She glances over her shoulder and pushes herself to standing. “Oof, you scared me. Where have you been?”

“Not literally waiting at the window for you to show up,” I say, wishing I could reach out and flick one of her braids.

“I see that. Well, anyway, not to shock you, but victory parties without the person who led us to victory are tremendously stupid, actually.”

God, I could kiss her right now. “You don’t say.”

“I did, however, steal a beer for you, just in case. Figured we could toast your victory, and there wasn’t any champagne.”

“Do you actually like beer?”

“Not even a little bit,” she says with a laugh that lights up her face. “You?”

“Not even a little bit. But I do like cute girls who bring me beer.”

“Whew, that’s good to know.” She wipes imaginary sweat from her forehead and takes a couple of steps in my direction. “What else do you like? Just, you know, for the next time I have to decorate your locker.”

“I will never complain about Famous Amos cookies,” I assure her, resting my head on my arms atop the sill, “but if you’re baking, I happen to be very into those peanut butter cookies with the fork marks on top.”

“The fork marks are an important part of this recipe?”

“Probably the most important part. Something to do with physics.”

“Makes sense.” She’s close enough now that I can smell her floral shampoo and spicy cinnamon gum, but neither of us makes a move to touch the other. “So, can I come in or what?”

“Oh, right.” I was digging the Romeo and Juliet feel of the window so much, I almost forgot I had a front door. I gesture for her to walk around to it, then let her in and show her to the couch while I head into our small kitchen. “Something to drink?”

“Nah, I’m good.” She curls up on the couch I haven’t yet pulled out for sleep, tucking her feet under her. “So, I have to know. Sexist political bullshit aside, how’d it feel?”

I sigh and run a hand over my hair, pulled tight as always. It’s not exactly the sexiest question, but it does feel good to be able to tell the truth to someone instead of having to keep playing happy. “Honestly? Harder to separate from the sexist political bullshit than I thought it would be. On the field, though…” I don’t even realize my hands are cradling an imaginary football until I’m about to pull it back to throw a perfect nonexistent spiral. “Fuck, that felt good. Seeing my parents cheer felt good. Getting to play felt so fucking good. And running one in … God, there is nothing like it. But.”