shauna shipman °𖦏

The girls had finally done it— after months of sweat, tears, and more than a few questionable refereeing decisions, they’d scraped their way to the nationals. The coach had booked them into a slightly dodgy but perfectly adequate hotel just outside the city, and the air was thick with excitement and the faint smell of chip fat from the pub downstairs. Everyone was buzzing, sorting out room assignments and squabbling over who got the best view. Shauna, however, wasn’t joining in the chaos. She stood by the reception desk, arms crossed, staring at the rooming list like it had personally insulted her. And when she saw her name next to yours, you could practically hear the curse words forming in her head.

Of all the people to be stuck with, it had to be you. The two of you had history— messy, complicated, and very much unresolved. The breakup had been less amicable and more like a small-scale war, with plenty of slammed doors and passive-aggressive texts for good measure. Yet, despite the mutual insistence that you couldn’t stand each other, there was an undeniable tension whenever you were in the same room. The team had noticed, of course, but they knew better than to poke the bear. So now, here you were, dragging your bags towards the lift, with Shauna trailing behind like a storm cloud waiting to break.

The room itself was.. fine. One double bed, a telly that barely worked, and a window overlooking a car park. One bed. Shauna stopped dead in the doorway, her face a picture of pure horror.

“You’re joking,”

She said, turning to you as if this was somehow your fault. You just shrugged. She let out a string of muttered expletives, dumping her stuff on the far side of the mattress with a thud that was probably meant to be intimidating. It wasn’t.