Page 43 of Rumor Has It

Katie Royce (10:05 PM): Well, I’m still going to get you some. See you at home later tonight. <3

Becky didn’t care if it seemed desperate. She opened her text messages with Wren back up.

Becky Rothschild (10:06 PM): Wren, seriously. You have to know I didn’t mean to hurt you.

Wren Eames (10:07 PM): What’s your address?

Why in the hell did Wren want her address? Right now of all times. Becky didn’t question it. Wren was responding. She gave Wren her address.

Beck Rothschild (10:09 PM): Are you going to come egg my apartment?

Wren Eames (10:10 PM): No.

Well. That was ominous. Becky sighed. The NC Cougars would have a cooldown and regroup practice tomorrow afternoon, so she was free to go until then. When she got home, she showered again, standing under scalding water for just a little too long. When the water started to run a little colder, she got out and pulled on a sports bra, a Cougars sweater, and a pair of grey sweatpants. She had checked her phone obsessively for the last twenty minutes and still no word from Wren or Katie.

She had just gotten settled in bed with The Great British Bake Off queued up when she heard a rather loud knock on the door. She checked her phone again, even though she had been doomscrolling just seconds before. Maybe Katie’s hands were full? Becky got to her feet and looked through the peephole.

“Shit,” she whispered. Wren was standing on her doorstep. “Shit,” she whispered again. As Wren wound up to knock for a second time, Becky tugged open the door.

Wren’s jaw clenched. “Rebecca,” Wren said, her voice flat, giving nothing away.

“Hey,” she said, nervous as hell. She backed up. “Do, uh—do you want to come in?”

Wren stepped past her, hovering awkwardly in Becky’s entryway. “What the fuck is your problem?” Wren asked, her tone harsh and barbed.

Becky flinched. “I told you in my texts. Wren, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was just trying to make a strategically sound play.”

“Funny, I’ve played against other defenders hundreds of times in my life now, and none of them have ever been half as dirty as you.” Wren got into Becky’s bubble, all but yelling upwards into Becky’s face. “Why? And don’t give me some horseshit about you play this way against everyone because you don’t. I’ve watched enough of you on tape to know that this is a Wren Eames special, and I want to know why.”

Becky’s eyes watered. “I don’t know. It’s like,”—she sighed. “It’s like there’s something in me that just hates losing to you. And I just—My family was there tonight,” she said, softer than she had intended. But that wasn’t what had caused her to play that way, not really. Becky let out an exasperated growl. “You’re faster than me, okay? You're the best. Is that what you want to hear?”

Wren’s eyes widened, stunned into silence.

Becky took her silence as reason enough to keep going, “I really, really hate losing to you. It used to be about camp, but now”—

“Now what?" Wren asked, her tone still rough and frustrated, but curiosity cut through, too.

“I wanted to go pro, even when my whole family thought that was ridiculous. I wanted to be the best. I wanted to impress coaches and my parents and their stupid small town newspaper and now,” she paused, throwing her arms up into the air. “Now I think I'm just trying to impress you.”

“Hell of a way to show it,” Wren said, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Shit. I know. I'm so so sorry. I wasn’t—I just,”— Becky didn’t even know what. If she said anymore it would be too much. It would put her heart back on the line.

Wren didn’t wait for Becky to find the end of her sentence. “I thought we'd moved past this. I thought we were friends. I thought”—

“Thought what?”

Wren ran her hands over her face and shook her head. “I don’t know, Rebecca. There have been vibes.”

“Vibes?” Becky’s heart skipped a beat. Did Wren feel something between them again, too?

“Yes, vibes. Like looks and flirty text messages,” Wren said, her jaw flexing again.

“There have been,” Becky confirmed. She was doing everything in her power to not get ahead of herself. Flirting and feelings were not the same thing, but maybe, just maybe, Becky’s little crush wasn’t unrequited after all.

“So why the hell did you pull my jersey?” Wren was back to livid, and Becky’s heart plummeted to her toes.

“Because it was the smart play, Wren.” Becky’s voice had almost shifted to pleading. “You have to know that. It was my actual job to keep you from scoring tonight.”