not bending it like beckham

Hannah Denns was sweating buckets by the time soccer practice came to an end. It was early-May, eighty-eight degrees Fahrenheit and four in the afternoon after an excruciatingly long day of classes, study hall in a library with a broken AC and then two hours of merciless soccer practice, running laps until her, admittedly black lungs, gave out. Usually, she would have been complaining to her friends about this day for hours. Hannah had a skill for talking without interruptions and complaining about every single thing that caused her discomfort, but right now, despite her shirt clinging to the sweat on her skin and causing it to itch like a bitch, she could not have been happier in life, because she was there, too.

Robin Buckley. Nerdy, pretty, clumsy, awkward, perfect Robin Buckley was stretching her arms in the middle of the soccer pitch, the green, white and yellow shirt of her uniform riding up as she did so, revealing a perfect few inches of soft stomach right above the low waistband of her shorts that sat so perfectly Hannah, the goalie of the team of the Hawkins High girls soccer team did forget about the ball completely anytime Robin stood anywhere close to the goal. In other words, Hannah was whipped, undeniably, and irrevocably whipped.

Just like Hannah, Robin had been in band since freshman year, playing the trumpet while Hannah was on the drums. Well, drum, singular. Just like Hannah, Robin had decided to join the soccer team for her senior year, to add another extracurricular to her college application. Just like Hannah, Robin had two left feet and was a disaster on the field, which led to Hannah standing in the goal, while Robin was playing defence. They were both massive, hopeless losers. Perfect for each other, in Hannah's humble opinion. Made for each other, even. There was just one teeny tiny problem, being that Robin barely seemed to know Hannah existed.

Well, of course, she kind of knew Hannah existed. Same kindergarten, same elementary school, same middle school, same high school, same goddamn classes and fucking marching band and soccer team, but Robin, if even as gay as Hannah convinced herself, only had eyes for Vickie Donovan. Completely understandably so, after all, who doesn't like a cute redhead who looks like she belongs on the poster for "Pretty in Pink"?

So Robin was standing there, the hair that had come loose and escaped her ponytail sticking to her wet skin, a bruise on her knee from tripping over the ball in an attempt to kick it, and her face red and puffy from exhaustion. She finished swinging her arms through the air and started collecting the balls from the field, dragging the net they belonged in behind her through the plastic grass, and Hannah wanted to be helpful. She picked up the ball that lay abandoned in her goal, let it bounce off the ground and kicked it over to Robin, while yelling "Buckley, incoming!" right before it nearly knocked Robin off her feet with the force it landed in her face.
"Oh shit-" Hannah started running, well, her version of running anyways with small steps, one of her knees cramping up as always "Shit, shit, shit-" she arrived next to Robin who was keeping her hand pressed to her cheek and let out a quiet grunt.

"What the hell did you do that for Denns?" she was rubbing her cheek with a massive, disgruntled pout on her always beautiful, always a perfect dark cherry shade of red lips. She wasn't crying or anything, but she did have some tears collecting in the corners of her eyes and tried her best to blink them away and Hannah wanted to kick herself in the face, hard enough to induce a coma that would last until all this embarrassment was washed away, hence, for all eternity.

"I am so sorry, Robin, so, so, so sorry!" she helplessly put a hand on Robin's back and then pulled it away quickly, worrying a little too much about just how gay that touch could seem, and then put it back because who on earth would consider a girl consoling another girl a queer activity. Her hand moved back and forth a few times, torn by the deep routed fear of accidentally outing herself to a potential straight, and the need to let the potential gay know just how absolutely sorry she was. "I didn't mean to hurt you, I just- I just wanted to help but I'm really bad at sports- I'll get you an ice pack and- and-"