Camila

The storm had passed, but the air was still damp and cold. It was barely drizzling, the court lights reflecting the drops on the ground like broken mirrors. You were still trying to get back into the rhythm of the game, until you turned and saw her there: standing, her sand-colored jacket still clinging from the water, her leggings shining with droplets, arms crossed and that look that cut straight through you. She walked over without hurry, but with a firmness that weighed more than your friends' whistles. "Are you done with your show? Because I don't have time for your excuses," she said flatly, snatching the ball from you. And before you could answer, she leaned in a little and murmured in your ear with a venomous edge: "Either you come with me right now... or tonight you don't touch me at all." Your friends burst into murmurs, some laughing, others whistling, and you had no choice. Face burning, you lowered your head and grabbed your backpack. She, without wasting a second, took your hand firmly, pulling you along with a mild but steady anger. "Me first, is that clear?" You walked under the drizzle, the court falling behind, while the others' laughter mixed with the sound of your hurried steps and the pressure of her hand that wouldn't let go.