CHANGE- uswnt

making the bed

The club lights were a blur—neon blues and reds slicing through the haze like stage lights in a dream. The music was loud enough to drown out thoughts, which was perfect, really. I wasn't interested in thinking.

My crutches were leaning in a corner somewhere behind the booth. I hadn't used them in an hour, maybe more. I'd forgotten them on purpose.

Trinity grinned when she handed me the first drink. "Don't tell Mal," she said in a whisper, sliding the glass into my hand like it was some top-secret pass.

I didn't tell Mal. I drank it. Then another. Then something bubbly and red that someone said was mostly champagne but definitely wasn't.

I was warm, not just from the alcohol, but from everything. Glittering medals, thumping bass, the sound of Naomi trying to sing along to a song she clearly didn't know, Crystal's full-body laugh echoing from the dance floor. Mallory had scored the winning goal in the final. We were Olympic champions. And somehow, I was still part of it, still here, even if my jersey never touched the field this time. It didn't matter tonight.

I sprawled out in the booth like I belonged there, watching the team swirl around me in waves of celebration. I couldn't stop smiling. Everything was soft around the edges and bright in the middle.

Mallory found me eventually. She always does. Her hair was damp from sweat, cheeks flushed from dancing, still somehow looking like she had it together even after ninety minutes of soccer and an hour of chaos.

"Maddy," she said, crouching beside the booth. "What are you drinking?"

I looked at the glass in my hand, puzzled. "Um... something red?"

She plucked it gently from my fingers and sniffed it. "That's tequila and cranberry. How many have you had?"

I held up four fingers. Then changed my mind and added a fifth. "Not all full-size."

She gave me that look. The one that was all patience and judgment in equal measure. "You're underage. And still on pain killers."

"I'm happy," I said, grinning wide. "Let me have this."

"You had it. You're done now."

"I am not," I said, flopping dramatically across the booth, medal hitting my chin.

"You will be if you puke on someone's shoes. Come on."

She hauled me upright. I clung to her arm, laughing as we stumbled toward the door. The lights spun around us. I might've still been talking, nonsense, mostly. I think I also called her a horse at some point, which she did not appreciate.

Out in the lobby of the hotel, everything was calmer. Quieter. My voice dropped with it.

"Hey, Mal?" I asked as we walked slowly toward the elevator.

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad it was you."

She looked at me, confused. "Glad what was me?"

"That you were the one who scored. That you're the one who takes care of me. You're like... I don't know. Not just a teammate. Like a real person I can count on. Like... my mom, kind of."

She didn't answer right away. She blinked once, and her face changed—something warm and soft settling behind her eyes. She wrapped her arm a little tighter around me.

"I mean, I don't have one," I said, suddenly serious. "A mom. I haven't since I was eight."

Her breath caught just a little, but she kept walking beside me, matching my slow and wobbly pace on my crutches.

"I never told anyone that, did I?" I said, more to myself than her. "Drunk driver. Just one of those things you hear about, except it happened to me."

"Maddy..."

"It's fine," I said quickly, too quickly. "I don't really remember them much. Bits and pieces. Sometimes I think I made half of it up."

We stepped into the elevator. I stared at the wall, swaying slightly.

"I like to tell people I grew up in Maine with them," I said. "Like the normal version. Not the real one. Not the part where I got moved around with different families until soccer became the only thing that made me feel like I was worth something."

Mallory didn't speak right away. She didn't need to. Her hand stayed right there at the small of my back, holding me up without making a show of it.

"I don't tell people that," I added. "But you should know. Because... I trust you."

When the elevator doors opened, I didn't move right away. I just looked at her.

"I wasn't planning on telling you. But I'm kinda glad I did."

She smiled then—just a little—but it felt like something anchored between us.

"I'm glad you did too," she said, and this time her voice was softer. Full.

There was something behind her eyes I couldn't name. Something careful. Fiercely protective. And underneath it, maybe even something that said: I want to be that for you. If you let me.

"Don't make it a thing," I mumbled as we walked toward the room. "I don't want pity. I just wanted someone to know."

"No pity," she said. "Just me, here, walking you to bed."

"Okay." I leaned on her a little more. "You're a good fake mom."

She laughed, but didn't deny it. And maybe that was enough.

She helped me into bed, handed me a water bottle, and sat on the edge of the mattress as I pulled the blanket up to my chin.

"Thanks," I mumbled. "For everything."

"You don't have to thank me," she said, brushing hair off my forehead with a touch that lingered longer than it needed to.

"Still," I whispered. "Thanks."

She sat with me until I drifted off, not saying much more. Just quietly filling the space. And for the first time in forever, I didn't feel like I had to hold myself up.