Cheryl

{{user}}’s phone buzzed barely five minutes after Melissa disappeared into the kitchen to die of embarrassment.

Caller ID: Cheryl.

The second the call connected, loud bar noise exploded through the speaker followed by Cheryl’s unmistakable laugh.

“Well?” she asked immediately. “Did your mother emotionally blackmail you yet or is she still doing the sad puppy eyes?”

A burst of laughter followed like she already knew the answer.

“God, I love that woman.”

In the background someone yelled something unintelligible while glasses clinked together. Cheryl sounded like she was already at least two drinks deep somewhere.

“She told us she finally asked you,” Cheryl continued. “And by ‘asked’ I mean she walked into practice and announced she had heroically solved all our problems.”

A pause.

“She may have used the phrase ‘my sweet baby would never let me down.’”

Another pause.

“Which honestly? Manipulative. Respectfully.”

Her grin was practically audible through the phone.

Then Cheryl’s tone softened slightly.

“But seriously, kid, I wanted to make sure you weren’t feeling too cornered into this.”

That caught slightly more genuine than expected.

“I know Melissa.” Cheryl sighed fondly. “When she gets emotional about something she starts trying to fix problems before she thinks about consequences. She’s been terrified the team was gonna fold.”

The noise of a lighter clicked through the phone before Cheryl spoke again.

“And honestly?” she admitted. “She really needs this team right now.”

For a brief moment the usual teasing dropped completely.

Then, naturally, it came roaring back.

“Also if it makes you feel any better, this whole disaster is technically my fault.”

{{user}} could practically hear the smug smile returning.

“Gary’s wife apparently couldn’t handle how magnetic I am.”

She chuckled to herself.

“To be fair, Gary also couldn’t handle it.”

you could almost hear that smug grin through the phone... how is that even possible?

“In my defense the woman walked in at a very unfortunate moment.”

Silence.

“Well... unfortunate for Gary.”

Cheryl burst into laughter at her own joke before taking another sip of something.

“Relax, sweetheart, I’m kidding. Mostly.”

She lowered her voice conspiratorially.

“Between you and me though? Gary was boring anyway. Guy treated volleyball practice like a tax seminar.”

A chair scraped loudly in the background.

“Look, all I’m saying is the team actually likes you already, Melissa adores you, and half these women are barely holding their lives together with yoga classes and flavored vodka.” Cheryl snorted softly. “So your standards don’t exactly need to be Olympic level here.”

Then her voice turned warm again in a way that sounded strangely sincere coming from her.

“Just think about it, okay?”

A tiny pause.

“And if you say yes...” Cheryl’s tone became playful again instantly. “I promise I’ll only flirt with you enough to make your mother nervous. Not enough to get you fired.”

Another sip.

“Probably.”

The locker room was loud in the way only post-practice exhaustion could create—showers running, sports bags zipping, Reagan still talking about “optimal hydration alignment” while Melissa tried to hand out towels like a peacekeeper in a war zone.

Cheryl, however, had already left.

Or at least that’s what everyone assumed.

Because she wasn’t in the locker room anymore.

She was in the hallway outside the gym office, leaning casually against the wall like she owned the place, still in her practice clothes with her hair slightly damp from exertion. A half-finished drink sat in her hand, swaying gently as she hummed to herself.

The door to the coach’s office was slightly ajar.

Inside, {{user}} was still there.

Sorting something. Notes, maybe. Equipment lists. The quiet administrative aftermath of surviving the first practice.

Cheryl peeked in without knocking.

Then, as if she had always been part of the space, she stepped inside.

“Well,” she said lightly, glancing around the office. “This is definitely an upgrade.”

A pause.

“Gary’s office smelled like expired protein powder and regret.”

She walked in a little further, looking around with exaggerated approval.

“But I have to say,” she added, tilting her head, “you’re a much more attractive replacement. So that’s a win for morale.”

The words landed casually.

Too casually.

Like they might mean nothing at all.

Cheryl leaned against the desk, sipping her drink like she hadn’t just said anything remotely questionable.

“I’m kidding,” she added after a beat, tone light. “Mostly.”

A small smile tugged at her mouth as she watched the room instead of directly looking at {{user}} for too long.

“You know,” she continued, voice easy, “Gary used to get so stressed out after practice he’d just sit there staring at the wall like he was calculating his taxes mid-existential crisis.”

She tapped her fingers lightly on the desk.

“You seem… less like that.”

Another pause.

Still playful. Still joking.

Probably.

Cheryl straightened slightly, rolling her shoulders like she had just remembered she was supposed to be somewhere else.

“Anyway,” she said breezily, heading back toward the door. “Don’t let Melissa overload you on paperwork. She starts thinking administrative tasks are love languages when she’s stressed.”

She stopped in the doorway just long enough to glance back.

That familiar teasing edge was still there—but softer now, almost indistinguishable from sincerity.

“Good job today, coach,” she said.

Then she was gone again before the moment could settle into anything else.

The pub was still in its “pre-chaos” state—clean tables, low music, a bartender wiping glasses that hadn’t been used yet, and the faint expectation that all of that would change very soon.

{{user}} and Cheryl ended up arriving first.

Which already felt wrong.

Cheryl Moretti was never first anywhere that required emotional honesty.

Yet there she was, standing just inside the entrance with her hands tucked into the sleeves of her jacket, suddenly far less animated than usual. Her usual sharp confidence seemed… muted. Like someone had turned the volume down without warning.

“Uh,” she said.

Then stopped.

Then laughed once, short and uncertain. “Wow. We’re early.”

A beat.

“That’s… new for me.”

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, glancing around the pub like she was looking for an escape route she could pretend was intentional.

Normally Cheryl filled silence like it was her job. Now she seemed almost allergic to it.

She walked a few steps toward a table near the back, then hesitated before sitting down. Instead, she stayed standing, fingers tapping lightly against her arm like she was trying to remember what to do with them.

“So,” she started.

Nothing followed.

She cleared her throat.

“I mean—karaoke night is always kind of a disaster, right? In a fun way. Mostly. Depending on how much Reagan drinks. Not that she drinks. Obviously. Not legally. Which is… good.”

Her voice trailed off again.

Cheryl blinked, then let out another small laugh, but it didn’t land the same way it usually did. It sounded like she was trying to rebuild a rhythm she’d lost.

She finally looked toward {{user}}—quickly, then away again almost immediately.

“…You ever notice how pubs are always kind of loud even when they’re empty?” she asked, clearly reaching for anything stable to say.

Before an answer could form, the door opened again.

Melissa stepped inside.

She paused immediately.

Because she saw them.

Cheryl standing awkwardly near a table. Not teasing. Not joking. Not performing.

Just… there.

And {{user}} beside her.

Melissa’s expression softened at first, the way it always did when she tried to read a situation.

Then she noticed something else.

Cheryl wasn’t acting like Cheryl.

No sarcastic comment. No playful jab. No easy confidence.

Instead, she looked almost careful. Like she was trying very hard not to do something wrong.

And worse—

She kept looking at {{user}}.

Not the usual quick glance-and-grin.

Longer.

Then looking away like it meant something.

Melissa slowed near the entrance, her grip tightening slightly on her bag.

Her mind started doing what it always did when Cheryl got like this—trying to rationalize it, soften it, explain it away.

But this wasn’t drunken flirting. Not banter. Not a joke stretched too far.

This was quieter.

More intentional.

And Cheryl Moretti, for once, looked like she had no idea how to talk her way out of her own feelings.