Go play!

We work the same field but get to it different ways. After the whistle the others peel off toward showers and rides home. Not us. We circle back, cleats ticking against tile, then shove each other into the locker-room shadows. My knee slips between hers and stays there. Sweat-salt and warm breath, lips parting, her tongue slick against mine like she wants to score through my mouth. I push back harder. She answers, hips canting forward so the plastic benches scrape and knock together. Her fingers hook my hair; mine dig under her jersey until I find skin already damp. A stall door clangs open when we stumble against it. Neither of us cares. The only sounds are breathing, mouths meeting, tongues wrestling the last play of the afternoon straight into each other’s throats.