pazzi devotee

Back in her parents’ house in Arlington. Back in the twin bed she spent the better part of eighteen years sleeping in, tucked into the corner of the childhood bedroom she once knew better than anywhere else in the world.

She groans and rolls onto her side, yanking the covers over her head. It lasts about a minute before the weight of them starts to feel suffocating. She throws them back with a frustrated huff. She’s spent enough of the past year feeling like she couldn’t breathe. She isn’t starting again here.

Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, Azzi pads toward the bathroom, immediately aware of how wrong everything feels. The carpet under her feet is soft but foreign. She’s grown so used to the smooth wooden floors of her flat in Germany that even this small detail feels off.

She’s glad to be home. She really, truly is. But nothing quite fits.

The toilets are too high. The toothpaste is too minty. The sunlight is too bright.

Even her reflection feels unfamiliar.

She stands at the sink and stares at herself in the mirror. She doesn’t look all that different, but she feels different. The dark circles under her eyes make her look as tired as she feels. Maybe it’s the nine hour layover followed by the red-eye flight. Maybe it’s everything else she’s been carrying for months now. Either way, she looks like someone who hasn’t slept properly in days.

Her black curls hang unruly over her shoulders. She considers doing something with her hair, then abandons the thought entirely. Instead, she twists them into a messy bun and pulls on a pair of sweats and a well-worn Munich FC sweater.

It’s the same one she used to throw on after a brutal practice, the fabric softened by years of wear. It still smells faintly like the detergent she used in Germany, and the scent hits her square in the chest. Her fingers drift to the embroidered crest without thinking, tracing the stitching absently as a familiar ache settles behind her ribs.

She thought coming home would fix things.

Standing here now, wrapped in a piece of her old life, she realizes she isn’t sure where home even is anymore.

She just doesn’t feel settled.

***** *** *****

A couple of months later, she still doesn’t.

Maybe the move wasn’t the right call. The transition has been harder than she expected, and for the first time, she feels lonelier here than she ever did in Germany.

It’s the middle of preseason for the NWSL, but today is a rare day off. No practice, weight training, fitness, or team bonding. The kind of day she used to fantasize about when she was grinding through double sessions, legs burning, lungs on fire.

Now that she has it, it doesn’t feel like relief because it just gives her more room to spiral.

She knows she should enjoy the downtime, and let her body recover. Unfortunately, sitting still has never been her strength. She needs movement, noise or distraction to quiet the restless energy crawling under her skin.

So she grabs her keys.

“I’m going to run out for a minute,” she calls over her shoulder as she heads for the door.

Her dad, Tim, looks up from his spot on the couch. He’s still in his work clothes—pressed slacks and a St. John’s quarter zip—and she catches the words forming on his lips just as she reaches the door.

“Azzi, wait—”

The door swings shut before she hears the rest. She assumes it’s something inconsequential and doesn’t stop to wonder about it as she slides into the driver’s seat of her white Audi. The leather interior still smells faintly like new car and the citrus air freshener she shoved into the vents last week.

She starts the engine and pulls away from the curb, leaving behind the quiet familiarity of her parents’ suburban street.

The drive is supposed to clear her head.

Instead, it makes everything worse.

She’s used to Germany. To the thrill of the Autobahn, the rush of speed with no one policing how fast she can go. Flying down perfectly paved asphalt, the wind slicing through the cracked windows, music pulsing in her ears. 

Here? 

She’s boxed in. 

Stuck behind drivers crawling below the speed limit, stoplights dictating every move, cautious commuters braking for turns they haven’t even reached yet. 

It’s suffocating.

Azzi thought coming home would fill the emptiness. That it would help her rebuild whatever she’d lost. But sitting in traffic, surrounded by slow-moving cars, it feels like the walls are closing in.

Her grip tightens on the steering wheel, fingers flexing against the cool leather. Maybe she should’ve stayed in Munich. Maybe she should’ve fought harder for another, better contract. Instead, she’s here—in a place that feels too small, too quiet, and somehow just all wrong.

The streets of her childhood blur past, strip malls and chain restaurants bleeding into one another. The tree-lined roads of her parents’ neighborhood, once comforting, now feel too polished and sterile.

She misses Munich. The late-night walks. The corner cafe where the barista knew her order. The constant hum of a city that never seemed to sleep.

Her phone buzzes in the cupholder, pulling her out of her thoughts. She glances down at the next stop sign.

Dad: Can you grab some milk while you’re out?

Azzi exhales and fires off a quick reply before tossing the phone onto the passenger seat.

On impulse, she jerks the wheel and cuts across traffic into the grocery store parking lot. Two horns blare behind her, long and irritated, but she pays them no mind. She throws the car into park after pulling into a spot, and leans back in the seat, dragging a hand through her hair as she lets out a slow breath.

Normally, she would save the errand for the way home. But she doesn’t want to forget. Disappointing her dad isn’t something she’s interested in adding to the list of things she’s already failed at lately.

Her parents have let her crash at their house without complaint. Welcomed her back with open arms, giving her space and time, and never once making her feel like a burden. So the actual least she can do is pick up the damn milk.

Inside the grocery store, she drifts through the aisles, scanning the endless rows of bread with mild disbelief. Were there always ten different brands of hot dog buns? The stores in Germany are smaller. More efficient and much less cluttered. This place feels overwhelming.

She reaches the end of the bread aisle and grabs a jug of milk from the refrigerator wall, then turns toward the cookie aisle. She isn’t usually a junk food person, but after a brutal week of preseason, she’s earned a little grace.

She’s debating between Double Stuffed Oreos and chocolate-covered crisps when she hears a shuffle and a sharp curse from farther down the aisle.

Azzi glances over her shoulder just in time to see a woman in baggy jeans and a oversized t-shirt struggling to keep a stack of cracker boxes from toppling over.

For a second, she considers minding her own business. 

Then the woman curses again as boxes spill into the cart, onto the floor and into her arms. It’s chaotic enough that Azzi snorts through her nose before she can stop herself. She steps forward, crouching to scoop up a few of the fallen boxes.

The woman exhales in relief, muttering a flustered thank-you as they work together to restock the display. They shove the boxes back into place one by one, though the other woman does it with noticeably less patience.

Azzi sets a box on the shelf and straightens, finally turning to take a good look at the other woman.

A smirk pulls at the corner of her mouth.

“Why is it that every time I find you, you seem completely helpless?”

The woman startles, spinning around. Her blue eyes widen before recognition settles in.

“Azzi?”

Paige grins, shoving the last box into place before dropping a crumpled shopping list into her cart. Azzi’s gaze darts to the cart itself, which is an impressively random assortment of items with a neatly written list perched on top. The contrast makes her wonder if Paige is normally the organized one or if she got dragged into grocery duty at the last minute.

“Why aren’t you in Germany?” Paige asks.

Azzi shifts the milk to her other arm as Paige extends her hand. The formality of it almost makes her laugh. Paige’s cheeks are still flushed, whether from the cracker incident or something else. Azzi decides not to read into it.

She takes Paige’s hand anyway, ignoring the familiar jolt that runs through her at the contact as she shakes it.

“I signed with a team here,” she says. “As much as I love Germany, I needed to come home.”

Paige nods, releasing her hand and resting it on the cart handle.

“Well, congratulations,” she says, warmth in her voice.

“And you? Another work trip?”

Something shifts in Paige’s posture. It’s subtle, but Azzi catches the way her grip tightens on the cart, the hesitation before she answers.

“Sort of,” Paige murmurs, twisting the platinum band on her finger. “We uh… we moved here for my wife. Her family is from the area. Luckily, my company has a satellite office.”

Azzi nods, keeping her expression neutral.

“Well, I hope you like it here.” A grin finds its way back onto her face. “And I hope I don’t catch you lost at a bus stop again.”

Paige laughs, the tension easing from her shoulders. “Hey, if the signs are in English, I can manage.”

She shakes her head, smiling at the memory. The same rosy smile Azzi remembers from that freezing night in Munich.

“Thanks again for that, by the way,” Paige adds. “I never did properly thank you.”

“You bought me coffee,” Azzi reminds her.

Paige snaps her fingers. “That’s right! I did.”

Then, like she’s making a split-second decision, she looks at Azzi with an expression that Azzi can only deem as hopeful.

“Still, I’d like to thank you properly. Why don’t you come by for dinner sometime? Emma makes a mean pot roast.”

Emma.

Her wife.

Azzi hesitates. Her first instinct is to decline. Sitting across from Paige and her wife, pretending not to notice the easy familiarity between them, doesn’t exactly sound appealing. 

Then she sees the genuine excitement in Paige’s eyes. And honestly? She could use another friend. Most of her high school friends have scattered. Her teammates are great, but she sees them constantly. There’s also a limit to how much Dateline or sports she can watch with her parents before she loses her mind.

She exhales.

“Uh…” The word slips out before she can talk herself out of it. “You know what? Sure. I’m free tomorrow night.”

Paige lights up, surprise washing across her face like she hadn’t expected that answer.

“Awesome!” She digs through her cart until she pulls out her phone from beneath a box of taco shells and a family-size cereal. “Put your number in. I’ll text you the address and details.”

Azzi takes the phone, their fingers brushing. She types in her number, briefly considering mentioning that she’s already given it to Paige once before. She lets it go.

After she hits save, the screen lights up with an incoming call. A photo of Paige and a dark-haired woman with freckles fills the display, Paige’s arms wrapped around her, both of them smiling.

Azzi hands the phone back just as Paige glances at the caller ID.

“Shoot,” Paige mutters. “I’m going to be late.”

She answers quickly, holding up a finger to Azzi to signal that she needs a minute.

“Hey, Em! I’m just finishing at the store… Yeah, I met an old friend from Germany… Okay. I’ll tell you about it later. I’ll be home in fifteen minutes. Love you.”

Azzi bites back a smirk at old friend from Germany. She wonders if Emma will ask about her. If she’ll care. Not everyone would be thrilled about their wife inviting a near-stranger over for dinner.

Paige tosses another box of crackers into her cart, then winces at the time on her screen.

“I’ve really got to run.”

She starts toward the front of the store, then pauses and looks back.

“I’ll text you later about dinner, okay?”

Azzi nods, watching as Paige disappears around the corner, nearly colliding with a teenage stock boy in the process.

Shaking her head, Azzi drops the Oreos into her cart.