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They send Nora across the diamond to do the coin toss because she has all the luck, and when she shows them a thumbs down above her head Nick mutters, "Fucksake," like she lost it on purpose. She shrugs as she’s walking back over. There’s nothing for it: they’re batting first.
"It’s fine," Abby says. She’s on the balls of her feet, stretching her arms up over her head, working out some lingering soreness in her shoulder. She meets Owen’s eye and scoffs at the constipated look on his face. "Seriously. We don’t need to field first."
"But we would have liked to field first, Abs. Against Jackson, we would have liked to field first."
"Wow," says Nora, hands in the air. “Sorry ‘bout it."
"We’d all like to fucking field first Owen, but only one team actually gets to, remember?”
"Oh really? Cuz I thought we were all gonna get out there at once—”
"Guys," Jordan repeats, louder this time to actually get their attention. “Watching the pitch."
They stop bitching and fold arms to judge; Jackson County’s infamous pitcher is out on the mound, warming up her arm before the start of the game. She’s built from white-skinned, 90 degree angles and her brown hair is drawn back from an unsmiling face, hat jammed down over the top. Her wind-up is tight, the follow through fast and accurate, each ball driving straight down the middle.
While they stare in silence, Ellie Williams feeds another three strikes into the catcher’s glove, one after the other, like she’s trying for a perfect score. During the fucking warm-up.
Thunk, thunk, thunk.
It makes sudden, brutal sense as to why Jackson is the top team in their grade.
"It’s a little low," Leah says.
The catcher must have said something funny, because Ellie suddenly snorts with laughter right before she whips the ball back into his glove.
"... Fuck." Manny stops looking. "I think she got even faster."
"But it’ll go if you hit it."
'"If’ being the key word here, Abs."
"Oh c’mon." She digs her elbow into Manny’s side, refusing to let him give in, “Harden up. You’ll be fine once you’re up there."
Ellie lines their batters up like bowling pins, top of the first inning, and knocks them down with brutal efficiency. Three strikeouts in a row, within the first five minutes of the game. And she enjoys doing it, too. She’s grinning out there, and Abby is forced to reconsider the validity of her encouragement as she jogs out with the rest of the WLF to make a begrudging switch to fielding.
Manny is ripping off his batting gloves at the plate, grimacing; Abby chucks his mitt at his head on her way past to make him laugh.
"Thanks, Abs."
“No no," she says, turning her head, catching Ellie’s interest on the way by. “Thank you."
For the… less than stellar start.
Abby should have expected this. Jackson are currently undefeated in their grade. They came down into this one from the one above: they were the worst there, so they are the best here and Abby is pretty sure that a couple of their members used to play prem. This isn’t the first time the WLF have played them, but Abby was absent for that game and boy, did she ever hear about it. Horror stories about a pitch nobody could get a bat around, an insanely coordinated infield...
Ellie Williams was the mutual sore point. Other teams talk about her like she’s some kind of legend, like she’s the only person in the world who could possibly pitch that fast. It annoys Abby more than it should. For one thing, this is a fucking social league. There’s no reason for her to be playing this hard when it’s supposed to be for fun. And they’re all in their twenties (though she’s heard Ellie is actually nineteen and lied about her age to get out of the teen ranks) and obviously not interested in going pro, otherwise she wouldn’t be here. So why does she try so hard? What does she get out of being so much better than everybody else?
Hey, their coach soothed via WhatsApp, the afternoon after the loss. You all played a good game today, but they're better. That's all it is.
Not if Abby has anything to say about it.
Hearing the WLF complain about that game in the weeks that followed, it was as if they’d played a friendly game of softball against a fire-breathing dragon in a baseball cap. The dramatics were so unwarranted. She’s just a girl, Abby told them, not a threat. Suddenly, she couldn’t wait to face off against Jackson again, even started looking forward to it.
Coasting into position at shortstop, she sighs and watches Jackson plucking helmets from the dugout, swinging their bats around, warming up. Ellie is scanning the infield with one hand on her hip and when she gets to Abby, she holds her gaze for an unnerving amount of time. Abby feels a prickle on the nape of her neck, fine hairs rising.
"What the fuck," she mutters, scuffing the toe of her shoe into the dirt of the skin. By the time she glances up again, Ellie’s attention has gone elsewhere. She shrugs it off.
Today is the last game in their round robin for the season. The results of this match determine what place they’re playing for in the final, but hey... no big, right? Don’t sweat it. Abby is trying not to concentrate too hard, cuz she knows it’ll sink her into some kind of game-ruining funk. Above all things, it is nice to be outside considering the last game got rained out. The weather is perfect today: overcast, warm. The outfield won’t have any trouble with getting sun in their eyes.
Their first field is good. Jordan isn’t anywhere near as fast as Ellie is but he spins the ball right before he releases it. Every big hit soars high and left, to be caught and cleaned up. This is their strategy. Abby feels her team settling into it, the comforting familiarity of routine and knowing what to do, how to play. We got this. She keeps track of the play vocally, raising her voice to be heard above the wind and chatter. "Alright WLF, that’s two and one! Outfield plays to three.
"What we got?”
"Two and one," echoes back to her, from every corner of the infield. They’ve always been good at communication. Most of the team has been playing together since they were teenagers. Their coach calls them the wolf pack.
Three outs don’t come to them as neatly as Ellie’s did for Jackson, but they manage to keep the runners from scoring. Abby releases a held breath and pushes her hat up to pass the back of her hand across her brow while she makes her way back to their dugout. It’s hot in there, the air thick and warm. She’s already drained half of her water bottle. Their coach has a quick word, and then Abby’s in the circle, watching in dismay as Owen strikes out impressively just ahead of her. She holds her hand out for his bat as he comes trudging back toward the gate.
"The ref is totally blind," he quips, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, “He thinks my strike zone includes my ankles."
"Oh." Abby’s attention is on Ellie. She’s spinning the ball lazily in one hand over and over, waiting for her. Watching. “Sure."
Owen thumps her on the shoulder for luck and she snorts, curling her fingers around the handle of the bat as she comes up to the plate. Yeah. She’s not worried. Jackson’s big little pitcher doesn’t exactly scare her.
Squaring up, she steps into the box and the first pitch shoots by her so fast she barely has time to wrap her head around it, let alone the bat. The loud sound the ball makes when it hits the glove behind her is intimidating all on its own. The catcher returns it to Ellie instantly and she palms it, scuffing out a spot on the mound with her foot before she returns to her lazy stance, eyes drilling into Abby.
She seems bored out there, so Abby decides she’s hitting the second pitch no matter what, and she does. Sorta. She clips it hard and sends it foul. The catcher has to get up and jog to retrieve it from the fence line, but it must be nice for him to finally stretch his legs. Abby allows herself an eye-roll from within the safety of her helmet and raises her bat again, with no small amount of defiance. Ellie is staring at her, expression unreadable.
"A little late," Leah notes from the circle. “You’re just under it."
"Got it."
Abby knows she shouldn't take it personally, but she's always been far too competitive. As much as she’s been trying not to let the importance of the game go to her head, she’d be lying if she said she didn’t want to win it for the WLF. All of them complained so much about her missing that first game against Jackson. They made a point out of telling her that if they’d had her there, it would have changed the tide. They probably would have won. She has to hit off Ellie now. Has to, wants to.
She doesn’t.
The third strike is a beautiful pitch and she doesn’t even try to get it. Lifting her head to look at Ellie before she takes herself away, Abby thinks she catches something twist in her expression, but she can’t imagine why the pitcher for Jackson would be disappointed in her for striking out… not when it’s good news for her. Or maybe just her team, since now she has to stand there and endure the slow torture of being too good a pitcher for anybody to hit off of. That’s her problem, not Abby’s. Still pisses her off though.
Abby is good at softball. She’s been playing since she was seven years old, beginning with tee-ball in her backyard in late summer. Orange slices, shin bruises, child gloves made out of vinyl and lined with fake fur. Her dad used to play for a team when she was that age, a social one that met every Thursday for games after work at the hospital. He’d leave her nestled up in the stands, accompanied by takeout containers, free to read her book under the big lights that only switched on after sundown.
From there she worked her way up, through various school teams and clubs, switching over a couple times before Nora found her, plucked her out and recruited her for the WLF. Abby loves it. They’re a good team, and the general attitude is the right balance of serious and fun. They don’t have to win but they do, and often, cuz they’re good.
She is good. She’s fucking good at softball. She’s not going to let some mean pitch throw her off her game when all she has to do is find a way to hit it.
Next time.
They field once more in-between Abby coming up to the plate again. Some of her teammates get hits off of Ellie before she’s up, but it’s damn difficult to actually get on base. They complete runs slowly, carefully. Jackson has some incredible players: a woman with dark hair and a strong nose practically runs the damn infield from second, and the tiny woman on first will snap up anything headed her way. She plays like she’s got a fucking magnet in her glove.
Abby watches all of this from the dugout with grim excitement, pulling her gloves on. They’re two down again. Owen actually got onto base ahead of her, which—no pressure, right? She’s gotta help him get around, cuz she can’t imagine he’ll be able to steal third; Jackson’s catcher is, unfortunately, amazing. He’s devastatingly in sync with Ellie, returning the ball to her hand seconds after she’s let it rip through the air toward whomever’s up at bat.
Abby, now. She’s planting her feet in the dirt by the plate.
This time, she doesn’t look at Ellie at all. She looks at the ball in her hand and misses the first strike. Shit, she actually forgot how fast it is once you’re up here and staring down the barrel of it. Second pitch seems a little wide, so she doesn’t touch it. Ball.
Abby’s heart is thumping in her ears. She wants to hit it so bad she’s psyching herself out. The third pitch goes wide around the plate again: ball two. Is Ellie fucking with her or something?
"Relax, Abby," her coach calls. He can probably tell she’s gritting her teeth under the helmet. "A walk is just as good."
No it isn’t. Not for Abby. She doesn’t want Ellie to walk her to first base and then strike out the next batter, that’s fucking humiliating. She keeps her eye on Ellie’s hand, decides that no matter what comes out of it she’s swinging—
And connects so hard the bat vibrates out of her hands when she drops it to run, not looking. Can’t look. Head down, two down, run on fucking anything! Hopefully Owen is going for it—he’ll make it, he’s much faster than she is—and she’s surprised to find she also makes it to first with seconds to spare.
Turning to circle back, Abby puffs her cheeks out, exhales in a rush, eyes wide. She searches for Owen, finds him on third fucking base, “Yes, Owen!” she shouts at him. He grins, crazy-eyed, breathing hard. “Good!”
That’s more like it.
She settles her foot against the outside of the base, wedging it there, ready to run. She glances toward the pitcher to watch for the ball leaving her hand.
Ellie is staring at her.
The look on her face gives Abby that same, crawling sensation from before, ants marching on her skin. She stares back until Ellie turns her head and refocuses on the batter. When she lets the ball go so that Abby can run for second, they don’t try to get her out. They let her have the base. They don’t want Owen to score.
Abby lingers at second, feeling strange. The back of Ellie’s neck has freckles on it.
She’s difficult to figure out.
She’s a different person when she’s standing out on the pitcher’s mound from when she’s goofing off in the dugout, shoving her teammates, laughing, wiping the sweat from her brow off on the sleeve of her navy-blue shirt. She’s the only one who wears long sleeves underneath her team uniform. Not that Abby is noticing.
On her next bat she connects smoothly with Ellie’s first strike, sending the ball soaring into the outfield. It should have been an easy catch but whoever is out there fumbles the play so hard Abby makes it to second before they can field it back in. For a moment it seems strange to her that they wouldn’t have better players out there, but then she realises that they’ve been relying on Ellie’s brutal pitch all season. They’ve probably never worked for the ball a day in their lives.
Well. That’s a weakness she can sink her teeth into.
She bats again that same inning and accidentally gets caught in a loop of fouling the third strike. It’s not technically a bad thing. It means Ellie has to pitch to her over and over again, and she’s definitely starting to get tired. Her accuracy is slipping. She's walked a couple batters and she’s been stretching her arm between pitches, shaking out her hand. Jackson doesn’t seem to have a back-up. Abby should sympathise with her for this: pitching an entire game is fucking tough, and now that the WLF have started actually hitting into an unprepared outfield, Jackson’s morale has taken a beating.
She should sympathise, but she doesn’t. She hasn’t asked for the score just in case, but she’s pretty sure they’re winning by a couple runs; most importantly, she’s learned that watching the ball instead of Ellie seems to really annoy her. Her jaw is clenched and Abby can feel her stare like there’s a real physicality to it, a tension.
Swing, connect. Another foul.
"That’ll do, pig," Jordan calls, and it makes her laugh. She hopes Ellie thinks she’s been doing this on purpose. She has to wonder when she stopped caring about winning.
⁕
Despite the WLF’s comeback moment the game remains mostly neck and neck the entire way, right to the end. It is a good fucking game; they are good teams. Maybe Abby is enjoying herself more than she ought to, it’s just that she’s so tickled to have found out Ellie isn’t that great at batting. She has an incredible swing but she’s too eager about it. She chases after pitches she shouldn’t be going for, swinging too far out past the plate, or high over her head like she’s trying to chop wood. What is she trying to prove?
When she does connect she’s got enough power to really send it flying; that’s how she ends up on second with Abby hovering between it and third, keeping an eye on her. Looking at her more often than not and Ellie looking at her rather than at her base-coach, neither of them frowning, only staring. More curious, less hostile. Testing that pressure.
Abby can’t help but notice: there’s sweat on her upper lip from running.
Jordan is palming the ball in slow-motion. When Abby finally drags her attention back to the game, time resumes its usual pace.
Jackson only has one out. When the hit comes, hard and fast, Abby flings her glove out and feels the ball slam inside; swinging herself around, she catches Ellie in a tag before she can make it back to her base. A double play, just like that. Icing on the goddamn cake.
The WLF lose their minds.
Underneath the noise Abby tells her, “When you’re only one down you’re supposed to hold on the high hits," and jogs breezily away. She doesn't bother looking back and misses Ellie yanking her helmet off, but feels the full force of her glare burning into the nape of her neck. Abby doesn't care. She feels good, she feels smug and self-righteous. That’s what you get for picking on my team last time.
Yeahhh. It’s fucking on.
She notices, stepping up to the plate for her next bat, that the outfielders are going deep in anticipation of her.
Ellie is back to being unfathomable out on the pitcher’s mound. Whatever open curiousity her and Abby might have shared before now has disappeared. Ellie’s pushed her sleeves up her forearms, showing off a large tattoo of two ferns, one completely filled in. The design curls up around the length of her forearm, onto the back of her hand.
They are playing the top of the sixth inning. This is it.
The WLF are ahead by a handful of runs. Abby is planning on smashing it out into the field. She’s gonna try for a home run. If she gets one Ellie might actually fucking lose it in public and she kinda wants to see that play out—
The first pitch hits her in the leg.
The sound startles her. The ball makes that same, dull smack of impact that she’s been hearing on the catcher’s glove all game, except against the meat of her thigh.
Abby’s leg seizes up. She nearly loses her balance. She definitely drops the bat onto the plate, and everybody spectating makes the exact same sound, a twining of audible dismay and shock, the collective wince of a crowd watching somebody get hurt.
"Holy shit." The catcher rips off his helmet. "Are you okay?"
Owen is running in from first base to check on her, brow furrowed in concern.
"I’m fine," Abby grunts, even though she isn't. She waves them both off.
She looks out at Ellie just in time to catch one curling edge of her mouth, the rest hidden behind her raised glove and realises with a bolt of shock—she did it on purpose. It is blindingly obvious to nobody but the two of them, and the little look on her face dares Abby to say something about it.
She won’t, she can’t. How the fuck do you suggest that the pitcher hit you on purpose without sounding like a crazy person?
She limps to first base.
Ellie must have thought she could get Abby put out for the rest of the game. Her coach certainly wants to switch her but she shakes her head, gritting her teeth in the dugout while she grabs her glove, holding the waistband of her pants out from her hip so Nora can apply a long burst of cooling spray to her leg. She tries not to look too hard at the blossoming bruise. That only makes it hurt worse.
"I’m fine," she tells them, leaning her weight onto it just to show them that she can. “Seriously. I’m not subbing out, there’s only one inning left!” And they only have one sub anyway: Mel, Owen’s girlfriend, who is six months pregnant and has been sitting the last couple of games out to score for them instead. She’s sitting on the sidelines in sandals and a big, floppy hat. She can’t play for Abby.
And if she goes off now, Ellie fucking wins.
Abby can't stop looking at her now. She can't keep her eyes off her when she bats, the way her skinny hands clench around the handle, thumb rubbing the binding. When Ellie’s back on second base, breathing hard, Abby can feel her gaze on the back of her neck, taunting, daring her to say something. Knowing she’d sound insane if she suggested that she hit her with the ball on purpose, because who would actually do something that fucked up, right? It’s like nothing she’s ever encountered before.
Abby drills down into her signature, single minded focus. Right: this isn’t about winning the game any more. This is about making sure this weirdo knows she hasn’t bested her, not in any sense of the word.
She doesn't say a single thing. Not to her coach, her teammates, and not even when she goes up to bat at the top of the seventh and gets hit again almost immediately. No flirty near-misses: the ball nails her right in the goddamn ankle.
"Ellie," somebody shouts from the sidelines. There’s no way anybody could have missed the deliberation behind it, right? She’s the only person copping actual hits off of this girl. Abby waits for something to happen but Ellie’s expression barely shifts. As Abby, once again, limps stiffly to first, she calls out to her for the first time.
"My bad."
By the time they call the game, she's ready to start a fight.
The final score is 34–31 to the Wolves, a hollow victory. Abby knows Ellie thinks she's so clever for getting away with it, when really she's absolutely psychotic. She tries to catch her eye from across the pitch but she isn't looking back at her any more. When they line up to shake hands she has the fucking audacity to grip Abby’s and tell her good game, in perfect parody of a normal human being.
Abby could scream.
Before she can storm back across the diamond to knock her fucking flat, Owen is there, fussing. He wants to give her a ride home. He says they can go to a supermarket on the way there and get some bags of frozen vegetables for Abby to hold against her thigh and ankle, just to tide her over. It’s sweet. But Abby forces herself to remind him, meanly, that his pregnant girlfriend probably wants to get home so she can… pee, or whatever else pregnant people like to do with their spare time, and that Abby isn’t Owen’s responsibility any more, and never has been anyway. She’s fine. She doesn’t need him.
He gives her a quiet, resigned look before he leaves the pitch and the roil of guilt that follows makes her feel even worse.
Actually, no. She’s glad. She’s glad Owen is fucking off and taking the rest of the team with him, glad that nobody is going to stay behind to try to help her out. She doesn’t want help. She wants to lick her wounds in peace and run home later, feeling both bruises every single step of the way. Thinking longingly of snapping her headphones on and drowning the world out with Tchaikovsky, she heads for the changing room, bag smacking on her hip.
Once she’s safely inside, alone, and everything has gone quiet, she peels her pants down to reveal the red, swollen lump of skin underneath. Christ. Abby can see the stitching of the ball in it. It broke the skin. There's even a bit of blood crusting around the graze; she touches it with her finger in furious awe. Really, it’s as incredible as it is terrible. Nobody should be able to whip the ball that fast. It’s inhuman.
"Oh shit."
Abby looks up, pants still drawn down her thighs. Ellie is standing right there in the entrance and staring at her without a hint of shame to be caught looking. Her gym bag is hitched over her shoulder, zipped open to reveal a change of shoe hanging out: ratty red Converse.
The nerve of her approaching at all makes Abby want to spit at her.
"Fuck off," she hisses, suddenly territorial.
"This is a public changing room."
"Wait outside! What the fuck is your problem?”
"I don't have a fucking problem, I'm trying to get changed. Can you turn around?”
Ellie slings her bag into a corner, claiming it, and sits down to kick off her shoes, wiping sweat from her brow. Underneath the long socks her legs are pale and hairy. Abby glares at her, and sits gingerly with her back turned while she shimmies out of her pants and socks entirely to better inspect the damage.
There is a lump on her ankle, right over the bone. The bruise is going to be disgusting. She’ll be sore for weeks.
Ellie clears her throat and waits.
"You’re really good," she says eventually, still facing away. It’s weird, because it sounds like a genuine attempt at conversation. Abby can’t help keeping her in sight out of the corner of her eye, because she’s got a nasty feeling it isn’t safe to not know where she is at all times. She doesn’t have a ball in hand to hit Abby with, but she isn’t taking any fucking chances. "At shortstop, I mean. You’re wasted on that team."
Abby bares her teeth, a warning sign. "I’m too good for you, you mean."
"Didn’t say you weren’t."
"So you thought you’d try take me out?”
"Yeah." The admission does nothing for Abby’s fury, which throbs unchecked like a pulse in her throat. She can almost taste it.
Ellie turns. She’s taken her team shirt off and the plain one underneath it too. She’s skinny and pale, absolutely covered in freckles. That big tattoo on her arm has a moth at the base of the two ferns, tucked into the crook of her arm. Her sports bra looks old and gross. “What are you gonna do about it?”
The nerve of this fucking girl.
She stares Abby down from her spot on the bench, which is hysterical. Abby is much bigger than she is. Surely she understands she’s picking a losing fight.
Covering the wince it takes to stand, Abby covers the distance between them in two strides. Sensing the shift in the mood, Ellie backs up until she hits the wall but Abby smoothly boxes her in against it with one arm, hand splayed on the cold concrete. It’s far too easy. She looms over her.
"Well, you didn’t." Abby is furious. Why won't Ellie break eye contact with her? She’s gone pink, her lips pressed tightly together, chin jutting out. Abby notices a white notch cutting through her eyebrow, some old scar. She wonders if she got it from picking a fight, since she seems to like doing that. “You lost. We beat you. Leave it.”
Ellie’s got one leg curled up to her chest between them. She kicks out suddenly—her heel slams into Abby’s hip and she grunts, grabbing her ankle. One hard tug and Ellie shoots off the bench, hitting the dirty floor with a curse.
It’s not the first time Abby has fought somebody like this, down on the ground, fist to sternum and teeth bared. She’s got a bad temper, a solid right hook and Ellie seems to want to be hit. She laughs about it, the sound splintering with pain when Abby's knuckles connect with her jaw. Underneath her, trapped, she bucks suddenly upward, thrashing underneath like a fish on land. She hits Abby in the nose.
"You bitch—”
Abby punches her again, fist connecting with Ellie's stomach hard enough that she hears all the breath shoot out of her. She makes an ugly wheezing sound and drives her leg up between Abby's bare thighs, kneeing her in the cunt, which hurts; she yelps. She tries to hit Ellie again and misses her face, smacking her knuckles painfully on the ground.
"I looked you up," Ellie pants. She's got sweat in her eyes and she's blinking hard through it, squinting.
"What?”
"I looked you up. Your teammates kept bitching about how if you'd been around for that first game you guys would have won, so I looked you up."
The strangeness of this calls for a temporary ceasefire. Abby pauses astride her hips, staring down at her. In the scramble she managed to push one of Ellie’s wrists up over her head and she’s leaning her weight onto it. She's got her other hand curled in a fist and ready to go, just in case.
"On Instagram," Ellie supplies before she can ask. She looks wild. Her eyes are so big. They're as green as a forest. Green as a fern. She pushes her thigh between Abby's legs as if it belongs there and Abby stiffens, suddenly uncertain. "And Facebook."
"My Facebook is locked," Abby says, stupidly. She hasn’t used it in years.
"Yeah, but your friends post photos of you everywhere. That guy, Manny? He's got a good eye. He's got a lot of pictures of you."
"What the fuck are you doing."
She hasn’t seen Ellie blink once since she pinned her. “Do you really think you would have won if you'd been there the first time?”
"Yeah," Abby says immediately. Her heart is beating so hard. “We would have kicked your asses."
Ellie hums, considering it. "Probably."
She hooks her hand around Abby's neck and pulls her down toward her mouth. It's a weird kiss, not particularly good, but it doesn’t feel wrong. It’s like a snap, a release, or when you find the right stretch for a really sore muscle and it hurts so good. Ellie's lips are dry. She smells like sweat, antiperspirant and grass-stains. Her arm is wiry and strong and she can hold Abby right where she wants her.
Abby opens her mouth for no reason in particular other than in response to a jolt of disgusted arousal and then they're scrabbling at each other again, jockeying for control of the situation. Clawing. Ellie wraps a hand around her braid and yanks her head in the direction she wants it to go, closer, but when Abby bites her lip in retaliation she just groans.
Ellie’s wrist is still pinned above her head. Abby realises she’s putting too much pressure on it and relents, but Ellie doesn’t try to pull away. She seems comfortable even though they’re sprawled out on a concrete floor, in the half-dark, dingy atmosphere that changing rooms typically provide. Most of the lights don’t work any more. It stinks like mildew. This is the worst place she’s ever hooked up with somebody else, but it fits the company.
She realises she’s already thinking of it as a hook up and closes her eyes momentarily in utter resignation.
"What the fuck are you doing." May as well ask again. She’s curious and angry, kind of turned on. She pushes her hips into Ellie’s thigh, testing.
"Making it up to you."
The second kiss is a lot better.
The heat of Ellie’s skin is nice when she presses up into Abby, flush along her. She’s still holding her braid. She’s looped it around her fist once, drawn it tight, and it pulls hard at the roots when she moves. Each tug feels like it’s hot-wired to her clit. It’s like Ellie knows getting her hair pulled makes Abby super horny. She’s very fucking sure that information isn’t available on her Facebook page (or whatever) but Ellie seems like she knows her, has done all of this before. She slides her hand up Abby’s shirt and grabs her through her bra, squeezing hard until she gasps on her mouth.
Ellie is driving this and she can’t pick a place to touch. She wants her hand up Abby’s bra but then her palm veers away and brushes down her stomach, pressing into her abs. She lingers there for a while, feeling her up. She lets her hand sink even lower, down between Abby’s thighs to cup her.
She’s only wearing underwear, a flimsy barrier between her cunt and the heat of Ellie’s palm. Nothing else to hide behind. Her pants and socks didn’t even make it into her gym bag, they’re bunched up on the ground where she took her shoes off. Ellie strokes against her and Abby rocks into her hand mindlessly. They’re not kissing any more, just in each other’s space and moving steadily together, grinding like teenagers touching for the first time. Two fingers press pointedly inward on the damp, slick spot in the fabric of her underwear, pushing as if they could go inside her that way.
"Stop," she groans and Ellie does instantly, hand flinching away. She has to add, “No, stop teasing me," before she’ll keep going, which is sweet of her. Her fingers skirt the side of Abby’s underwear and touch her directly instead, as instructed.
They both groan this time.
"You’re so wet," sounds like an accusation.
Ellie’s two fingers cluster together and push around her entrance, coating both in Abby’s arousal, dragging it up toward her clit. She rubs her there in slow, lazy circles, working her up and up until Abby’s gasping on her mouth, her eyes shut.
There’s a good pressure building at the base of her spine. It shocks the fuck out of her to realise that she could probably cum like this if Ellie kept going, because usually she finds it impossible to actually orgasm. She can’t even do it when she’s masturbating. She overthinks it, gets stuck in her own head and too frustrated by that to make anything happen. Right now she isn’t thinking about anything; she’s listening to the soft, slick sounds of Ellie’s hand moving in her underwear and their breathing, the shivering whimpers leaking out of her own mouth that she can’t seem to control, the hum of fluorescent lights overhead.
Ellie is watching her. She knows exactly what her stare feels like by now. Abby has to wonder what she sees, especially when she allows her fingers to glide back along the seam of her cunt and press inside, finding little resistance. Abby thinks of what her hand looked like on the curve of the ball, her fingers long and slender, undoubtedly calloused, the back of her hand licked by the tip of her fern tattoo. She exhales in a rush and Ellie starts to move.
Slow at first, to the first knuckle, slipping right out of her before sinking back in. Then she presses in deeper, fills her up, crooks her fingers from the inside and strokes her until she’s breathing hard and quick.
She’s good with her hands. Abby says, “Oh fuck," all low and wrecked, hears her inhale quickly. The slap of skin on skin between them is unreasonably hot and when the heel of Ellie’s hand starts to nudge her clit on each thrust she can feel herself starting to fall into it, tipping over the edge. All she needs is one, good push. She goes still and tight, holding in place (holding her breath) so Ellie’s hand stays right where it is, hitting some spot inside her that feels so good she could cry, and she sighs when overwhelming pleasure washes up over her, biting her lip through it, brow furrowing.
Ellie fucks her through her orgasm, wrings her out. When she finally relents and Abby cracks open an eye, she’s still being watched. Ellie is all flustered, so obviously pleased with herself. She’s grinning that same grin Abby saw in the dugout and it’s more, up close. It’s kinda nice. When she isn’t busy exuding crazy, deranged stalker-energy, she’s almost cute.
"What," she murmurs. God she feels so fucking good, all loose and warm. Ellie’s fingers are still pressed in her to their hilt and she curls them again, beckons; she is rewarded with a warm, throaty sigh. When she pulls out of Abby her fingers are very wet, slick, the tips slightly wrinkled from being inside of her.
Abby watches her put them into her mouth and suck.
"You are so fucking weird."
But it’s alluring and gross, to watch her.
Nobody has ever fucked her like this before, quick and well. She’s quiet and Ellie is pink in the face. When she takes her fingers out of her mouth, she hooks them damp and curling into Abby’s underwear, dragging them down her thighs, an unsubtle hint.
"Sit on my face."
"... Excuse me?”
Ellie doesn’t repeat herself, she wriggles around on her back as if she’s getting comfortable on the concrete. She pats her collarbones invitingly. "C’mere."
Abby falters. “No."
"What are you, scared? Of getting head?”
"No! Gimme a minute!”
Surely this is a fair ask. Abby’s muscles are warm and tired from running, throwing and hitting; Ellie just made her cum so hard she almost forgot why her leg is sore. She’d like to enjoy the afterglow if possible, but Ellie’s hands are firm on her hips, bullying her into settling astride her face. Abby releases all her breath at once, lamely resisting. She says, "I’m going to hurt you."
She is bigger than Ellie by far, in case she hasn’t fucking noticed. Having said this, she’s still watching her face, taking note of her open mouth especially: her lips (still dry), the tiniest bit of her tongue that she can see that’s pressing up against the back of her teeth, anticipating what’s about to happen.
"Uh huh," Ellie says. Her voice lowers, husky with arousal. "But I deserve it."
Which isn’t not true.
So Abby allows herself to be guided up toward her head, knees over her shoulders, and pulled down.
She gasps, quick and hard. She braced with her feet to keep from resting all of her weight on Ellie’s face but Ellie craned her goddamn neck to get to her instead, tongue dragging up through her folds, painting her in broad strokes. Coaxing her to sit down. Cleaning her up. She’s holding her hips, fingers digging into her skin like she intends to leave her prints behind. Slowly, one hand slips down to feel Abby’s thigh, and when her palm ghosts over where she struck her she keeps it right there. The bruising skin is hot and tender under the heat of her hand.
Abby shudders, a rolling tremble displacing her body. Ellie almost loses her spot. Lifting her head, she pushes her nose against her cunt, lifts her mouth and draws her clit between her lips to suck her, slow but hard, and god, it feels better than it has any damn right to. She’s still sensitive, the sudden pleasure almost painful, but it still makes her breathing quicken, one-two one-two like she’s been running hard.
She has to wonder if Ellie planned on this happening from the start. Did she come out to this game knowing they’d be here at the end of it, fucking on the floor of a changing room? Nobody does something like this on a whim, right. Nobody has ever Facebook-stalked her before either, who the fuck does she think she is?
A soft groan leaks out of her. The sound abruptly jumps an octave when the hand on her thigh presses down, applying firm, even pressure to that bitty scab and tender skin around it. It hurts. She feels that pain low in her tummy, lava hot, and whines, “mmhm," so Ellie doesn’t let up. She couples two fingers and pushes them against her leg, hot like a brand, rubbing; the ache is fucking nauseating, surprisingly perfect.
Abby doesn’t take long. She’s handed her more than enough instructions on how to get her off and Ellie is firm, methodical in the way that she gives head, paying Abby’s clit deep, preoccupying attention, barely letting up even after she gracelessly cums for a second time, gasping.
One hand had snuck into Ellie’s hair and fisted up against her hairline, holding tight while they fucked. She uses that grip to pull her back from her cunt now, ignoring the answering moan. She rises up, onto her knees.
Ellie is panting, eyes wide again, pupils round. A couple fly-away strands of hair are stuck to her temples with sweat. She’s still touching Abby’s bruise gently, stroking it with the tips of her fingers, and then she grins, almost manic. She takes the hand away and plucks a hair out of her mouth. “Fuck. I should have known you were a masochist."
"Shut up." Abby’s ears feel hot. But she’s too satisfied to really be irritated and shifts her weight back instead, straddling Ellie’s stomach. Pressing her wet cunt against her muscle feels good, and she strokes her hips forward once along her abs, considering.
Ellie stills instantly, tensed. It even sounds like she’s holding her breath. Abby puts her palm between her sternum and holds her down.
"I’m going," she says calmly, watching her with interest. “Don’t follow me."
She feels Ellie’s chest dip underneath her hand as she exhales. Her eyes are bright. So fucking green. She wonders what she’d have to do to her to make them scrunch shut in pleasure. “You said this was to make it up to me. Thanks. I accept your apology."
"Oh," Ellie says, almost laughing. Her body is bowstring taut, tongue darting out to wet her lips. When she's flushed in the face, her freckles stand out more prominently across the bridge of her nose. “Fuck you."
"You’re a creep," Abby reminds her, getting to her feet. Ellie's attention won't stray from her cunt. God she feels so uncomfortably wet, she needs to get out of here and go home, get in the shower. “I don’t wanna see you until next season."
… Oof, standing up hurts. The bruise on her thigh and the one on her ankle are protesting in tandem, but she ignores them in favour of finding and pulling her underwear back on, then shorts and socks.
She’s lacing her shoes when Ellie speaks up. She’s still lying on the floor, hands resting innocently on her stomach, but she twists her head to look at Abby, unblinking. “But you do wanna see me again."
She's unable to stop herself from smirking outright. When she dares to look again, Ellie is grinning back, baring her teeth. Abby wonders how long she's going to lie there after she's left the changing room for good. If she’s going to touch herself once Abby is out of earshot. She has to haul herself back from starting to picture it.
"Maybe," she says smoothly, hoisting her bag onto her shoulder, crossing the room to stand over her, looking down. Her heart feels quick in her chest, in her throat. It’s hard to know how to act or even leave this situation, how the fuck is she supposed to walk out of here and pretend nothing happened? “Depends how well you do."
Ellie seems satisfied with this. Watching her, Abby wonders exactly how difficult it would be to look her up. Maybe she’ll ask Leah around and get her to do it while Abby watches, so Ellie won’t see Abby’s username in her mentions. The moment she thinks of it, she knows that’s exactly what she’s going to do. It’s only fair to level the playing field.
"If you don't make it to the finals, don't fucking bother," she clarifies.
Ellie scoffs. “We’ll be there, don’t worry about it. Sweet of you though."
"I won’t. I don’t care about you."
"Uh huh."
"I’m leaving."
"Then go.” She’s pushing up onto her elbows, calling after her, “And it’s RICER for bruising, by the way. Rest, ice, compression—”
"I fucking know about RICER,” Abby snaps, storming off.
She makes sure to kick Ellie’s bag off the bench and onto the floor on the way out.