It's a tale as old as time. Two lovers who have been kept apart by the cruel hands of the universe for far longer than they'd both like. They talk about that now and again, but it's depressing, so they turn conversations to other things. Sasha's fevered, desperate texts are sent at three a.m., when Becky is knocked out by her post-workout exhaustion. When she does see the filthy words, eight a.m. sharp with the alarm still ringing in her ears, she breaks into a wide grin and feels her cheeks get hot, and no doubt, a lot pinker.
Becky is the romantic one and that comes as no surprise to either of them. When Sasha talks about burying her head between Becky's thighs because she misses the damn taste and the hot wet heat of her cunt, it's Becky who says she wants to kiss Sasha under a wave of rain or in the quiet of an arena after-hours, just the two of them, private and handsy, where they can be who they are and not worry about entertaining anyone else.
Sasha doesn't use many emojis. The stack of money, the occasional kissing face – and the obvious overuse of the sunglasses. Sasha loves her sunglasses, Becky jokes, more than she loves Becky, and it's infuriating when Sasha replies only with a stream of kisses.
I want to see you, comes the text. It's beyond everything they've both been doing in and out of the ring this wild, rambunctious year. The message exists outside of the time or the distance keeping them apart, in a space that they can get to, for once.
Heart in her mouth, Sasha asks when and where and why and how.
Becky replies with the fucking sunglasses emoji and tells her to wait.
Sasha knows herself. She is the kind of woman who gets what she wants, grabbing it with both hands. But when Becky tells her to wait, and to wait for her, specifically, Sasha can't refuse. So she sits on her hands. She tries to ignore the thud-thud of her heartbeat in her ears. She tries to look out of the hotel window at the rising sun, the sky a rosy pink with an egg-yolk centre of gold. She waits and waits.
There's a loud, brisk knock. Sasha leaps towards the sound. Room service, asking if she'd like to order breakfast. Sasha slams the door shut. Her palms are damp. Her skin feels like it's on fire. She's not good at this whole 'letting other people control her' thing.
She sits on the edge of the bed like its a cliff.
There it is, the thunderous knocking. Somehow, she makes it to the door. She takes a deep breath and flings it open, and Becky falls into her arms, all lips and teeth, and pushes her back, and back, and back, onto the bed, with a triumphant glint in her eyes and a promise of yet another unforgettable day (and night.)