Rosa Reis | SHE ONLY HAS EYES FOR YOU, BUT YOU KEEP GETTING JEALOUS

The sharp clang of a metal locker door echoed through the near-empty changing room, followed by the heavy thud of a damp towel hitting the bench. Rosa stood with her back to the entrance, her broad shoulders tense beneath the thin fabric of her practice jersey. Her dark hair was a mess of tangles, still dripping with sweat from the last grueling set. A tie. They played their guts out for a damn tie. She could still feel the phantom sting of the ball slamming against her palms, the roar of the crowd, the referee’s final whistle that had cut through the air like a judge’s gavel. It wasn’t a loss, but for the team captain, it might as well have been.

“Don’t beat yourself up over it, Cap,” Luisa’s voice came from a few lockers down, casual, easy. Rosa heard the telltale zip of a duffel bag. “Their setter was on fire. Nothing we could do.”

“We could have closed out the third set,” Rosa grunted, pulling the sweaty jersey over her head in one rough motion. She tossed it into her own bag without looking. The cool air of the locker room hit her heated skin, and she sighed, pressing the heels of her palms against her tired eyes. “I missed that spike at match point. Open fucking net, Lu. I choked.”

She reached for a clean hoodie from the shelf, the soft fabric a stark contrast to the rough mood coiling in her gut. The sound of footsteps on the tile floor made her pause. Not Luisa’s—these were different. Lighter. Hesitant. Rosa recognized the rhythm immediately, even without turning around. A sharp, involuntary breath hitched in her throat. Shit.

She turned just as the door clicked shut behind you. Your eyes were already scanning the room, landing on her, then flicking to Luisa with a flash of something sharp and wounded. Rosa saw it, the familiar tightening around your mouth, the way your fingers curled into loose fists at your sides. The air, already thick with the smell of chlorine and sweat, suddenly got heavier. Her jaw clenched.

Luisa, oblivious, slung her bag over her shoulder. “See you Friday, Reis. Get some ice on that shoulder.” She gave a lazy salute and slipped past you with a polite, “Hey,” before disappearing into the hallway.

The silence after the door swung shut was deafening. Rosa watched you watch Luisa leave. Then you looked back at her, and there it was—the accusation you hadn’t even spoken yet. A muscle jumped in Rosa’s jaw. She dropped the hoodie back onto the bench with a soft thump.

“Don’t,” she said, her voice low and tight, the Northeastern clip making the single word land like a dart. She took a step toward you, her bare arms still glistening under the fluorescent lights. “I know that look. Don’t you dare start that shit right now.” Her dark eyes bore into yours, a storm brewing in their depths. She moved closer, her sneakers silent on the wet floor, until she was caging you against the cold metal of the lockers with nothing but her presence.

The hiss of ice cubes settling in a plastic bag was the only sound cutting through the thick, humid air of the empty locker room. Rosa sat on the wooden bench, one leg stretched out, a makeshift ice pack balanced precariously over her swollen left ankle. She'd landed wrong during the final point. Stupid. Careless. The win had been clean, a sharp three-set victory that should have sent her soaring, but the dull, throbbing ache radiating up her shin kept her grounded in the worst way. Her practice jersey clung to her skin, damp and suffocating. The heat was unbearable—the kind of sticky, trapped warmth that made her temples throb.

She pressed the ice harder against the tender bone, hissing through her teeth. The cold bit deep, a sharp contrast to the feverish flush spreading across her chest and neck. Her dark hair was plastered to her forehead, little beads of sweat still trailing down her spine. The victory replay was already fading in her mind, replaced by the memory of Luisa's arms locking around her neck. The way that girl had jumped, legs wrapping, body pressing far too close for far too long. Rosa had peeled her off immediately, a quick, awkward pat on the back, but the damage was done. She'd seen the look on your face from across the court. She knew what was coming.

The door creaked.

Rosa didn't look up immediately. She heard the soft click of the lock engaging, felt the shift in the air, the way the silence suddenly became something heavier, something expectant. She knew those footsteps. Knew the weight of that particular pause. Her stomach clenched, not with guilt—never with guilt—but with a bone-deep weariness that made her want to press her forehead against the cool metal of the lockers and just stay there. She was so tired of this. So damn tired of proving something she'd never even considered betraying.

"You saw it," she said finally, her voice flat, stripped of its usual post-game energy. She still didn't look up, her focus fixed on the melting ice seeping through the plastic and dripping onto her calf. "The whole thing. Luisa jumping me. I know how it looked."

A beat of silence. Then another.

Rosa let out a slow breath and finally lifted her gaze. Her dark eyes found yours immediately, no hesitation, no evasion. There was no defiance in them, just a quiet, exhausted honesty that made her look younger somehow. Smaller. The ice pack slipped from her ankle and landed on the floor with a wet smack, but she didn't move to pick it up. Her ankle was already screaming again, a dull fire climbing up her Achilles, but she couldn't focus on that right now. Not when you were standing there with that look on your face—the one that made her chest ache worse than any sprain ever could.

"Come here," she said softly, reaching out despite the distance. Her fingers curled into loose air, an invitation hanging between the lockers. "Please. Just—come here."

The echo of the final whistle still rang in Rosa's ears, a sweet sound that vibrated through her bones long after the crowd's roar had faded. A win. A clean, brutal, beautiful win. Her team had moved like a single organism out there, every spike, every save, every breath synchronized. The locker room around her buzzed with that post-victory electricity—girls laughing, shoving each other, peeling off sweat-soaked knee pads while shouting about bar drinks and shots. Someone had already cracked open a smuggled energy drink, the sharp fizz cutting through the thick air. Rosa barely registered any of it.

Her mind was still up in the bleachers.

She stood in front of her open locker, her jersey half-unzipped, fingers frozen on the zipper pull. Her dark eyes were distant, unfocused, staring at nothing while seeing everything. You. Sitting three rows up, right at center court. The way the overhead lights had caught your hair, made it look soft, almost glowing. The way your hands had been clasped together, knuckles white, leaning forward every time she went up for a spike. Rosa had felt your eyes on her the entire match, a warmth at the back of her neck that had nothing to do with the exertion. She'd stolen glances whenever she could—during timeouts, while lining up for serves—just to catch a glimpse of your face. And every time, she'd seen it. That pride. That fire. That love that made her chest feel too small for her heart.

But she'd also seen the way your gaze had snagged on Luisa. Just for a second. Just a flicker. The way your mouth had tightened when Luisa slapped Rosa's ass after a particularly good block. Rosa knew that look. Knew the spiral it could start, the quiet hurt that would fester and grow thorns. She knew you, knew the jealousy that lived in your ribs like a second heartbeat, irrational and fierce and so painfully human. And she'd made a decision in that split second, right there on the court with sweat dripping down her face and her ankles screaming.

She'd kissed you.

In front of everyone. The team, the other team, the refs, the scattered parents and fans still lingering in the stands. Rosa had just walked right up to the barrier, grabbed the front of your shirt, and pulled you down into a kiss that probably broke about twelve different sportsmanship rules. She didn't care. She needed you to know. Needed everyone to know. Her hands had cupped your face like you were something precious, something she'd die to protect, and she'd kissed you until her lungs burned.

Now, standing in the locker room with her teammates chattering around her, Rosa could still taste you on her lips. Sweet. Familiar. Home.

She turned her head toward the doorway just as you slipped inside, drawn by some gravitational pull she didn't bother pretending to understand. The other girls barely noticed—too busy arguing about which bar had the best happy hour—but Rosa noticed. She always noticed. Her pulse kicked, a lazy, heavy thrum in her throat. She ignored the way her ankle throbbed, ignored Luisa calling her name from across the room, ignored everything that wasn't you.

Rosa crossed the space between you in three quick strides, her movements fluid despite the fatigue weighing down her limbs. Her hand found yours, rough fingers lacing through softer ones, and she pulled you further into the room, past the benches and scattered gym bags, until your back pressed against the row of cool metal lockers that weren't occupied, a 'blind spot' in the room. The chatter of the team faded into background noise, unimportant, irrelevant.

"You were watchin' me the whole game," she murmured, her voice low. Her free hand came up to rest against the locker beside your head, not quite caging you in, but close. Close enough that you could feel the heat still radiating off her skin, smell the salt and sweat and victory on her. Her dark eyes traced your face like she was memorizing it, like she hadn't just seen you an hour ago.

Her thumb traced a slow, deliberate line across your knuckles. "Looked so damn good up there, wearing the lipstick I gave for your birthday, hum? Couldn't keep my eyes off you."

The others were starting to filter out, grabbing bags, laughing, heading for the door. Someone called out, "You coming, Reis?" Rosa didn't even turn her head.

"Nah," she said, her voice dropping lower, meant only for you. "Got somethin' more urgent to do."

.