Quinn eyed Santana Lopez with thinly veiled contempt. The slim, dark-haired woman tilted her chin and met the glare with her trademark smirk.
Large full-color pictures of Santana's admittedly rather attractive face and figure had accompanied a simpering article in the local newspaper that Quinn suspected was written by a smitten pot-bellied pervert who knew nothing about soccer. Anyone with half a brain would know that this sorry excuse of a woman wasn't worth a single cent. Clearly the manager lacked even that, because he had paid the ridiculously high transfer fee and got her on the first plane ride into New York even before the ink on the contracts had time to dry.
Seeing as she was the only other attacking midfielder on the team barring Sally Oates, the team captain, who was in the pink of health and unlikely to be substituted, it was clear that this woman had been brought in to replace her. She had worked her butt off for three years to cement her position in the starting lineup, and now this young upstart was going to saunter in and snatch it away despite the fact that she was quite possibly lousier than Quinn had ever been. Even while recovering from a torn ligament. At age eight. Alright, so that wasn't entirely true. Quinn didn't care. All she wanted to do was bash the woman's face in.
It didn't make any sense at all. Their club was teetering so close to bankruptcy that their players had gone three months without drawing a single paycheque. The aforementioned idiotic (but filthy rich) manager was single-handedly keeping it afloat by paying the bills out of his own pocket. Well, whatever the reason, Quinn was determined to go down with a fight. She had been having a brilliant season, second in assists only to Joanne Handler, Washington Spirit's golden-girl.
For the next four hours of training, Quinn ran herself to the ground and played so intensely during the practice matches that even Hannah, who usually attracted exasperated calls from teammates to "calm the fuck down", stared at her like she had grown to heads and a moustache.
...
They were playing an away match against Boston Breakers the next day, and Quinn unhappily noted the change in their usual formation in order to accommodate all three attacking midfielders. In other words, Santana was playing. She grit her teeth and forced herself to clear her mind. If they were going to lose, it was going to be because Santana played and not because she was too busy being pissed off to play properly.
Sally Oates gave both Santana and Quinn a reassuring smile as they jogged towards the centre of the pitch together, taking their places behind the two strikers, Laurie and Yolanda.
When the whistle went off, Sally passed the ball to Quinn and sprinted up the field, shouting for the rest of the team to move up. Quinn dodged an incoming defender and lobbed the ball high overhead so that it landed just in front of Laurie, the central striker. Laurie skipped past another defender and shouted frantically for backup. Santana weaved in from the left wing and got the ball from her. She then proceeded to drive the ball low and hard towards the goalpost, surprising the goalkeeper into action. She dived for good measure, but the ball went just wide of the posts. Quinn suppressed the urge to upbraid Santana for selfish play – she'd seen a chance and took it. There was nothing wrong with that, the blonde reminded herself vehemently.
Thirty minutes into the game, Quinn found herself with a real chance at goal. She had snatched the ball away from a fumbling centre back by chance, and succeeded in dribbling into the penalty area. She shielded the ball with her body and scanned the box for backup. Taking a sharp left turn to avoid two defenders converging on her, she then back-heeled the ball to Laurie, who tapped it into the goal. Laurie pumped her fists in the air and enveloped Quinn in a bear hug. The rest of the team dashed in to celebrate. Feeling cocky as she walked back to the halfway line, Quinn shot Santana a smug smile and muttered, "that's how we do it here, Lopez." Santana gritted her teeth and looked away, clearly pissed off.
When the final whistle blew, Quinn had scored one goal and assisted the other two for a final score of 3-1 to the home side. Today's match had only served to cement the fact that she was on top of her game. Let the newspapers say whatever they want, Quinn thought grimly, numbers don't lie, and she was determined to make them speak for her.
...
The team skipped back into the changing room, chattering excitedly about dinner plans and arguing about who would get to use the showers first. Quinn collapsed on the bench, and slowly worked off her cleats. Vivian Mason, the goalkeeper, Quinn's third favorite person on the team, did the same beside her. "Can't join y'all for dinner tonight. Parents want to have dinner." Vivian pulled off her gloves and grinned. "They want me to drop by and get some roasted chicken from the supermarket, but I'm so damn hungry I don't think the poor bird is going to make it to the dinner table in one piece."
Quinn smiled. "You could always buy two of 'em. Your parents wouldn't know any different." They laughed and settled into their usual banter.
After a couple of minutes, Vivian had finished packing everything into her duffel bag and waved her hand in farewell. "I'll shower at home. See you tomorrow!" Quinn looked up in panic. That left her...alone in the changing room with Santana Lopez with no one to prevent her from strangling the woman to death.
When she noticed the hard glint in the brunette's brown eyes, she realized that she might not be the only one with murderous intentions.
Santana walked casually across the room, closing the distance between them with long, confident strides. She stopped right in front of Quinn and glared down at her. "I don't know what your problem is, but I don't want to fight with you. I just want to play good soccer. I can't do that with you constantly breathing down my neck."
Quinn shrugged, trying to suppress the anger, jealousy, and insecurity that had began to surface. "So go ahead and play good soccer, goddammit." She lost the battle for self-control. "But that shit out there today – that was your idea of good soccer?"
Santana narrowed her eyes and leaned in so close that Quinn could feel her hot breath on her face. "Get off my back, Fabray. I'm only going to say this once."
"On exactly whose authority are you threatening me with?" Quinn breathed, her tone taking on a sharp edge, "Because I doubt a rookie with a grand total of ninety minutes of play-time in this club has any leverage behind her threats." Her voice dropped to a low, harsh whisper. "That is, unless she's sleeping with the manager." Santana's eyes widened, but Quinn was too far in to stop now. "After all, how would someone of your miserable caliber even qualify for-"
Before she can go any further, Santana has grabbed her collar and dragged her to her feet. Her eyes are blazing with fury. "You know nothing about me. Don't you dare insinuate that my success was bought with sex."
Quinn shoved Santana off roughly. "Struck a little too close to home, did I?" She asked coldly, refusing back down despite the twinge of guilt already coiling at the base of her stomach. She knew had no right to make these baseless accusations, especially at a woman she barely knew. But she definitely wasn't about to apologise. Santana looked as though she were going to slap her, but stepped back just as she heard voices drawing closer. Karen, Laurie, and Yolanda had finished showering and entered the changing room together, still chattering about the game. Shooting Quinn a final glare, Santana grabbed her towel and stormed into the showering area without another word.
Karen wrinkled her nose, confused. "What the heck is wrong with her?" She asked, jerking a thumb at the door. Quinn shrugged and disappeared into the showering area after Santana. Laurie frowned, but did not comment. Dinner that night took place at Paolo's, an Italian restaurant downtown. Quinn left the dinner and returned to her apartment early, and spent a sleepless night debating whether or not to apologize. Santana spent an equally sleepless night thinking along remarkably similar lines. Vivian, on the other hand, collapsed into bed at eleven after an incredibly enjoyable evening.
...
A/N: Hey, thanks for reading :) Please leave comments or PM me to let me know what you're thinking :) I'm sorta new here so I'd love it if I could make some friends on this haha or maybe just get some feedback on my writing/story. Anyways! I also have a newly-created tumblr account blog/allieebobo so if you wanna connect with me there and give me more cool people to follow, please do that too :)