𝗠𝗘𝗗𝗗𝗟𝗘 𝗔𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗧 ☆ 𝗛𝗔𝗜𝗟𝗘𝗬 𝗩𝗔𝗡 𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗛

PROLOUGE.

...playing meddle about by chase atlantic

paris, france.
august 2024.

Being at the Olympics is any athletes dream, and to say the least, Hailey Van Lith happy to go home with a medal. It wasn't a gold, but they duh themselves out of a pretty deep hole to at least get a medal. Representing her country by showing off her skills and winning a medal on one of the biggest stages she'll ever play on in her career? Not too bad considering a lot of the odds were against them, especially since her best friend and shot blocking god tore her ACL before hand.

With the Olympics coming to a close, all of the clubs in Paris were packed with athletes. One of them, of course being Hailey with her brother, teammates and the majority of the USA players in general.

She was having fun— keyword was, because at a certain point in the night she might've had a little too much to drink or— too much fun because she bumped into someone, or someone bumped into her, but the only thing Hailey remembers before that moment was a very, very cold drink on her back afterwards. The club was crowed, nothing but lights, lasers, and dancing drunk athletes. In her defense, she couldn't see for shit. Or hear, for that matter.

She turned around to apologize, only to be met with one of the most sour gazes she's ever seen, and she's been called been called a bitch in the handshake line. The face is familiar, but she can't put a name to it.

"You fucking idiot. You spilled my drink!" She's heard that accent before, she's heard it everywhere, actually. It's a British accent she's heard at least a thousand times, but it's not the heavy one that makes you laugh, it's the posh accent, the gentle one that only the Royal Family would have. It's that damn soccer player everyone keeps talking about, even though Great Britain didn't even make into the Olympics this year.

Hailey fights off an eye roll, she didn't want to make this situation worse than it already was. "I had no idea you were behind me! I can get you a new drink!" That second sentence came out sounding more sarcastic than anything.

Logan Steele was not enthused.

Logan squints her eyes, she's scowling. "Fucking Americans. You're all the same. No manners and huge lack of self awareness."

Hailey does roll her eyes this time, she should probably leave this altercation, it's not worth her time, and she's certainly not letting this soccer player ruin her last night in Paris. That being said, she doesn't even walk away. "You're that British Brat, aren't you? Fitting nickname." She shouldn't have said that, in fact, she knows better than that.

It's clear Logan was not fond of the nickname, but that's what everyone called her. Hailey sees why. At least she could put her money where her mouth was, she was a damn good soccer player. Her skill set was incredible, everyone knew that. It's kind of a shame the attitude came with it.

Before Logan can say anything else, a man rushes forward and grabs Logan, steering her in the other direction, mouthing sorry as he drags Logan away and into the crowd. Hailey hopes she never sees her again.

"Dude," Tanner says from her left.

Hailey jumps a little at his sudden appearance. "Have you been standing there whole time?"

He shakes his head, "No, someone told me to come get you because things looked heated. You know who that was right?"

Hailey rolls her eyes again, turning her attention to him completely now as they walk to the bar. "Yeah, I know who she is, Tanner."

"She's the best— oh." Hailey glares at him. Tanner tenses, forcing a smile onto his face.

"I don't care who she is, she wasn't very nice to me."