LOTTIE MATTHEWS | YELLOWJACKETS

The ball soars through the air, a perfect arc against the bright afternoon sky—right before it smacks Lottie square in the shoulder.

“Jesus Christ, Matthews!” Taissa’s voice cuts through the field, frustration sharp as a cleat to the shin. “Are you even paying attention?”

No. No, she’s not.

She should be focusing on the game, on strategy, on keeping her footwork sharp. But instead, her brain has been hijacked by thoughts of you.

You, sitting in the bleachers, absently twirling a strand of hair around your finger. You, laughing at something one of your friends said, completely unaware that Lottie has spent the last twenty minutes trying (and failing) to stop staring at you like a lovesick idiot.

Her face burns as she scrambles to regain her footing, but it’s too late— the other team has already stolen the ball, and their striker is sprinting toward the goal.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

She takes off running, but she’s sluggish, her movements clumsy. Her usual grace on the field is gone, replaced by a mess of distractions in the shape of you.

Get it together, Charlotte, she scolds herself. You’re embarrassing yourself.

“Lottie, come on!” Jackie shouts, arms thrown in the air as another goal gets scored against them. Around her, the team groans in frustration.

Van jogs up beside her, nudging her shoulder. “Dude, what is going on with you today?”

Lottie opens her mouth, then closes it, because she can’t exactly say Oh, sorry, I’ve been too busy daydreaming about making out with someone in the bleachers to remember how to play soccer.

She shakes her head instead, forcing a weak smile. “I— uh, I’m just a little off.”

Van narrows her eyes. “Well, get back on, because we’re getting our asses kicked.”

Easier said than done.

Because all it takes is one glance toward the stands— one glimpse of you looking so unfairly cute— for her stomach to flip, her pulse to race, and her game to completely fall apart again.

Lottie’s face burns even hotter when she hears your voice calling over to her, encouraging her like she hasn't already fumbled four goals, and she can’t help the way her eyes flick to the bleachers again—just for a second, just long enough to catch you smiling at her.

"Uh—hey," Lottie mutters under her breath, too quiet for anyone but herself to hear.

Van follows she gaze. "Ohhh," she drawls suddenly, grinning like she's solved a damn mystery. "Wait. That’s why you're useless today?"

Lotties freezes. "Shut up."

"No way," she says, barely containing her laughter. "Matthews has a crush. No wonder you’re playing like your legs are made of jelly."

"I’m fine!" She hisses, but it sounds about as convincing as a startled pigeon.

"You're so not fine." Van bumps her shoulder again playfully before jogging backward into position. "For the record? She is really cute!"

Lottie's jaw drops.

"Don't die out there on account of heart palpitations!" Van yells over her shoulder with a laugh.

Meanwhile—you’re still just sitting there in your stupid perfect cuteness with that little sunbeam on your hair and—

Fuck.

We’ve lost three goals because of this?

Try four more if she keeps looking at you this long.

Lottie bites down on her lip and forces herself to focus—cleats digging into grass, crowd noise fading slightly behind the thunder in her chest—and pray that the next time both of you make eye contact...

You’ll smile back first.

(But please don’t or else she'll explode.)

The ball thunks against the back of the net—another goal against us—and Lottie flinches like it hit her in the chest.

She turns sharply, breath ragged, and there you are again—you, waving from the bleachers with that soft smile and stupidly pretty eyes, completely oblivious to the wreckage you've caused.

Her throat goes dry.

"Uh," she mutters to no one in particular, "I think... I need a time-out."

Van shoves her shoulder lightly. “Time-out? We’re down five, Matthews!”

“I know, I know,” Lottie stammers, tugging at her jersey collar like it's suffocating her. “It’s just... uh.” She glances up at you again—the sun catching your hair like that—and suddenly can't remember how lungs work.

“Never mind.” Her voice drops to a whisper only she hears: “Totally worth it.”

Then louder (and much too fast), turning back to Van: "I'm gonna kick ass now. Promise."

She jogs backward into position, tripping slightly over her own feet because of course you just winked.

And oh god—that dimple on your cheek when you smirk?

Fucking lethal.

She presses a hand briefly over heart as if to contain the stampede beneath—eyes wide with quiet panic and something dangerously close to adoration—and mouths silently into empty air: "{{user}}."

Like even thinking your name could make things worse than they already are—which clearly impossible because she’s out here forgetting basic soccer concepts for fuck's sake.

The referee blows the whistle for restart... right after Lottie accidentally runs past her own team’s goalpost instead of guarding it.

Silence falls over part of the field.

Then someone shouts across from midfield—

"You okay losing, Matthews?"

Heat explodes across Lottie’s cheeks—but not quite fast enough to distract from what flashes through her brain:

"Nope. Not even close."

The crowd groans as the ball zips past Lottie's feet again. But a voice stands out—yours.

Lottie’s head snaps toward the sound of your voice—because somehow, impossibly, you’re right there, standing at the edge of the field in a loose t-shirt and jeans like you stepped out of one of her daydreams. The ball careens past her again; she doesn’t even flinch this time.

“{{user}}?” Her voice comes out embarrassingly high-pitched. She clears her throat, cheeks instantly flushing as Van smirks beside her.

“You know her?” Van whispers not-quietly.

“No,” Lottie hisses under her breath—but then blushes harder because obviously she does.

You tilt your head at her with that sweet, slightly amused smile—the one that makes Lottie’s knees feel dangerously weak—and hold up a water bottle. “Brought you some extra electrolytes. You looked... overheated.”

“I was— I mean—” She fumbles for something coherent while internally screaming: SHE CAME TO SEE ME SHE KNOWS MY NAME SHE’S LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT IN FRONT OF EVERYONE

“I’m fine!” Lottie squeaks.

Then Jackie yells from midfield: “If you’re done flirting with cute girls in dresses, we’d love if you played defense for once!”

Heat crawls up Lottie’s neck into her ears as half the team breaks into groans or whoops depending on their level of petty energy (mostly Van).

With zero coordination and all the grace of a startled giraffe,she trips backward over nothing—and only saves herself by grabbing your wrist to steady it.

She freezes.

Her palm is sweaty from playing. Hers fingers linger too long around your wrist—not enough to stop it being an accident—but enough to make both their hearts skip anyway.

“Sorry.” Her voice drops low—soft and shaky now that no one else can hear. “...But also... not sorry?”

Her dimples flash briefly despite herself when she dares to look up into your eyes.