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There's a crisp feeling to the air that teases the beginning of Autumn. Clear blue skies still hold the lingering warmth of Summer though. Makes the jeans and soft grey tee Trinity wears the perfect combo.
A light breeze tussles baby hairs she's given up trying to wrangle but she still attempts to smooth them back. She's so close to finishing her last page of mind-numbing O-Chem notes and her patience is wearing thin. With the given distraction of her hair she shakes out the mild cramp in her hand and leans back, letting out a long exhale.
"You good over there?" Samira, a fellow premed sufferer, asks. Her own side of the table they've commandeered the last several hours housing four different textbooks, three notebooks, an array of pens and highlighters, and rose-gold laptop.
They met when Trinity found herself a few too many drinks deep at a frat party her first semester. She vividly remembers, somehow, the two of them bonding over a professor that taught purely through powerpoints. The frustration she felt from that particular class still persists to this day. Especially when she gets the notion of lagging behind her peers who chose a better option.
Samira was an angel though— being a whole year ahead, she provided clarification to things Prof. Schilling wouldn't expand on. Somehow, their planned study dates turned into a hang out here or there and now a year later they're thick as thieves. Especially, given who Samira's girlfriend is and who spends most nights in Trinity's bed.
Which, now that she thinks about it. Taking a look at the digital clock that's been mocking her since seven this morning, she says, "if I say I want to put my head through a wall, will you put me in a psych hold?"
Her friend gives a little laugh. "No, only because I'm feeling very much the same way. I'm not even half way through this research study and it's due on Tuesday."
"At least you have tomorrow and Monday." Trinity tries to offer as consolation. She knows once they pack up here they wont be thinking about academics. At least, she won't. As the time inches closer to their planned ending, she feels her brain switching modes. Fuck, she just needs to focus for a little longer.
"Doing homework while hungover sounds like my personal hell." Samira sighs, looking down at her notes as if imagining doing this with dry eyes and raging headache.
Trinity internally grimaces, yeah, that does sound torturous. She'll most likely be doing it anyway. Knowing her luck.
"Well, it's currently twelve-fifty, so, ten more minutes?" She offers.
Groaning, Samira flops her head on the table. "Why do we have to go?"
"Because your girlfriend would kill me if I let you skip, again." Trinity deadpans, wishing she were joking.
Samira looks up, brown eyes teasing. She already knows she's going to hate whatever her traitorous friend says.
"She can't do shit to you unless she wants to piss Yoli off."
If her stomach does a little flutter at the simple mention of a stupid name—no it doesn't. To misdirect the unwarranted reaction, she just shrugs in nonchalance. "I highly doubt Yolanda will feel particularly miffed if her best friend threatens me."
"Miffed, she says. As if Yoli hasn't practically been living with you and Dennis the better part of the year."
"I've known her for a year."
Samira snaps her fingers. "Exactly. Em and I basically have the apartment to ourselves at this point." Her eyes glaze over and Trinity knows, unfortunately, what she's thinking about. "Not complaining, we've been enjoying the quiet."
"Quiet, right. You do remember what happened not even two weeks ago?"
Samira at least has the decency to flush. Red dusting brown skin all the way down her neck. "I thought we agreed to forget about that." God, does Trinity wish she could. Her and Samira are close but not 'a watching her get fucked into the couch Trinity has taken naps on' close. Her friend was so into it, moans pornographically loud, that Trinity was honestly frozen for a second. When Samira finally realized her there, the sheer scream Samira let out was enough to have one neighbor poke their head out in curiosity after Trinity promptly slammed the door shut.
Yolanda had finally shown up a few minutes later, carrying a bag of Thai takeout they'd just picked up. Her appetite was thoroughly ruined, which sucked because she really wanted Pad Krapow. Yolanda had risen an eyebrow in question at Trinity's flustered state. Then not even two minutes later she's laughing her ass off at Trinity's expense, eyes crinkling and teeth gleaming.
Against her will, she found herself joining. Unable to resist Yolanda's joy—she might as well be a cardboard box in rain from how fast she folds. Samira found them like that some time later, giggling into their hands like teenagers. Well, technically, Trinity isn't quite free of her teenage years.
Her gut clenches at the reminder that her birthday is soon. Not right around the corner but at the rapid rate this year has flown by it might as fucking well be.
Dread grows heavy in her chest. She's not ready to face what the end of the year usually entails—rough sleep, raw emotions, and a borderline alcoholic tendency. Last year was a testament to her inability to simply cope with everything that happened.
Not wanting to spiral deeper into her thoughts, because that's the last fucking place she wants to be, she just throws a sarcastic grin at a still blushing Samira. "Trust me, if I could bleach it from existence I would but if I have to live with the image, you have to live with the memory."
"Asshole," Samira drawls, looking back down at her textbook.
Huffing a laugh she hopes doesn't sound as strained as she feels, Trinity also turns her attention to her own unfinished work. Much to her dismay, her focus is completely off. Well, fuck. She'll just have to pray she's coherent enough to finish this study before Monday's lab. Knowing her luck, she'll be scrambling first thing in the morning before said lab. Great thing to look forward to.
Closing her notebook snags Samira's attention, brown eyes a little unfocused. "We still have three minutes left."
"Mira, you and I both know the second we stopped we weren't locking back in." Continuing to pack up her things, it's not long before her study-mate follows suit.
"We're going to hate our lives on Monday." Mira mutters, stuffing away her laptop and shoving highlighters into a purple pencil bag.
Doesn't she know it. "It's okay, we'll just get disgustingly drunk tonight so we don't have to worry about how absolutely fucked we are."
"Oh, I plan to be thoroughly fucked. Just not by my Physiology research." Samira is smirking as she finishes zipping up her bag.
"You're incorrigible," Trinity breathes, tossing her own bag over her shoulder. She ignores the way her trap muscles protest at the weight, sending small pain signals to her shoulder. Despite the season not starting up again until January, she still goes to the gymnasium whenever she can. Yesterday she decided to switch things up a little, testing some high-bar workouts that inevitably left her upper body feeling tightly wound.
A forty-five minute cool down with stretches didn't seem to sate her sore muscles. Oh well, she can handle a little stiffness. It usually resolves on it's own in a couple days anyway.
The two walk towards Trinity's place, having already planned to get ready there. She's not really sure why, between Samira's single dorm that's basically an apartment and Emery's and Yolanda's borderline bachelor pad fifteen minutes into the city, they had better options. Her flat isn't bad per say but it comes with a Freshman stray she acquired—as Yolanda so loves to refer to him as—and is a little on the rundown side.
However, even with the little quirks, the place would typically be double what she's paying anywhere else, so she's not complaining. East Coast pricing and whatnot, fucking ridiculous.
A short ten minutes later and she's pushing open the door. The layout is as open as it can be: minimal space between kitchen bar and three person couch—just big enough to fit two stools and act as a small walkway. A loveseat is against the wall directly across from her and beside their couch, both of the plush creme-colored arms just barely touching corners. In the center sits a dark stained wood coffee table, laden with an abandoned plate and laptop. She can just barely make out movement on the mounted TV, courtesy of Yolanda, from this angle.
Dennis pops up from his position on the couch, plaid sweats and white Henley looking rumpled, like he's been there for a while. She should really buy him some eye patches, those dark bags have bags.
"What's up Huck." She greets, toeing off her shoes.
"Hi, Dennis."
"Hey guys, how was studying?" Stretching like a cat, he lets out a small yawn.
"Oh you know," she starts, heading towards the kitchen. "The highlight of my Saturday morning, nothing says weekend like learning about retrosynthesis and all the many complex equations it solves. Truly a stimulating and mindfucking topic to explore."
"Your enthusiasm for Organic Chemistry is inspiring." His words drip in the same sarcasm as hers.
Opening her fridge she sighs, there goes her caffeine for the weekend. Maybe she can find some time to grocery shop. Grabbing the lone-standing RedBull she cracks it open, savoring how crisp it sounds. "Don't you worry Huckleberry, you'll soon share the same sentiment come your Sophomore year."
"Ahh, but I'll have you as a soundboard."
"Yeah, in your fucking dreams. It's a right of passage to contemplate your entire existence while learning all the many wonders organic chemistry offers." Samira passes by towards the hall leading to the bedrooms as Trinity takes the first carbonated sip of her drink. God, she needed that. She already feels the haze in her brain lifting. "Anyway, get your ass up and dressed. We're leaving in thirty."
Rolling his eyes, he turns away to settle back into the couch. "It'll take me two minutes max. I also know for a fact we'll be leaving closer to an hour."
Touche. She guesses he's picked up on her habits in the last year of co-existing but she'd never admit to him being right out loud. On her way to her room though, she reaches from the back of the couch to pick up a pillow and smack it in his face.
"You only did that because I'm right!" He retaliates as she vanishes down the hall.
Shutting her door, she drops her bag onto a small pile of clothes perched on a chair, then frowns in contemplation. When was the last time she did laundry? Maybe last week but she can't remember exactly. Oh well, another thing added to the never ending 'to do' list.
Taking a look around her room, she grimaces a little. Alright, maybe she should add cleaning her room in general. There's not necessarily a big mess but more like a handful of things out of place that gives the odd feeling of cluttered chaos. Samira is currently perched on the edge of Trinity's bed, a few rogue pieces of clothes surrounding her. How her room gets so disheveled when she's not even here ninety percent of the time baffles her.
Let's be for real though, Samira has seen worse. Trinity remembers having a peek at Emery's room once, to fetch a hoodie for Samira, and came face to face with absolute carnage. Okay, maybe she's exaggerating but still. The last person expected to have that many clothes would be the captain of a rugby team.
Trinity turns on her speaker, letting Samira take AUX as they get ready. You'd think attending a rugby game wouldn't require a lot of effort but with the way they meticulously apply mascara, you'd be wrong. Maybe the promise of a night out also encourages them to sift through different clothing combos—Trinity's closet looking a little ransacked near the end.
Picking up her phone, she notes the time and takes one last look in the bathroom mirror. Makeup is light but effective, jeans sit a little low on hips and the burgundy halter top leaves the perfect sliver of stomach on display. Good enough. Samira seems to come to the same conclusion as she pauses Tate McRae to announce, "alright, I'm all set. Do we think Huckleberry is good to go?"
"According to him, it would literally take two minutes max, so, he better be." Pocketing keys, phone, and wallet she leaves the room.
Much to her chagrin, Dennis sits much more proper on the couch, plaid swapped for soft denim and Henley for a simple black long-sleeve. Trinity will be infinitely jealous of how men can throw on something so simple and have it look good.
He looks up as they approach, phone going dark in his hands. "It's almost one."
"Oh fuck off," Trinity scoffs, little heat in her words. "Grab your shoes and lets go before all the good seats are taken."
Dennis locks up behind them and they start the mildly short walk across campus. Saturday's here are rarely that busy, everyone having something better to do than linger. However, in true collegiate pride, there's a bit of a crowd today.
While not as popular as football or hockey, their rugby teams have their own loyal following. With their men's breaking a decade old curse of barely making nationals and the women's on a four year streak. It's safe to assume, they've garnered enough attention to fill bleachers.
Today isn't a big game per say but it's the third one of the season and they're playing against a team that's given them a run for their money last year. While there's not a lot of stake in today's game, Trinity knows tensions still run a little high.
A fact she knows from a certain rugby player that opted out of their planned movie night to run drills with Emery. Which was fine, she made it up to Trinity by waking her up with a tongue between her legs. Best apology she's received in some time.
They make it to the fields with a school of other people, barely managing to score good seats. The team is out on the field, practicing passes and kicks. Green eyes rove over jersey numbers until snagging on number eleven. Deep purple material hugs a lithe body, outlining lean biceps and somewhat broad shoulders. Wild curls have been tamed, slicked back into a tight bun, leaving keen cheekbones on full display.
Trinity will never get over the sharp beauty that is Yolanda Garcia.
Her stomach churns a little when Yolanda tongues out her mouth guard, lips curling in a smirk at something number fifteen, Mckay, says. The mindless action is unfairly hot. She suddenly very excited for the after-party.
"Found your girlfriend." Dennis pipes up from beside her.
She whips her head around to chastise him, because he should know fucking better, but catches herself when she realizes his gaze is on the opposite end of the field. Following his line of sight, she immediately spots Emery doing pop passes with three others.
Jesus she needs to get herself in check.
Nudging Samira, she teases, "did you make sure to bring tissues to wipe away your drool."
"Shut up," she does a half-hearted shove. "As if you're any better, pick up your jaw before a fly goes in."
Dennis leans across Trinity's lap, "both of you are equally down bad, so don't even."
Planting a hand in his face she pushes him away. "Oh be quiet, you're just jealous we'll be getting some later."
"Jealous? No. Wishing our walls were thicker and my headphones had better noise cancellation? Yes."
Before Trinity can respond in true sarcastic fashion, another voice pipes up. "Are we talking about how everyone knows when Yolanda is over because of your apartments paper-thin walls?"
"Oh goody, Crash and Co. are here." Trinity quips.
"Don't act like you weren't the one who literally invited us. Now, scoot." Javadi demands, making a shooing motion.
Samira, the good fucking person she is, politely asks the family in their row if it's possible to move down. Once everyone shifts and takes residence in their new spots, Trinity zones out of the conversations around her to watch Yolanda join in on a drill.
Before Yolanda, the only stands she sat in on a Saturday were a Dodgers home game her dad would drag her to—at least before everything went to shit. She remembers the first time Yolanda had asked, well, more like heavily implied, Trinity attend a game.
It was November, three months into their arrangement and the week of rugby qualifiers. It was only the second time Yolanda had spent the night, accidentally of course, and she was drawing aimless patterns on Trinity's arm. They were still in bed, Trinity not having class until ten and Yolanda sleeping in past her eight o'clock. The morning felt lazy…cozy.
Trinity was actively trying not to read into it—Yolanda not immediately gathering her clothes but instead choosing to roll over and fall asleep almost instantly. Waking up to another body in her bed was a little jarring, not quiet accustomed to stolen space on her full mattress.
But Yolanda acted like it was no big deal, so Trinity swallowed every bubbling emotion to do the same. Only for Yolanda to derail her intentions.
"I have a game this Saturday," she starts, nails still skimming across skin. "Samira was gonna go with some friends but I guess plans changed, Em's worried about her going alone."
Trinity goes still, attempting to shove down the confusing excitement brewing. There's no way she's asking what Trinity thinks—wants—her to be asking. But Yolanda doesn't tack on anything after that, like it was just a thought she remembered and decided to create small talk with it.
"Mm," Trinity hums, unsure what to say. She works in the morning anyway, might not leave until the game starts. She could swing it though, if she just takes an extra change of clothes with her. But there's a minuscule part of her that's a little disappointed Yolanda hasn't out right asked. Judging by the way brown eyes seem unfocused she won't be extending the invitation any time soon.
Besides, what if this blurs an already budging line. Somehow, they've crossed from strictly fuck buddies to this muddied friends with benefits area. And yet still, she wants to go, for some unknown reason. But, if she offers and the implication wasn't intentional, she doesn't think she could handle the rejection. They'd finally settled into something close to a routine and she doesn't want to fuck that up.
Gazing a second longer at the woman wrapped in her sheets with frizzy hair and faint sleep-lines has the words falling from her lips before she can stop them. "I have a shift in the morning." Yolanda grows tense, fingers slowing their ministrations. "But if I get off in time, I can probably go with her."
Like she isn't already cataloging what to pack. This is will bite her in the ass, she just knows it.
Yolanda picks up the pace again, letting her touch roam higher until Trinity's shoulders tingle in anticipation. "I'll let Mira know to save you a spot." Words are pitched low, almost a whisper.
Then lips caress where fingers were, alerting every nerve in Trinity's body. Her anxiety is slowly overridden by the intense need to be consumed by Yolanda. A want flickers to life low in her belly with every kiss ascending. When Yolanda reaches her neck, teeth make an appearance to mark flushed skin. A sigh leaves Trinity as she tilts her head for more.
Yolanda obliges with nips, sucks, and a soothing tongue. God, she's going to be late for class. It'll be a bitch to play catch up later, but then she feels Yolanda's hand creep beneath sheets to tease at the apex of thighs and she finds she could give a fuck.
They spent two more hours in bed, Trinity finally kicking Yolanda out so she could at least make her eleven thirty lab. On Saturday, after watching her first ever rugby game, Trinity dragged her rugby player home to spend the better part of the night, and early morning, with her. Desperate to taste the aggression displayed on torn up turf and feel the athleticism humming in a lean body.
Watching Yolanda so effortlessly in her element, Trinity can feel that same desperation sitting just beneath her chest. The knowledge that it will spread doesn't phase her. At least, not much.
Once yellow colored jersey's join purple, both teams line across from each other. They do a coin toss, with home winning. A few minutes later and the pitch is set up, players taking their respective positions. The ball is kicked—game on.
Trinity follows the general game whenever her attention can be stolen from Yolanda. Even with the ball across the field, purple and yellow clashing, green stays trained on eleven.
When their team gains possession once again, Yolanda takes off, sprinting just behind Emery to receive the ball. Trinity whoops, watching with rapid fascination as she weaves between opponents. From a distance, flexing calves and quads are visible from every driven step. She's riding a high of excitement when Yolanda is dragged down, lost to a sea of yellow before her teammates arrive.
The game is intense, teams neck and neck with tries. Yolanda gets increasingly dirtier as time drags but Trinity's attraction is far from deterred. If anything her libido climbs with every hit Yolanda takes, every tackle she evades, and command she barks.
God she's infatuated with this woman.
She can't wait to get her hands under that jersey, map out every new bruise and kiss them better. She wants to taste the adrenaline, she wants to revel in it.
She clenches her thighs together at the thought. Her belly curdling with want.
Maybe turning herself on while sitting right next to her best friends isn't the best idea. But when she looks over at Samira, taking note of a light flush on tan skin, she knows she's not alone.
Great.
Hopefully Huckleberry has plans to either stay out or crank those noise-cancelling headphones to the max. She doubts they'll make it a full drink in before ditching tonight.
Emery gets a try, bringing the score to a tie with fifteen minutes left in the first half. Which, thank god because Trinity is cooking out here. Why she didn't work a hat or even fucking sunglasses into her outfit is beyond her. Regret is heavy as the sun continues to beam down from every direction.
She's jolted out of her simmering when Yolanda intercepts a pass and doubles back to the opposite try-line. Her jersey stretches as a person from the other team tries to stop her but ultimately fails.
Exhilaration floods the crowds, stands gaining in volume, the back-to-back try's sending them to a frenzy.
Except, Yolanda doesn't make it to the line.
"Oh, holy fuck." Trinity hears Samira breathe but a whine builds in her ears, drowning out noise.
Yolanda's legs are swiped out from under her, sending her head over feet before landing at a harsh angle. Though she's not close to confirm, Trinity can tell the impact was all wrong. Yolanda looses possession of the ball in the midst of her tackle; she doesn't move.
Players from both teams dog-pile on the open ball but Trinity could give two fucks about the game right now. Why isn't she getting up? She's standing before her brain can comprehend the action, a need to know what's happening burning through.
Walsh breaks away from the forming scrum when one of the referee's beelines for the unmoving body. A whistle blows, everything ceases and players finally take a knee. Fuck, she can't see Yolanda anymore, on-scene paramedics, Coach Dana, and a few teammates blocking her sight.
"Hey," snapping back to herself, she looks down at the hand placed on her wrist. "I'm sure she's fine. Take a breath."
Trinity nods tightly, trying to find comfort in Samira's words. Brown eyes are soft and understanding, having been through the same thing with Emery.
"Your girl is too stubborn to stay down for long." Crash pipes up. Your Girl. Words land softly in her chest but the impression is substantial. Her head spins at the implication, heart skipping a beat or two. Now isn't the time to dissect why those words sit snugly, square in her sternum.
Dennis looks up, mouse-like features contorting into a sympathetic expression. "It probably wasn't as bad as it looked."
Before Trinity can defend that she's fine, that her heart isn't currently in her throat— she spots movement through a crowd of legs. Relief floods her body so rapidly her head rushes. She's okay, most likely concussed but at least she's conscious.
Her legs won't relax enough for her to sit down, so she's stuck standing, waiting. Dennis gives her hand a squeeze when a stretcher is ran out to where they're gathered around Yolanda. Trinity tries her damnedest to keep a level head, it could just be a precaution. But then Yolanda is picked up by the paramedics, whisked away to the locker facilities—and fuck it.
"Excuse me," sliding past worried looks on friendly faces, she races down the bleachers.
"Trinity, wait!" But she doesn't slow, something unknown driving her with purpose.
In the year that they've been sharing the same bed, Trinity has only ever attended a hand full of games. With qualifiers being her first and, several matches later, nationals. Sure, Yolanda got scuffed up sometimes to the point Trinity tasted copper on her tongue and fingers would graze discolored skin— but never to this extent. Logically, she knows Yolanda is probably fine but her brain isn't receptive to reason.
Samira catches up by the time Trinity reaches the locker rooms, shivers raise skin on arms when the cool regulated temperature inside hits. Sweat makes everything feel crisp as she navigates a familiar path, externally chilling out. Passing closed doors, bulletin boards, and water fountains, she finally turns a corner to the recovery room.
Someone from the team, she can't remember who, is leaving when Trinity closes the short distance to the entrance. They stop short at the sight of her.
"Is she okay?" Words rush out before they can be stopped. Holy shit, she needs to get a grip.
Thankfully, number three takes pity on her. "She fine, for the most part. Dislocated shoulder and concussed, they just reset her shoulder and now they're doing a routine check up."
Her arms instinctively cross, as if they can hold in all the bubbling emotions flooding from the news. But at least the knot that's been twisting up her insides loosens, breathing finally feeling easier.
"Thanks Reece," Samira says, smiling softly at the sweaty player.
"'Course, just glad she's alright." Reece pauses. "Medics were talking about possible recovery times, don't think she's taking it very well."
Trinity nods, a dislocated shoulder means at least six weeks of limited activity. She remembers when Yolanda caught the flu circulating campus after Spring Break, not even a full twenty-four hours and she was going stir crazy following the ending of their binge with Gossip Girl season two. Yolanda after six weeks—of not quiet bed rest but clear restrictions—will be…interesting.
"Anyway, Coach Collins is in with her right now. I have to run back to the field but I think you should be good to go in." Reece leaves them, cleats clicking on the vinyl flooring until they fade.
"Hey," comes Samira's softly pitched voice. "Do you want me to come with?"
Sighing, arms come uncrossed until they sit heavy at her sides. "No, it's okay. I'll be quick."
"You sure?"
"Positive." Lips quirk up in a hopefully convincing smile.
Samira looks anything but convinced, she stays quiet though. Just nods in confirmation and steps back. "I'll wait out here then."
Trinity tries to convey her gratitude through another, pitiful, twist of her mouth. Then she turns and finally pushes open the awaiting door.
Unbidden, comes the memory of a night sneaking into this very room. Yolanda relaxed in a silver trough, ice up to her shoulders. Practice had finished not too long ago, Trinity felt particularly adventurous after a grueling group study. She'd only been in here after a game, waiting out in the hall for Yolanda to come out, swing an arm around her shoulder, and lead them to their next destination.
Sneaking in was pretty easy, doors still unlocked for players coming and going. It was pure luck for Yolanda to be the only one inside. Only time the universe felt like it was showing her favor.
"You're psychotic." She remembers saying, then closed the door; twisted the lock.
Lips were curved in their signature smirk, brown eyes were light with mischief. "What ever could you mean?"
"It's twenty fucking degrees outside and you're willingly taking a cold plunge in a heated space."
As she approached, Yolanda just shrugged. "If I could jump in a lake instead, I would. But, less risk of pneumonia if I do it in a controlled space."
"Again, psychotic."
"Yea, but you like it." Words are stated, as if they couldn't be anything other than a fact.
And damn her, they are.
"Mm, sometimes." She was so close to the tub, she could feel cold stick to her jeans.
"Don't act like you've never done a cold plunge before." A brow is arched in question.
Despite them having slept together consistently since September, gymnastics had never really been brought up. Made a little sense, her season didn't start for another month and she tended to hold it close to her chest. Not because it matters but because of everything it carries, the weight she tried so desperately to leave back in California.
But Yolanda doesn't need to know that, as far as she's aware, gymnastics is Trinity's choice of drug. Chasing the high of scoring and worked muscles.
A shrug is all Trinity gave. An idea had bloomed then. Her fingers started to work on the buttons of her blouse. "How long you been in there?"
Eyes followed every inch of skin revealed. "A little over a minute."
Once her shirt slid off, it revealed the plain black bra underneath. It wasn't like she had this planned ahead. Fate just so happened to shine favorably in that moment. She was self-conscious for all of two seconds, because pupils had grown in size at the sight. Embolden, she unzipped her jeans and slipped them over her waist.
Yolanda sat up, ice grazed the top of a blue sports bra.
"Think you can keep me warm?"
God she loved the look of hunger on sharp features, it heated her lower belly. A hand reached out, dark skin glistened in shitty lighting. "I'll do my best." Words were rough, hinted at the effect taken.
Trinity allowed herself a moment to rethink her decision, at the layer of ice covering the rest of a lean body. In truth, she'd done a cold plunge. Once. She hated every second of it.
"Scared?" Yolanda mocked.
A scoff. "As if."
Now resolute, Trinity grabbed the outstretched hand. The juxtaposition of Yolanda's cold hand and the rooms cozy seventy-five sent a tingle up her arm. Tingles gave way to shock when she stepped into the trough. Her breath hitched, muscles tensed.
Holy fuck it's cold. She knew it would be but knowing and feeling were very different in this case. Her brain didn't have long to linger on how numb her feet grew because hands griped the back of her thighs. A quick look down had Trinity's chest seizing.
Yolanda was looking up at her like something to be revered—worshiped.
A need flickered to life, it burned through her body until it pooled at the apex of her thighs. Fingers threaded through loose curls, relished in damp softness. She'd never admit it but she loved when Yolanda let her hair down, feeling soft waves between her fingers. If only they weren't pulled back to keep dry.
Lips pressed just above her knee, every nerve honed to that singular spot.
"C'mon baby, join me." Chest grew heavy at the pet name dripped in honey.
With a deep breath, Trinity allowed the hands on her body to guide her deep into the frigid water. "Oh, fuck." She gasped once the water hit her stomach, ass firm against the cold bottom. Body started to shake, unaccustomed to the chill. It burned more than anything, an inescapable sensation.
"Relax. Deep breaths." Yolanda instructed, then moved as close as their limbs would allow in a confined space.
"Y-Yola, fuck, how do you…oh God it's so cold." Trinity heaved, hands gripped the edge of the trough cause she was honestly a second from bolting.
Before she could, Yolanda rearranged herself to be on her knees before Trinity. The sight itself was enough to lessen the cold panic, just enough. Then her hands were on Trinity again, dark fingers crept up pale thighs. Everything was confusing, her body unable to focus on the warmth Yolanda evoked nor the freezing ice worming it's way into her bra. It was too much and not enough.
"Please, Yola, I'm so cold."
"Shh," Yolanda shushed and brought herself closer to Trinity's trembling body. "You were so brave not even a minute ago. Now look at you, whining."
"Oh f-fuck off." Trinity snapped.
Her brain malfunctioned when a hand wrapped around her neck. Static started at the front of her head, moved down until her thoughts slowed.
"You started this. I was here, minding my own business. Then you come in, talked big talk— only to act like the brat you are."
A whimper fell from Trinity's lips. She was so incredibly turned on, her body shook from both the cold and a want to have Yolanda's touch everywhere. Her nipples hardened to painful points.
"You love my attitude." Trinity said, smugly.
Yolanda moved until her face was only an inch away. God, Trinity could feel slippery muscles between her legs. Her hips rolled forward, sought out any kind of relief.
Fingers dug into the flesh of her thigh once again, a warning. Against every instinct, Trinity yielded. Her brain has been wired to obey Yolanda's every whim. Resisting was fun, especially when she was edged to the point of breaking. But right now, she's so cold she just wants Yolanda to fuck her.
"I do." Yolanda murmured, lips a tease against Trinity's. "But I love fucking it out of you more."
She got no warning when fingers slid off her thigh to sneak past the lines of her panties and give attention to a hardened nub. She jerked at the light touch, cursed when the movement brought attention to the cold again.
"I'm kind of getting cold again," a tease. "I don't think you're doing a good job of keeping me warm." A lie.
"You're such a fucking liar." The hand around her throat tightened, the fingers on her clit rubbed with more intent.
She moaned, the sound echoed around the spacious room. Jesus Christ, that was exactly what she went there for. Not only had her brain descended into a reset from intermolecular forces and chemical thermodynamics but her body had sharpened its focus on the heat building in her lower body.
Everything was amplified when she felt Yolanda push in, cold fingers explored already familiar spots. Her back bowed against frigid metal, mouth open to let out a low groan.
It didn't take long, it never really did, for Trinity to come apart on Yolanda's fingers. Everything was blissfully blank when she came down but too soon did she become aware of the literal ice water she was in.
They got out, Trinity leaned into Yolanda, legs unsteady. Considering everything that transpired was spur of the moment, they ended up sharing a towel. Yolanda gave Trinity her hoodie, her teeth chattering against her better judgment.
She spent the rest of the evening curled up on Yolanda's couch surrounded by the grounding scent of something crisp and spicy, hoodie still on followed by a pair of sweats that bunched around her ankles.
Now though, the room was circulating a different kind of tension. Firm words are spoken from a paramedic standing at the foot of a treatment table, a second one is securing Yolanda's left arm in a sling. Her jersey is off, leaving a black sports bra and abs Trinity is guilty of licking on full display.
Her mouth waters at the sight. Although, now is definitely not the time.
Dried blood sits on thinned lips, small bandage applied to a sharp chin, and purple discolors smooth brown skin right at the hemline of snug shorts. Trinity's stupid heart clenches at the sight. Pushing away the unwanted emotion, she approaches the small group of people.
Yolanda is the first to spot her, brows dipping in mild confusion. "Trinity?"
Every other head snaps to her. Well, shit. She doesn't like the sudden attention on her.
"Hey, um, just making sure you're still in one piece." She hopes it sounds as light-hearted as she intends. That none of her apprehension shines through. Unsure how normal it is for a fuck buddy to care about the well-being of their counterpart.
Judging by the muddled expression on a scuffed up face, she's not the only one.
"And who are you?" Coach Collins addresses, straightening to pin Trinity with an inquiring stare.
What a loaded fucking question.
"She's just a friend. Her name's Trinity." Yolanda cuts in before she can even conjure up a response. Which is possibly for the best. She doesn't know what other stupidity might flee her mouth.
Collins hums, locks gaze with her for a second longer before turning back to Yolanda. "Regardless, you still need to go to the hospital to rule anything else out."
"I was unconscious for barely ten seconds." Yolanda objects. "These guys said it was only a dislocation."
"I agree with your coach." The paramedic beside Yolanda says. "We can only do so much here. It's better to get checked out than discover another issue down the line."
Yolanda clenches her jaw, Trinity can see muscle ticking. "Fine. I'll go after the game."
"No, you'll go now." Collins says, firm.
"Yeah, fucking right. I'm not going in an ambulance for something this minor. Emery is still out there, so I can't leave until after the game. I also don't want to."
"I know you want to support your team," Collins softens her tone, just enough. "But your health needs to come first right now."
"I'm concussed and my shoulder popped right back in, it's not that big of a deal. The hospital can wait."
Trinity watches as Collins inhales deeply, the paramedics sharing a look between each other. Yeah, she knows that feeling all too well. Yolanda gives her a run for her fucking money in the stubbornness department.
"Trinity, was it?"
Taken aback by being addressed by Collins, Trinity dares a step closer. "Yes?"
"Do you have a car?"
Her stomach churns. This better not go where she thinks it's heading. "Yes, but—"
"Good, then do you mind giving your thick-skulled of a friend here a ride to the hospital, now?"
She can feel the warning stare of her 'friend'. But Collins is looking at her like this is more a demand than a request. Fuck her life.
"Not at all." She chokes out, promptly ignoring a gaze gone steely.
Looking entirely too pleased with herself, Collins turns back to a rather pissed off Yolanda. Oh goody. Nothing ever good comes from that raging ire in brown irises.
She can feel her body tensing, bracing for what's bound to be an eventful fifteen minute drive.
"Driver found, problem solved." Collins turns to leave but pauses. "If I see you anywhere near this field before getting a written doctor's note, I'll bench you myself as soon as you're cleared."
"That's not-"
"Fair? I don't care. Let me know what the doctors say."
With that she exits.
Badass. But for as much Trinity admires the woman's departure, she's also a little resentful. Being left with a seething Yolanda isn't ideal. From past experience, their tempers feed off each other until an inevitable explosion. She feels a headache brew.
"Do you need help to the car?" The brunette medic says, packing up her bag.
Swinging her legs over the edge and popping up to her feet, Yolanda dismisses them. "I'm fine." A beat. "Thanks."
Well shit, who knew.
Unfortunately, it seems her graces begins and ends with the medical workers because once they leave, her voice is hard again.
"What are you even doing here?"
Taken aback, Trinity gives her an incredulous look. "Um, making sure you're okay?"
"I didn't need you to do that." Lips flatten into an unimpressed line.
God, what the fuck.
Raking a tired hand through loose hair, Trinity exhales hard. Here they go. "Forgive me for giving a fuck."
"Yes, well, you giving a fuck has now led to an inescapable hospital visit."
"Don't pin this on me." Trinity snaps. "It wasn't like I was jumping for joy over the idea of taking you either. Besides, I'm sure you would've been forced to go with or without me being here."
"Whatever." Yolanda bends down to pick up her jersey, throwing it over her good shoulder. Trinity should not be as attracted to the sight as she is, even the stupid sling commandeering her entire left shoulder isn't hindering the appeal.
Silence follows. Tension filling in the space between. She's not entirely unused to uncomfortable atmospheres in regards to the rugby player. They've had their fair share of arguments, usually over something stupid. Why they can't be normal about anything she has no fucking idea.
The door opening draws Trinity's attention from a simmering Yolanda. Samira pokes her head in, brows raised in question and eyes flit between them. "Everything good? I saw coach and the medics walk out."
"Peachy." Yolanda snarks.
Trinity rolls her eyes so hard they hurt. This fucking woman. "Get over yourself. Now lets go so we can get this over with."
Yolanda glares, brows eyes bright with displeasure but she doesn't say a word. Trinity knows better than to revel in this victory, she knows this isn't over. They can never seem to have a good thing for long.
Her friend raises both eyebrows in astonishment, brown eyes communicating a clear question. Trinity shakes her head, not now.
Samira takes the hint, thankfully, and leads them out. Yolanda is silent as she grabs her bag before stalking alongside Trinity, cleats clacking against tile, every step splintering their precarious situation. Any other time and Trinity would be offering to take the bag but Yolanda's stony expression is warding off any offer of help.
When they reach the main entrance, Samira pauses and turns to Trinity. "Are you leaving?"
"Yeah, Coach Collins asked me to take her to the hospital."
Yolanda scoffs, mutters something under her breath that sounds like. "I don't need the fucking hospital."
Mira, angel is she, ignores the pissed off player. "Well, I texted Emery about rain checking the party to just get dinner instead. But, if you want, I can come with you."
Trinity flits to Yolanda, who's staring pointedly at the ground. Upon closer expression, something akin to pain is visible in the clench of her jaw and tremble in a fist. She knows Yolanda would rather stick a needle in her eye than let anyone see how just much this injury has taken it's toll.
And even though Trinity wants a buffer between her and Yolanda, she wouldn't ask her friend to put aside her relationship just because her undefined fun has taken an emotional twist. "No worries. I got it."
"She'll be fine Mira, we can be civil about this." Yolanda finally says, tone just a notch away from mockery. When Trinity turns to look at her, she finds a cruel twist in lips. "Besides, I don't bite. Hard, anyway."
That's the biggest fucking lie. Trinity has a photo in her phone somewhere of teeth indentations on her shoulder, skin purple from the claim. Her bite is as hard as her bark.
"Right." Mildly unconvinced, Samira gives one last imploring look to Trinity.
Yolanda will only get more bitter as time goes on, it's how she copes. At least, from what Trinity has witnessed. Once it's worked out of her system though, she grows soft, plaint in her needs. She remembers Yolanda dragging her closer in the thick of her fever, a silent ask.
Trinity has thick skin to withstand acrimonious lashings; selfishly, hoping to be the only one capable enough to cater to an unseen tenderness.
With a subtle shake of her head, she waves away her best friend. Giving a light squeeze to her wrist, Samira wishes them well then leaves back to the game.
It isn't until they're left alone, once again, that Trinity forgot one very important thing. "My car isn't here."
Brown eyes snap to her, a blank expression going impossibly hard. "Then what the fuck was the point of the offer?"
"You must've hit your headed harder than you thought because I didn't offer anything. I was kind of cornered into it in case you didn't realize." Trinity snaps. "Jesus, I'm not trying to make your life more difficult. I just have the misfortune of giving a fuck from time to time."
"So you've said." Yolanda bites, muscle ticking in her jaw.
There's another pregnant pause. Trinity genuinely at a loss for words because what even is happening right now. Her headache has bloomed to apply pressure just behind her eyes, too many emotional whiplashes happening in the span of thirty minutes.
"Just go back to the game." Yolanda finally says. "My car is here, I'll just drive myself."
Trinity wants to smack her. "You can't drive with one fucking arm."
"Well, I might as well start practicing now. I'll be in this damned sling for three weeks."
"Yeah, and you'll be in it longer when I dislocate it again if you don't give me your keys."
Trinity stares her down, refusing to budge. Yolanda might be stubborn and majority of the time Trinity would roll over, give in, but not with this.
With a sharp exhale, Yolanda digs into her bag and hands over the singular ring of keys. Trinity swears she sees the twitch in lips. Ha, score. Despite her car being fancy as fuck with push to start, knowing Yolanda didn't have immediate access to drive was enough.
Yolanda doesn't wait though, just shoulders through glass doors. With no choice but to follow the athlete, Trinity pockets the keys then trails a step behind.
She thinks its ironic, how in every situation it's always her following Yolanda. Looking to her for direction. Chasing after any semblance of reciprocation.
She slows as they reach the sleek sedan sedan. Ceramic crystals glitter within glossy black paint from the afternoon sun. Windows are tinted, giving nothing away to whats inside— which as become handy on several different occasions.
Everything about this car is the complete opposite of hers. It's amusing whenever they park next to each other, Trinity's always looking misplaced: sun spots covering the hood, grey paint chipped from where she's accidentally misjudged distance, and a sizable dent in her rear bumper that appeared last semester when someone prematurely crossed the street on their electric scooter.
Yolanda was there when it happened. Nearly ripped the poor guys head off once they made sure he wasn't critically injured. He walked away a couple hundred bucks poorer and bruised ego.
She frowns. Yolanda has been there for a lot of her misfortune since attending university. Looking across the top of the car at the still scowling rugby player, she's struck viscerally with the realization of just how muddied their arrangement has become.
Granted she's been aware of their limbo phase for the last few months but for some reason that particular memory of Yolanda defending her has struck a chord.
"You gonna unlock the car?" Trinity is brought back to reality at the blunt question.
Instead of verbally responding, she thumbs the familiar key fob until she hears the locks turn. Yolanda opens the back door to toss in her bag before dropping unceremoniously in the passenger seat.
Trinity hears the hiss of pain when she's settled behind the wheel. She swallows a snarky remark, not wanting to open another can of worms. She can be civil.
Instead she adjusts everything to her height, because Yolanda is all legs to the point her foot just barely touches the gas, and pulls out of the bustling parking lot.
As soon as they're on a main road her phone connects to the car, displaying a route home and suggested playlists. While she's never really the one driving this car, she's always on aux. It makes sense for her phone to automatically latch on to the Bluetooth connection.
Yolanda appears unperturbed as she presses the first playlist, letting recognizable notes and lyrics flow through high quality speakers.
It's not the first time they've let music fill silence but for some reason there's an unexpected weight to it now. How many fuck buddies can say they've taken each other to the hospital? This feels strangely close to a territory she knows they have no intention of broaching. Gripping the wheel a little tighter, she flicks on her left blinker to pull into the hospital parking lot.
It takes a few minutes to get checked in, the afternoon a little busy with other medical emergencies. She can't help but watch through small glass windows at the hustle and bustle going on behind large doors. Hopefully, if she survives O-Chem and med school in a few years, that will be her back there.
Becoming a doctor was never really part of her plan. Gymnastics was supposed to be her ticket to a stable career. From a young age, she's always been intrigued by the way people push their bodies past physical limits, admired limitless dexterity and flexibility.
After begging her mom for the better part of a year, she was finally enrolled into lessons at seven-years-old. Two weeks into practices and a girl by the name of Hailey shows up, strands of blonde hair braided into pigtails. They bonded over their love for floor routines, which carried over into a friendship outside of their gymnasium.
She was ten when a new coach was introduced.
Fourteen when blonde hair was threaded together for the last time.
Biting the inside of her cheek, Trinity pulls her attention from busy activity. Green eyes chance a gaze at the suspiciously still body next to her. She sticks out like a sore thumb, upper body exposed, shorts and legs stained green. Trinity goes to address this but when she looks closer, Yolanda is staring blankly at the intake patient form.
"What's wrong? Forget your address?" Words are light, teasing. Meant to pop tension.
"No." Yolanda says, unresponsive to the tentative olive branch. "I'm not fucking right handed."
Oh.
Trinity looks down at slender fingers fiddling with the pen. With a sigh she takes both the clipboard and pen, then reads over what's being asked.
She sets to work, drawing up every detail she's acquired over their year long tryst. Her middle name is Marisela, after her abuela. She remembers learning it offhandedly when Yolanda was on the phone with her family, a fleeting rib about passing on the legacy. She turned twenty-two in March, Emery roping Trinity into throwing a surprise party--they ditched it an hour in to fuck at Trinity's place. Her address is easy enough, programmed into Trinity's phone for Uber or Lyft. She works part-time at a gym, rugby her end goal for a career.
She's allergic to dogs, but prefers cats anyway. The only prescription she's taken taken had been Tylenol after spraining an ankle when she was nine. She vaguely recalls what insurance she's under, watching her input the information while filling out an internship application. Emery is her current emergency contact, number in Trinity's phone after ending up in one too many group chats together.
When she's skimmed over everything else, checked all the necessary boxes, she finally looks up. There's an unnameable expression on sharp features, brown eyes swirling with an array of emotions.
Trinity is confused for all of two seconds.
Oh.
In the several minutes she spent scribbling down information, not once did she ask if anything was correct. She just knew. Like her brain has a box stored specifically with anything and everything Yolanda Garcia.
Confliction arises in her chest. Heart rate increasing just the slightest. This feels too close, too real. Like she's unknowingly peeled back the protective layer of ignorance they've both been comfortably hiding behind.
Words lodge in her throat, deflection a knee-jerk reaction. But her mouth won't open, something refusing to let her acknowledge this at all. Because trying to find humor in this feels like applying a band-aid to a bullet wound.
She leaves Yolanda to turn in the paperwork, then wordlessly returns. Air thickens around them once again, pregnant with anticipated confrontation. Yolanda looks three seconds away from asking something that might rock their sinking boat.
"Garcia? Yolanda Garcia?" A nurse calls, dislodging their silent stewing.
Thank god. Trinity doesn't think she can handle a conversation right now. Her steps a little more unsure as she follows Yolanda once again. Normally only family members or close friends accompany injured patients. They aren't technically anything to each other other than warm bodies for empty beds. Maybe a classification as some subcategory for friends.
Except what kind of fucking friends share a nighttime routine that orbits around each other—have designated sides to the bed, hold each other after rough days and sometimes fuck with a tenderness not meant for casual.
This is supposed to be casual.
Once in a room, Yolanda perches on the examination table while the nurse, Emily, does her preemptive checks. All the while, Trinity is mute. Loud scratching fills the room as Emily removes the blood pressure band and the door opens to reveal a doctor.
"Hello, my name is Dr. Ryman. I hear you took quite the hit today?" He says, stepping right up to start his own examination after reviewing Emily's notes.
"I play rugby. Comes with the territory." Yolanda states.
Dr. Ryman looks up, blue eyes bright with clinical amusement. "You don't say?"
Huffing a sigh, Yolanda settles against the back rest. Hissing when he presses a tender spot. "I've been hit plenty of times, my coach is just overreacting."
"Uh huh," he looks closer at abrasions. "Yet you lost consciousness for about ten seconds and dislocated your shoulder?"
"Which is obvious for: I have a concussion and can't play for three weeks."
Trinity winces a little. Apparently the paramedics didn't give her the full rundown of how long it'll actually take to heal.
Dr. Ryman seems to gather that as well. Taking a step back, he holds her gaze. "Yolanda, while your concussion might take a week to resolve, if your scans come back clear, a dislocated shoulder can take up to eight."
"I was told to wear this for three."
"The sling is there for stabilization. Once it's removed, you might need physical therapy to build back up muscle lost and to ensure everything heals properly."
Yolanda goes still.
"We'll take you back for CT and MRI to make sure everything is in order. Since your other injuries seem tended to I'll just have Emily bring you some meds for the pain. So, sit tight."
With that he takes his exit, opening the door to chaos and shutting it to seal them in their own turmoil.
Trinity fiddles with her thumbs, wildly out of her depth. Something itches to comfort Yolanda, smooth back wild curls and soothe away a distraught expression. But a bigger part of her knows that something is shifting, whether they'll come out of it intact is entirely unseen. This bridge has been reached before but they always burn it before they can cross.
So she stays, lets her thoughts wander and wonder how the fuck they ended up here. Why they always end up here. In a situation that digs up all their cowardice with magnifying clarity only for them to kick dirt back over it.
Minutes tick into an hour, the game having ended with their team barely securing victory—update provided by Samira. Emily breezes in to deliver pain medication that Yolanda tosses back like a tequila shot, washing them down with water. She passes time by responding to Huckleberry and Crash, beating the later in a game of Word Hunt. Yolanda has yet to speak, decidedly looking everywhere but Trinity. Which is fine.
Everything is fine.
Trinity's texting Samira about when they'll be out of the hospital when Dr. Ryman comes back with a wheelchair. Yolanda all but recoils at the idea.
"I can walk."
"Are you sure?"
"I dislocated my shoulder, I didn't break my fucking leg." Oh boy.
Dr. Ryman, appears entirely unfazed. "Just thought I'd offer. Well, let's go then."
Yolanda slips off the bed, tries to mask the pain but Trinity catches it. Her body twitches, fighting against a new instinct to jump up with aid.
"We'll be back." He says with a reassuring wink, holding open the door for Yolanda to walk through before following after.
Then Trinity is alone. Which doesn't feel like a good idea. Honestly, this whole thing feels like one big bad idea. She's so innately confused, her help initially unwanted yet reluctantly accepted.
God, when did everything become one big cluster-fuck.
Sighing she leans forward, elbows resting on knees and fingers running through hair. She should've fought Collins on this. Argued that someone else would've been a better fit for the job. Except, aside from Emery, she's the only glaringly obvious option. When she became that option—she doesn't fucking know.
Her phone buzzes, stopping a trip down memory lane to the very first day she met Yolanda. Which just happened to be her first day attending classes.
Uncurling from her position, she leans back and thumbs on the device.
Mira
any updates?
16:38
Trin
they just took her back for scans. i have a feeling we're getting takeout tonight.
16:39
Mira
want me and Em to grab you guys something?
16:39
Trinity mulls it over. Yolanda will no doubt want to go home after this, wash away the game. Mira and Em might not be back until later and she knows how hungry the rugby player gets after a game. Trinity can just order them something off DoorDash, she has Yolanda's card information on there.
Trin
i think we're good. thank you though
16:41
Mira
of course
let me know if anything changes
16:42
Does that include the blurring line of causal they might currently be crossing?
Trin
i will
enjoy dinner
16:42
She closes the text thread once Mira hearts her message. Mindlessly, she angles over to her socials. Might as well scroll as she waits. Nothing really draws her attention, just aimless stories and reels, perfect for letting her brain grow numb.
Her thumb pauses from the sudden interruption of Yolanda and Dr. Ryman returning.
"It'll just take a bit for us to get results, so hang tight." As soon as Yolanda is back on her bed, he leaves on the brisk spin of his heel.
Trinity is prepared for another hour of silence when Yolanda finally clears her throat, "how'd the game go?"
"Good. We won."
"That's good."
Awkwardness permeates the air. Which is new, they're a lot of things but inept is rarely one of them.
To her surprise, it's Yolanda who extends an olive branch. "I wasn't trying to be a bitch earlier." Trinity is too stunned to interrupt. "I know you were just concerned and I didn't mean to throw it in your face like that."
Brown eyes meet green. A glimmer of remorse lingers in chocolate depths.
Swallowing hard, Trinity tilts her head in a small gesture of goodwill. "It's okay, I know you were probably just in pain and still coming off adrenaline."
Yolanda huffs a laugh, brightening dark features until it twists sharp inside Trinity's chest. "You're right, it was a mix of both. But still, I had no right to take it out on you."
And that, is the closest to an apology as Trinity will get. Which she'll take because she'll take anything the woman in front of her gives. Maybe it's unhealthy, maybe they need to have a real talk.
But Trinity watches as hard lines smooth, revealing a rare softness she knows only comes out between sheets or when they're heating water for some midnight ramen. It tugs hard at the doors Trinity keeps closed to her heart.
With the apology lingering, Trinity takes her chair to finally place it beside Yolanda's uninjured side. Something settles deep within at the close proximity, like her nervous system has finally gotten the hint: Yolanda is okay.
Green irises rove over purple skin once again, categorizing every injury for later inspection. Against her better judgment, she lets her fingers brush against a now swollen lip.
Yolanda winces at the initial touch but she doesn't move. "You look like a limp plumper gone wrong."
And god does she want to bottle up the sound of Yolanda's soft laughter, carry it around for rainy days.
It's interrupted by a hiss, "ow, don't make me laugh. It hurts."
"Consider this pay back for the bitch-fit I had to endure." But she lets her thumb soothe over split skin, feeling it's ridges.
Her hand is grabbed then, stopping it's ministrations. Looking up, she's struck with rippling emotions across sharp features. Too many to name. "I am grateful you came."
The sincerity in words causes a skip in a heartbeat.
Contentment wraps around them, in a way that's only ever been found between pillows with whispered anecdotes as bedtime stories. She's struck with the rawness of this moment, how open it is. She wants to trust it. Trust that they won't burn this bridge again.
So, she interlaces their fingers, marvels at the contrast in skin. "Of course. I mean, someone has to hold your hand, right?"
Brown eyes warm then roll from teasing words. "Oh fuck off." But their hands stay locked.
Intrepid, Trinity leans up just enough for Yolanda to decide if it's okay. And she does, dipping for lips to touch.
She gets the faintest taste of copper, metallic taste damn near familiar. Their kiss is brief, mutual comfort needed and found.
Breaking apart, Trinity settles back into her seat but keeps her hand firmly in Yolanda's. Time ticks by once again, their shared silence less stressed. When it looks like the rugby player is about to fall asleep, eyelids fluttering in an attempt to stay awake, Dr. Ryman makes his appearance.
Trinity sits up straighter, not realizing the lull she was succumbing to.
"Good news, your scans showed nothing serious. I will say, you'll need to limit screen time for the next few days and try your best not to stay in any bright rooms for too long. If you feel any dizziness, nausea, or migraines that lost longer than normal, come back and we'll see what's up."
"And my shoulder?"
Dr. Ryman looks more empathetic. "Obviously, physical activity will be limited in the next three weeks. You'll need to remove your sling for showers, though there's some mesh slings I'm sure you can find in a store as a replacement during those times. After three weeks, we'll schedule you another visit to see if your shoulder is well enough without support, from then on you'll still have limited use of your shoulder but if you stick to doing the exercises given and don't over exert yourself, you can possibly be back on the field in six weeks."
"Is there any way it could heal faster?"
"If you dedicate yourself to taking the necessary time required for your body to heal, then yes there are possibilities of quicker recoveries."
Yolanda nods, absorbing the information. Trinity gives a light squeeze of her hand, conveying her support.
"I'll be discharging you with some prescribed pain medications, I'll give you some for tonight but will send the order over to the closest pharmacy. Emily will be back with your discharge instructions and those meds, but do you have any questions for me?" He looks between the two of them expectantly, hands folded in front of him.
"No," Yolanda sighs. "I think you covered everything."
"Okay, well if you ever have any concerns or you feel like something is wrong, feel free to come back."
"Thank you." Trinity finds herself saying, watching Yolanda process.
"Of course. Now, I have other patients that need tending to but you and your girlfriend should be out of here soon."
Girlfriend.
The label lands, detonating their bridge.
Yolanda pulls her hand away. "She's not my—we're just friends."
Trinity's chest tightens, caving in until it hurts to breathe. Turning away from Yolanda, she smiles brittley to the uncomfortable looking doctor.
"I didn't mean to assume, my apologies."
"It's okay, it happens more than you think." If her words carry a bitterness, she doesn't look back to see their impact.
Dr. Ryman nods, backpedaling to his exit. "Emily will be right back. I hope you have a speedy recovery Yolanda."
Everything feels wrong once the door seals them in. There's distance again, more than the inches between bed and chair. But Trinity knows, she knows they won't address it.
They'll go home, Yolanda will fight on needing help showering until she gives in, Trinity will give her sweats and goad her into sleeping topless.
They'll watch something on the disgustingly big TV in Yolanda's room; maybe a horror, maybe a comedy.
They'll joke about how long it'll be until they have sex, Trinity boasting that she can hold out the longest. A lie. It'll be normal. Like Trinity didn't unknowingly reveal to both herself and Yolanda that casual has long since taken it's exit.
Like a fucking doctor didn't clock them for everything they're not supposed to be.
It'll be ignorant bliss. Until something like this happens again. Maybe it's Trinity next time and Yolanda is filling out her paperwork, turning over every stone they've carefully avoided.
Maybe next time they'll fight over something stupid. Like they always do. Then make-up through rough sex with rugged apologies as an act of begging.
Rinse and repeat.
Because they have done this before. Yolanda sick from whatever returning students carried, body curled against Trinity's lap. They never spoke about the four days Trinity was there, serving soup, refiling glasses of water, and religiously checking temperature.
When Trinity showed up at Yolanda's apartment, drunk, a week after her birthday, unable to reason why her feet carried her there. Alcohol poisoning a concerned risk of Yolanda's but no ambulance was called, no emergency room field-trip; Trinity slurred together a plea to just hold her.
It was the first sleep over at Yolanda's apartment. Both avoided unanswered questions, just went on like nothing changed.
It's a cycle Trinity knows she should let go of but she grips tighter and tighter to until her hands are raw.
Thankfully, Emily comes in before Trinity can fully wallow.
After revising instructions and handing Trinity an orange bottle containing several pills, they're free to leave.
Without a word, Trinity takes the discharge papers from Yolanda, freeing up her only hand. They don't speak, as they leave. Yolanda is like a shadow behind her, hairs on her neck standing at attention from her presence.
Folding themselves back into the car, Trinity is the one this time to press play on the interrupted song. The less time there is for silence the better. Thank god for Yolanda's apartment only being a short five minute drive.
Pulling into a familiar parking garage, Trinity finds the assigned parking with Yolanda's apartment and shuts off the engine. Sitting there, silence brews, filling in the darkened space.
Fuck it. The sooner Yolanda is up in her spacious fancy place, the sooner she can go home and spiral. "I'll grab your bag."
She shuts the door before Yolanda can protest. Shouldering her bag—why is it so fucking heavy, she waits for Yolanda to slide out. Being in an elevator with everything unspoken between them feels like her own personal hell but because the universe hates her, Yolanda has two. One to the main lobby and one to the actual floors.
Lucky her.
It seems like the meds have fully kicked in however, when Yolanda leans heavily against metal walls, brown eyes glazed with exhaustion. Stupid heart clenches at the sight. Taking pity on her, Trinity silently lets Yolanda lean on her during their second ascension.
Every nerve is aware of her warm body, smooth skin soft against her arm. How badly she wants to just fall in bed, curl into familiar heat and let her mind go blank. But she can't.
Tomorrow morning will be no different.
Suddenly so very tired, she leans into Yolanda's silent strength for just a second before taking her weight, guiding them to a familiar door. Fishing for the keys, she turns the heavy lock and pushes in.
Lights flick to life, illuminating a spacious open-floor layout. A dark accented kitchen sits to the left, marbled island sitting proudly and free of clutter. Three plush couches take up the center of attention, white rug peeking beneath, all of them sitting at an angle towards the TV. Just on the other side of the living room are floor to ceiling windows, buildings silhouettes against a low sun.
She was always jealous of the view Yolanda got to wake up to until she also found herself curled on a couch, watching a city breathe to life as the sky brightened.
She's going to miss it.
Trinity aims for Yolanda's room, just off the hallway to the right of the kitchen. It's exactly as she last saw it— olive green comforter tucked into the edges of a king-sized mattress, desk housing a charging laptop, bookshelf housing self-help books and the odd sci-fi novel just below another mounted TV. Everything is neat and tidy, as if it were a showroom rather than a bedroom.
But unlike the first time she visited this room, there's photos now on display atop a dresser, framed artwork just above the bed. It's not much but it made Trinity feel like she was sleeping in an apartment instead of an IKEA. Progress was small, but there.
"I need to take a shower." Yolanda slurs, trying to bend down and strip off her socks.
Trinity sighs, placing a hand on her back to stop her. "I doubt you'll be able to fully shower until we-you get a mesh sling. Might have to settle for a quick sponge-bath."
Yolanda looks at her, brown eyes hazy. Well, those drugs are hitting hard. "I don't want to be dirty going to bed."
"You won't." Trinity says softly. Allowing herself this. "I'll help you, okay?"
Nodding, Yolanda follows her into the bathroom. It's big; a standing shower big enough to fit two and a separate tub with jacuzzi jets that Trinity has basked in after a long day.
Gathering everything she'll need, she then turns to help Yolanda out of her clothes. Getting her sports bra off first might be the better bet. Unfortunately, it's snug on her chest so it'll be a hassle.
"We'll go slow, alright?" Trinity says, grabbing the edge of her uninjured side and lifting. She's successful for all of ten seconds until the left side shifts up, hitting just under her armpit.
Yolanda grits her teeth. "Fuck."
"Sorry, sorry." Pausing, Trinity let's her get her bearings.
When she's given a nod to continue, she shimmies the tight material through one arm and over her head, slowing to pull it off the sling. Yolanda flinches when it catches for a second around her elbow but encourages Trinity to just keep going.
With her bra finally off, Trinity's attention is brought to more discolored skin. Her fingers itch to touch, that damning instinct rearing it's head. But she won't.
Her shorts come off easy enough, along with her underwear. Kicking them aside, she's abruptly aware that Yolanda Garcia is completely nude. But there is no lust in the realization just a resolute feeling of wanting to help.
Sickeningly domestic.
She's crossing the line. She knows, if Yolanda weren't impaired by her medications she'd also know. But Trinity can't imagine leaving her to fend for herself, not tonight at least, when everything is still an adjustment. For now she'll help. For now, she'll play the role she's been filling since the first morning they made breakfast together.
Grabbing a washcloth, she soaks it in warm water then gently wipes down Yolanda's decorated body. Once skin is damp, she lathers the cloth in soap, rubs it in, then goes in soft circles around dark skin until it shines. The whole ordeal takes close to twenty minutes, Trinity trying her best to give Yolanda the cleanliness she craves.
"Do you want me to do your hair?"
Yolanda shakes her head. "Too long, just want to sleep."
"Okay."
Drying her off, Trinity goes to fetch new underwear and some sweats.
"Where's a shirt?"
"Do you want a shirt? I don't mind helping you but it might be uncomfortable to put on and take off right now."
Yolanda contemplates for a beat. "Alright."
Didn't she fucking call it.
When they move back into the room, Yolanda is sitting on the bed when Trinity hears the low grumble of her stomach. Right, how did she forget.
"Think you can stay awake if I order food?"
Bleary eyed, Yolanda stifles a yawn but nods. "Yeah."
She doubts that but pulls out her phone regardless, taps through DoorDash offers. "Want anything specific?"
"Something greasy."
A smile tugs at Trinity's mouth. She should've guessed, pizza normally a go-to after running ragged on a torn up field. Resisting another light jab, she hums in confirmation, inputting Yolanda's questionable choice of supreme with stuffed crust.
Nothing against stuffed crust but Trinity herself is a pineapple on pizza kinda of gal; Hawaiian style. Supreme just has so many veggies, which tracks, she supposes, Yolanda is sort of a health nut. 'Sort of' being gracious. At one point she opened the fridge to stacked containers of ground beef and quinoa, shelves barren of sugar. Not even an energy drink.
She's rarely touched the appliance since.
Food ordered, Trinity now faces another hurdle—wait for said food or take her leave now.
Green eyes linger on Yolanda's increasingly slumped form, body giving way to fatigue.
Goddamn her soft heart.
Kneeling down, she levels with the sleepy rugby player. "Hey, I'm just gonna wait for the food in the living room, okay?"
Yolanda's face pinches, a visible objection. "You can wait in here."
Trinity sighs. Living room would mean space to recollect thoughts, reaffirm her decision to leave. Staying entails facing the reality of her weakness, unable to depart from the other woman.
Hands threading through her hair makes her look up. Brown eyes carry an emotion Trinity does not want to name. Against better judgment, she leans into the touch. So what if she's weak. It's not a recent discovery.
Fingers continue to card through dark strands, enticing Trinity to disregard such a silly notion as leaving.
"Stay, Cariño?"
Her chest shudders at the endearment, heart feeble.
She should've known. Yolanda is her damn Achilles Heel, subject to her every whim. God she's so royally fucked. Emotionally at an impasse where both directions yield equal outcomes.
But her infatuation runs strong, tugging her to a third fork in a metaphorical road—the same road she's been on since last September.
Yolanda's fingers slide down, cupping the back of Trinity's neck to pull. And Trinity follows, unable to resist. Her emotional turmoil can be future Trinity's problem, Yolanda's warm body a beacon.
"I can't fall asleep or the food will get cold." She whispers, rebuttal futile.
Yolanda hums, vibrations tickling Trinity. "We won't fall asleep."
"Well we can't have sex if that's what you're implying."
Amusement makes lips quirk up, bottom lip trembling from swelling. "We can share a bed without shedding clothes."
Popping a brow, Trinity looks pointedly at brown skin on full display, dark nipples sitting proudly. "You're half dressed already."
"Christ, Trin, just get over here already. I can keep my hands to myself."
"Well one is literally restrained, so…" Yolanda removes her hand to push half-heartedly at Trinity's forehead. She laughs, swaying dramatically backwards only to rock into her previous position.
"You're such a brat."
You love it.
The words sit on Trinity's tongue, daring Pandora's Box to open. But she refutes, swallowing them down until they sit thickly at the base of her throat. Tomorrow, they can talk tomorrow.
"Whatever, scoot."
Victory sits high on sharp features as Yolanda moves to rest against her pile of pillows. It feels wrong for Trinity to take the right side of the bed but with Yolanda's injury, better safe than sorry. So they settle in their opposing sides, Trinity resting her head upon a lean shoulder, absorbing familiar warmth.
Echoes of a steady heart fill her ears, subconsciously her breathing slows to match the rhythm. Splaying a hand on muscled ridges, she enjoys Yolanda's hitch in breath at her touch. Slowly, softly, she draws mindless patterns across firm skin.
Accustomed silence warps around them, nothing except the air con and faint city noise coming through. Trinity's eyes get heavy, brain growing foggy. She fights to stay conscious, needing to make sure their food makes it to their stomachs.
But Yolanda's so inviting, drawing Trinity to the edge of slumber. Fuck, she wasn't supposed to stay. She knew this would happen, like fucking clock-work.
Her body won't move though, too settled on soft sheets and warm body. So, she gives in. Let's her brain fall into a haze. She can worry about cold food tomorrow and prays Emery brings it inside. Tomorrow will be a new opportunity for spiraling.
Tomorrow she might be brazen enough to confront this endless loop.
She doubts it.