when she played,” Yolanda says. “The other night I binge watched, like, all of her matches. Before her injury, she was one of the best.” 

“She still is. You’ve seen what she’s done for our team.” 

Yolanda nods. “I know. It’s different, though.” 

“I know.” 

“Do you think she misses playing?” 

“Of course she does,” Trinity answers. “I’ve seen it in her face after we win really big games. It’s like she’s living through us. It makes me sad sometimes.” 

“Have you ever talked to her about it?” 

“No, I don’t know what to say to her. She scares me a little.” 

Yolanda smiles, nodding. “I’ve noticed. You nearly shit your pants in her office today.” 

“I did not.” 

“Oh, okay.” 

Trinity laughs, really laughs, feeling so light and loose from the alcohol that she doesn’t care anymore that it’s Yolanda’s comment she is laughing at. She even starts to regret never meeting her outside of practice before, not making the effort, because under different circumstances they could have hit it off right from the beginning. 

“Should we call her?” Trinity asks eventually, once she has managed to quell her own laughter. “She might enjoy knowing we’ve worked shit out.” 

“We could call her,” Yolanda agrees. “Let’s go outside, though. It’s loud in here.” 

“But it’s all hot and muggy outside.” 

“Then come home with me,” she proposes. It’s casual, or so she tells herself. It’s just friendly. “We can watch those matches I was telling you about, and if you get tired you can crash on my couch. Spend a night away from your roommate.” 

Trinity considers it. She would really enjoy a night away from Huckleberry, even though she loves him. And the thought of calling Baran… of trying to get that little bit of praise out of her… is enough to convince her. 

“Okay,” she says. “Fine, I’ll come over.” 

— 

“Sit down,” Yolanda gestures to the couch. “There’s a blanket if you— yeah, there you go.” 

Trinity has quickly made herself at home. It’s easy to exist in Yolanda’s apartment, lit dimly by table lamps and with furniture covered in heavy blankets. It is a home that is softer and more comfortable than Trinity expected. 

Yolanda sits down next to her. She dials their coach’s number, having to try a few times before she gets it right because the alcohol is starting to blur the edges of the world around her, and finally the phone starts ringing. 

Baran picks up on the second ring. “Hello?” 

Neither of them responds at first. It’s not just a drunken whim to call their coach anymore, it’s real. It’s happening. 

“Yolanda? Is everything okay?” 

Yolanda finds her voice. “Yes, sorry. I’m with Trinity, you’re on speaker phone.” 

“You two are together?” 

“We went out for drinks.” 

On the other end of the call, Baran sighs. She lies in bed because it’s already late and she’s already tired, hunkered in with a novel in her lap and a mug of tea on her bedside table. 

“We figured out our differences,” Trinity says, the last word slurring a little. “We thought you should know.” 

“How thoughtful of you,” she replies dryly. 

“No, really. We’re good now, like… really close.” 

“You sound drunk.” 

“That too,” Trinity agrees. “But we wanted to call you anyway. We wanted you to… to be proud of us.” 

Yolanda elbows her in the ribs, and Trinity shoves her in return. 

It makes Baran pause. She leans her head back against the headboard where she still sits in bed and she lets her eyes fall closed for a moment, thinking of how to respond. She is not new to having players who seek praise, but with Trinity and Yolanda she has always felt more inclined than usual to give it. That part makes her nervous. 

“I am proud of you,” Baran says eventually. “I’m very proud. And I’ll see you at practice later, okay?” 

“Wait,” Yolanda stops her, “don’t hang up.” 

“Yolanda, you’re drunk. Both of you are. We’ve already established that.” 

“Maybe, but we’re telling the truth. And we want you to know you’re a good coach— a really good coach.” 

She smiles softly, accepting the praise. “I appreciate that.” 

“I love you,” she says indulgently, and then she freezes. Oh, fuck. She can’t believe she just said it. “I mean— I love working with you.” 

If Baran were worse about abusing her power, she would take advantage of that. She would tell Yolanda it’s okay to want what she does, that it’s okay to ask for it, that she should send her the directions to her apartment. But she has to be better than that. 

“I’ll see you at practice,” Baran says, and that is all she says before hanging up. 

“Shit,” Yolanda curses. 

“No, it’s okay,” Trinity assures her. “I’m sure she won’t read too much into it.” 

Yolanda pulls some of Trinity’s blanket on top of her, too. She leans back against the couch cushions and turns so that she’s looking at Trinity, and she finds Trinity already gazing at her. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Yolanda asks. There’s no bite in it. 

“Like what?” 

“Like you want…” she trails off. “I don’t know what you want.” 

Trinity shifts closer to her on the couch. She tilts Yolanda’s chin up with a hand and looks deep into her eyes, the soft darkness of them. “Honestly, I really want to kiss you right now.” 

“You threw a shoe at me earlier.” 

“Live and learn, as they say.” 

“You’re a real fucking idiot.” 

Trinity leans in, tentatively closing the space between them. Her lips press against Yolanda’s, and even with how unsteady she is from the alcohol, she knows this has changed everything both on and off the field. 

With hands on her hips, Yolanda pulls her closer. She sneaks her hands under the fabric of Trinity’s black tank top and rests them on her waist, exploring the softness of her skin. 

Trinity shifts onto Yolanda’s lap, rolling her hips once in test and relishing the soft sound it emits from the other woman. 

“Fuck, I wish she could be here,” Trinity murmurs, leaning down to press needy kisses to Yolanda’s neck. “I wish she could watch.” 

The thought makes Yolanda groan and pull her closer, sliding her hands higher up Trinity’s shirt to rake across her back and find the clasp of her bra. 

“What do you think she would say?” Trinity asks. She pulls back enough to pull her own shirt off, then shrugs off her bra. “What would she do?” 

“Anything,” Yolanda breathes. “I’d let her do anything she wanted.” 

“What about me? Can I do anything I want?” 

Yolanda pushes Trinity to lie back against the couch cushions. She climbs on top of her and kisses her hard, letting her hands roam up the newly exposed skin of the other woman’s chest, rolling a nipple under her thumb and hearing Trinity’s breath hitch. 

“Don’t press your luck,” Yolanda murmurs. She slips her hand into Trinity’s shorts, feels the wet patch that’s accumulated on her underwear, and hums against her neck. “You’ve got a lot to make up for already.” 

— 

The next morning, a knock at the door wakes them. A scramble ensues in which pillows are thrown, Trinity rolls off the bed onto the floor, and mismatched clothes are thrown across the expanse of Yolanda’s bed until both of them are at least fully covered. 

“Shit, who the fuck is that?!” Trinity cries, rubbing her eyes. The brightness of the bedroom is terrible for her hangover, absolutely blinding. “I know you don’t have any fucking friends!” 

“You don’t know that!” Yolanda throws a pillow at her. But the truth is, she does have very few real friends. “Stay here, okay? I’ll be right back.” 

“Tell whoever it is to fuck off!” 

Yolanda rolls her eyes. She goes up to the front door and opens it tentatively, barely peeking out before sighing and opening it the rest of the way. “What are you doing here?” 

Baran holds up a full paper bag. “I brought bagels.” 

“What? Why?” 

“You requested them.” 

Yolanda furrows her brows. “I did?” 

“I knew you would be too drunk to remember. It’s okay, it happens. I thought I would come over and clear the air now so that things wouldn’t get awkward at practice.” 

“What do you mean?” Yolanda asks softly. Cold, sickening terror washes over her as she wonders what exactly she did last night that she was too drunk to remember. 

Baran steps into her apartment. She reaches out and places a hand on Yolanda’s shoulder, a gesture that is meant to be comforting but comes off as smug, and then she hands over the bag of bagels. “Last night after you called — a while, actually, past midnight — you texted me paragraph after paragraph about the decorations you’d like at our wedding in five years. And then you requested that I bring you and Trinity bagels this morning. You sent me your address, too, and some more messages that were incoherent.” 

Trinity, having disobeyed the ‘stay here’ command, snatches the bagels from Yolanda’s hand. “Oh, shit. Dude, you’re fucked.” 

“She’s not the only one,” their coach says. She meets Trinity’s eyes. “Later you should check your messages to me, too.” 

Uh oh. 

Trinity tries to ignore her. “Do you, um… want some coffee?” 

“I shouldn’t.” 

“It’s just coffee, Baran.” 

“I’m your coach,” she says sharply, looking between the two women. “It’s not that I don’t want—” she stops herself, starts again. “It’s nothing personal. I refuse to put all of our careers at risk, we’ve all worked too hard to get to where we are now. Do you understand?” 

The other two glance at one another guiltily before nodding. 

“Good,” she says. She backs away toward the door. “I didn’t know your bagel preferences, so I got a variety of options.” 

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” says Trinity. 

“I know.” Baran steps out of the apartment. “And it’s all you’re getting, so be grateful.” 

Baran slams the door behind her. 

“I hope she brought cream cheese,” Yolanda murmurs defeatedly. 

— 

Their next practice comes quickly, the beginning of the week dragging them into the locker room. Trinity and Yolanda are the first ones to arrive, getting ready silently as they pull cleats from their gym bags and slide them on. 

“So,” Trinity starts, “should we talk about it?” 

“About what?” Yolanda’s tone is sharp. 

“You know what.” 

“We’re at practice, Trinity.” 

“So it’s business as usual?” she asks, standing and going over to sit on a bench next to Yolanda. “I thought the other night changed things. I thought we were good.” 

“We are,” she replies, softening. “But don’t you think it’s a little awkward right now?” 

“Only if we make it awkward.” 

The door opens and in comes their coach, gym bag slung over her shoulder and a clipboard in one hand. She looks over it at them, then stops walking. 

“You two are here early,” Baran says. 

It’s Trinity who answers. “So are you.” 

“I always get here early.” 

“Oh.” 

A small silence fills the locker room. Baran studies the two of them carefully while they try to look unaffected, completely nonchalant, and fail. 

“Are you two…” she trails off. She doesn’t know how to ask the question in a professional way. “Did you ride here together?” 

“Yolanda picked me up.” 

“Whitaker didn’t take you?” 

Trinity shakes her head. “It’s easier if Yolanda takes me. That way Huckleberry doesn’t have to wait in the parking lot when practice runs late.” 

“I see,” she says, readjusting her gym bag on her shoulder. 

“That looks heavy,” Trinity notices. “Do you need any help?” 

“I can carry it.” 

“I know you can, but I still felt like I should offer.” 

Baran allows herself to smile at that. She steps toward the bench the two women sit on and drops her bag in front of it, nodding for Trinity to take it — and she does. 

“I can take your clipboard,” Yolanda offers. 

“That sounds excessive.” 

“Please?” 

Baran doesn’t think she has ever heard Yolanda say please, and for a second it makes her falter. And she knows it is probably wrong to hand over her clipboard and let Yolanda take it, but she does it anyway and leads the two women into her office. 

“Put the bag over by the desk,” Baran orders, “and the clipboard on the— yes, right there. Thank you both.” 

“Is there anything else we can do?” Yolanda asks. 

The coach considers it. Part of her wants to start making up tasks for them, silly things like getting her a cup of coffee or finding her a new pen since the one on her desk is running out of ink. But she thinks that would be too self-indulgent, so she shakes her head. 

“Okay,” Yolanda nods. “Let us know if that changes. If anything changes.” 

Baran can’t pretend like she doesn’t catch her meaning. “I will.” 

The two players step out of her office. 

“Close the door behind you.” 

They do. 

— 

Trinity Santos goes out onto the field and plays like it’s her very first time. She’s distracted, mind on anything but where the ball is going. She runs into people, misses the ball when it’s passed to her, and on more than one occasion contemplates quitting if things don’t start looking up. 

After what must be the hundredth goal she’s missed today, the whistle blows and she sees her coach waving her over to the sidelines. 

She wants to run. She wants to leave and never come back. But she takes step after step toward the sidelines, body moving against her will, until eventually she faces her coach and is given her full attention. 

“You’re off today,” Baran says. “Is everything okay?” 

Trinity nods. “I’m just tired.” 

“Is that all it is?” she asks, stepping closer. She meets her player’s gaze, keeping them connected for too long. “Is there something else?” 

She keeps her voice down. “You know what’s wrong. I can’t be here like this, with you and Yolanda, and act like nothing is fucking happening.” 

“But it’s true,” Baran shrugs. “Nothing is happening, at least not between you and me. What you and Yolanda get up to in your free time is your business. When we’re out here, it’s work. It’s all–” 

“Part of the game,” Trinity finishes. “Yeah, I know. I’ve heard that before.” 

“Then let it sink in.” 

Something about the way she says it rubs Trinity the wrong way. Maybe it’s the finality, the lack of room for excuses. Maybe it’s the want she hears behind the words and sees in Baran’s eyes, the way it is barely contained but still denied its proper power. Maybe it’s both. 

Trinity brushes past her, walking away from the field. 

“Where are you going?” 

“I’m done.” 

“Trinity!” 

She’s already out of earshot. She moves as quickly as she can, trying to get back into the athletic center so she can change her clothes and get the fuck out of there. She’ll walk home if she has to. Anything to get away. 

Yolanda jogs over to the sidelines, meeting Baran with more hostility than she deserves. “What the fuck did you do? What did you say to her?” 

“Don’t fucking curse at me,” Baran steps forward, meeting her face-to-face. “You have no authority here, but I do, and you two have put me in an impossible position. If all of this explodes, it’s not on you. It’s on me.” 

Yolanda falls silent. She takes a step back, heart hammering in her chest, and crosses her arms. 

“Get back on the field. I’ll handle it.” 

She doesn’t have any other choice. Neither, it seems, does Baran. 

— 

Baran finds Trinity in the locker room, sitting on a bench with her knees drawn to her chest and her hair loose, forehead pressed down against her knees. 

“My office,” Baran orders, “now.” 

“I’m not going to be yelled at by you.” 

“I won’t yell.” 

Trinity isn’t sure if she believes her, but she gets to her feet anyway. She lets herself be led into Baran’s office and she shuts the door softly behind her, sinking into one of two chairs across the desk from her coach. 

“You want to talk?” Baran asks. “Let’s talk. Let’s get it all out in the open.” 

Now that she has the chance, Trinity doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t know what she could possibly tell her now, given she’s already said it drunkenly by text, and that pretending like everything is normal isn’t working. 

“I care about you, Trinity.” 

She looks up and meets Baran’s eyes. Her gaze is softer now that they’re out of the public eye, and she really does look like she cares. Trinity just isn’t sure how far and deep that care runs. 

“What does that mean?” Trinity asks. 

“It means that I keep my distance because I want you to succeed. I want every good thing in this world for you.” 

“And Yolanda?” 

“And Yolanda,” she nods. “You understand that, don’t you?” 

“Of course. We want those things for you, too.” 

Baran stands, circles around the desk and sits atop the corner of it. She is closer to Trinity now, enough that it has her looking out the windows of her office to make sure no one is nearby. She keeps her voice low. “Under different circumstances, I would have come over that night.” 

Trinity’s eyes widen. She stands and steps closer to Baran, as though afraid she hasn’t heard her correctly. 

“I would have met the two of you for drinks,” she continues. “I would have gone home with you, woken up between you…” she trails off. “Don’t think I wouldn’t have wanted it.” 

She doesn’t know what to say. She can barely believe what she’s hearing, though part of her always suspected it to be the case. 

“I can’t give you everything you want,” Baran says quietly. “Not all at once, and not until I know how extreme the risks are. But if you’re willing to take what I can give, and be discreet about it…” she trails off. 

“Yes,” Trinity breathes, finding her voice. “Yes, of course.” 

“Does the same go for me?” Yolanda asks from the doorway. Neither of them know when she got there, but when she shuts the door she locks it behind her to keep away any other surprise visitors. “I’m sorry about earlier, on the field.” 

Baran nods. “I understand.” 

“You haven’t answered my question.” 

She slides off the desk and passes Trinity on her way to the door. She stands in front of Yolanda and looks her over, surveying her, assessing the risks and wants and possible results. She steps forward and presses the other woman back against the door, gives in to the want burning beneath the sound of every alarm bell ringing in her head, and leans in to kiss her. 

It’s softer than she expects, slow and easy and natural. It’s one of Yolanda’s hands coming up to cup her face and the soft hum Baran lets slip against her lips, and the rest of the team forgotten outside on the field. 

When they part, Baran feels Trinity pressing up behind her. She allows herself to sink into the feeling of Trinity’s hands on her hips, Trinity’s lips on her neck, and she pulls Yolanda back down to kiss her again. 

“You set the pace,” Trinity murmurs against her neck, then presses a kiss to her pulse point. “Take what you want, when you want it. You’re in control.” 

“Of course I’m in control,” she murmurs once the kiss with Yolanda breaks again. There is a distinct lack of conviction in her voice. “I’m your fucking coach.” 

Yolanda looks down at her, sweeping a bit of loose hair from Baran’s face with her hand. Until now she has never fully realized how soft Baran is, not fragile but so overwhelmingly human, skin warm under her hands and hair soft, not just the hard and commanding front of a coach. It makes something warm and protective blossom in her chest, makes it take root there. 

Yolanda leans down to press one final, gentle kiss to her lips. She takes her time with it, mustering all the softness she has. 

“We should get back to practice,” Trinity says eventually. “People will start to wonder what we’re doing in here.” 

The other two women step apart. 

Baran clears her throat, adjusts the zipper of her jacket, takes the claw clip out of her hair and then puts it back in more securely. “Yes, you’re right.” 

The three of them exchange glances, each asking the other: What next? 

“Huckleberry is going farming tonight,” Trinity says. “No one will be home. I don’t know if it crosses any lines to say this,” she looks at Baran, “but my door is always open. I plan on getting a good bottle of wine, maybe cooking some–” 

“Since when do you know good wine?” Yolanda asks, crossing her arms. It’s still fun to give her shit. 

“That’s not the point,” Trinity snaps. “What I’m saying is–” 

“We understand,” Baran assures her. She offers her a small smile that implies maybe, just maybe, she will be there. “Now, let’s get back out there. I’m sure everyone is waiting.” 

But waiting, as they all know so well by now, is just part of the game. 

@jagermeisterrrr posted this and I kindaaaa got inspired 🙂‍↕️ thank you for the idea, I hope this is okay.