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Everyone had stories.
Not just stories. Proof. Supposedly.
A grandmother who met the name on her wrist at sixteen and married him by twenty. A teacher whose mortal enemy’s name had been sitting on her skin since middle school. A neighbor who swore she felt the exact second she touched her soulmate for the first time, like lightning under her skin.
People loved telling those stories.
They told them at family dinners, at weddings, over coffee, in hushed voices to kids too young to understand it yet.
As if the universe was kind for this.
As if fate was some benevolent thing, carefully writing love in one hand and danger in the other. You could even go to university for this shit. Hell there were even a couple statistics surveys about whether the left or the right hand had the name of your soulmate.
Natalie thought it sounded like bullshit.
The way people talked about it, you’d think destiny was a gift. A promise. Something wholesome.
But all Natalie heard was that your life had already been decided.
Your greatest love? Chosen.
Your greatest enemy? Chosen.
Every heartbreak, every obsession, every person who would matter enough to wreck your life, already written on your skin before you got any say in it.
People called that romantic.
Natalie called it disgusting. She hoped she’d never meet her either of them. That she’d get to decide who her greatest enemy was and who her greatest love. That she’d say a big fuck you to the universe.
It wasn’t impossible with 7 billion people on this planet.
She was thirteen when the names appeared.
Everyone said it happened painlessly.
That was a lie.
She woke in the middle of the night feeling like her wrists were burning.
Not hot. Burning, like someone was pressing a cigarette into both of them at once. She knew that feeling. She’d learned early not to make a sound when it happened.
She bit down on her sleeve so she wouldn’t scream and stumbled into the bathroom half asleep, hands shaking as she turned on the light.
Two names.
One on each wrist.
The skin around them was red and angry, the letters dark and already settled in, like they’d always been there.
She stared at the first one.
Shauna Shipman.
Her mortal enemy. Supposedly.
Natalie frowned.
She didn’t recognize it.
Good.
“Great,” she muttered, voice rough. “Stay that way.”
May we never meet, Shauna Shipman.
She closed her eyes and clenched her fists, like that could lock it in. One problem. Fine. Manageable. Avoidable, even.
Right.
Her so-called soulmate now. She took a deep saggy breath. She hoped it wasn’t a name she’d recognize. Or anyone would ever recognize. She’d seen how soulmates burned bright and fast and ended up in shitty trash trailers at the edge of the city. They burned so fast that Natalie couldn’t even remember a single happy interaction between her parents.
Please not someone I know.
Please not someone I know.
Please not someone I know.
She released a breath and peaked.
Natalie blinked.
Once.
Then again, slower.
Her brain didn’t catch up right away. It just… stalled.
She turned her left wrist over.
Shauna Shipman.
Right.
Shauna Shipman.
Left again.
Right.
Again.
And again.
And again.
It didn’t change.
Same name.
Same fucking name.
For a second, she just stood there, waiting for something to make sense.
It didn’t.
Because it didn’t make sense.
Two names meant two people. That was the whole system. The whole point. One good, one bad. Balance.
This was...What? A mistake? A punishment even.
Natalie let out a short, sharp laugh that didn’t sound like it belonged to her.
“Of course,” she muttered. “Of course mine’s broken.”
Because why wouldn’t it be?
Nothing else worked right.
Why would this?
Her chest tightened, irritation rising fast over the confusion, over the flicker of something that felt a little too close to panic.
“Pick one,” she said under her breath, staring at her wrists like they might answer. “You don’t get to be both.”
But the ink didn’t move.
Didn’t fade.
Didn’t fix itself.
Natalie dragged a hand down her face, suddenly exhausted.
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “Great. That’s just—great.”
Her mother finds her like that.
Bathroom light on. Standing too still.
The door slams open.
“What are you doing up—”
She stops.
Sees.
“Natalie.”
Natalie doesn’t turn. “Yeah?”
“Let me see.”
“I’m literally—”
“Let me see.”
Her mother crosses the room and grabs both her wrists.
Hard.
Natalie flinches. “Jesus—”
Her mother yanks them up, staring down at the names.
Her grip tightens.
It hurts.
Natalie goes still.
For a second she thinks she might get hit.
“Mom,” she says carefully.
No response. Her mother’s eyes are locked on the ink, something sharp and ugly settling into her face.
“There’s two,” Natalie says quickly, defensive now. “Same one. So it’s just—like—she’s probably just my enemy, right? Like a double thing or whatever—”
“Stop talking.”
Her mother’s fingers dig in harder.
Natalie shuts up.
“You don’t show this to anyone,” her mother says.
Natalie frowns. “Why?”
Her mother looks up.
Anger now. Not fear alone.
“Because people aren’t stupid,” she snaps. “Two girls’ names? What do you think they’re going to say?”
Natalie’s stomach tightens.
There it is again. That implication. Louder now.
She doesn’t answer. Her mother jerks her wrists slightly.
“They won’t sit around figuring out which is which,” she says. “They’ll decide for you.”
Natalie tries to pull back. Doesn’t get far.
“And your father—”
She stops.
Doesn’t need to finish. Natalie stills completely.
“Right,” she says, flat.
Her mother holds on a second longer.
Then drops her wrists like they’ve burned her. Natalie rubs at them automatically. They already ache.
“Long sleeves,” her mother says, turning away, lighting a cigarette with unsteady hands. “All the time.”
A pause. Then, under her breath “Fucking dykes…”
Natalie doesn’t react. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even look up.
She just stares at her wrists.
Shauna Shipman.
On both sides.
Same problem. Same answer.
Enemy.
It has to be.
Natalie presses her lips together hard.
“Yeah,” she mutters. “No.”
From that day on, she covers them.
She would’ve anyway.
Now she has another reason.
.
Natalie met Shauna Shipman when she was fifteen years old and immediately disliked her.
At least that, she figured, she could thank the universe for.
It let her form an opinion without interference. No staring at her wrists, no overthinking, no wondering which version of this girl she was supposed to be.
They met, and it was simple.
They didn’t like each other.
Actually no.
That was too mild. But then again hate was too strong.
Natalie would’ve bet money the feeling was mutual.
She didn’t know if her own name sat on Shauna’s wrists too. Once. Twice. Not at all. Over the years, there were moments… usually late, usually drunk…where the question hovered right there, ready to come out.
She never asked.
Didn’t care for the answer.
Point is; Natalie met Shauna Shipman at fifteen, and from that moment on, they were at each other’s throats.
.
It was the first day of soccer tryouts. Natalie wasn’t even sure why she was there.
High school teams had a way of turning everything into a performance; like it wasn’t about the game, it was about being seen playing it. The Yellowjackets were the worst of it. Winning, popular, loud about both.
Even the shitty teams like the baseball one walked around like they mattered.
Still. Natalie liked the feeling of it. The speed. The impact. That adrenaline rush when everything narrowed down to the ball and the person trying to take it from her.
And she was good. No point pretending otherwise.
So she showed up.
Stood off to the side, stretching just enough to look like she belonged, not enough to invite conversation.
That’s when she noticed her.
Brown hair pulled back tight. Already moving like she had something to prove. Not just playing for the fun of it, pressing. Every move just a little too sharp, every challenge just a little too hard. Shoulder checks that lingered half too long. Cleats a little too close.
Natalie watched her for a minute, squinting slightly.
“Try-hard,” she muttered under her breath.
It looked almost… deliberate. Controlled aggression.
Like she knew exactly how far she could push it without getting called.
Which, honestly, was worse.
.
“You” the coach pointed at her “Get in.”
Coach didn’t ask twice.
Natalie jogged onto the field, rolling her shoulders loose, already scanning.
Of course.
She ended up across from her.
Brown hair. Sharp eyes. Already watching her like she’d been waiting.
“Great,” Natalie muttered.
The whistle blew.
First contact came fast.
Natalie pushed forward, clean control, cutting left… and got clipped.
Not enough to drop her.
Just enough to throw her off.
She recovered, shot the girl a look.
The girl didn’t even pretend it was an accident.
Just gave her this flat, unimpressed stare like that all you got?
Natalie huffed out a breath.
“Okay.”
Second time wasn’t subtle.
Natalie went for the ball—got there first—
—and the girl came in hard from the side.
Too hard.
Natalie stumbled, barely stayed on her feet.
That one should’ve been called.
It wasn’t.
Natalie straightened slowly, jaw tight, brushing dirt off her shorts.
“What the hell is your problem?” she snapped.
The girl didn’t miss a beat.
“It’s not my fault you can’t keep up.”
Natalie blinked once.
Then laughed.
Short. Sharp.
“Oh, you’re one of those.”
The girl just shrugged, already turning away like the conversation wasn’t worth finishing.
That did it.
Next play; Natalie didn’t hesitate.
She went in hard.
Ball first.
But just enough force behind it to make a point.
The girl staggered half a step.
Looked up.
Something flickered in her expression.
Natalie smirked.
“Keep up,” she shot back.
After that, it escalated.
One tackle.
Then another.
Each one technically legal, but only just.Pushing the line. Testing it. The girl came back harder.
Bitch
Natalie matched it.
Again.
Again.
Again.
The game blurred at the edges, everything narrowing down to just the two of them and the space between. Natalie could feel it building, heartbeat faster, sharper, that familiar rush sliding under her skin.
God, this was…
Fun.
Annoying as hell.
Infuriating.
But fun.
Because the girl wasn’t backing down.
Wasn’t whining. Wasn’t looking at the coach every five seconds for a call. She just kept coming.
And Natalie met her every time. Harder. Closer. Dirtier.
“Cut it out!”
The whistle cut through sharp.
They both slowed, breathing heavier now, staring each other down like neither of them had actually heard it.
“Enough with the dirty plays,” the coach snapped, stepping closer. “Both of you.”
A beat.
“Names.”
Natalie didn’t look away.
“Natalie Scatorccio.”
The girl held her gaze.
“Shauna Shipman.”
.
By the next year, it isn’t even a question.
They just—have it out for each other.
No buildup. No reason anyone else can point to. It’s just there, constant, like background noise everyone’s gotten used to tuning out.
.
A missed goal.
Of course it’s a missed goal.
Natalie cuts through clean, pushes past two defenders, sends the ball across. Perfect angle, right where it needs to be.
Shauna hesitates.
Half a second.
That’s all it takes.
The shot goes wide.
Natalie stops dead, staring at her like she must’ve imagined it.
“What was that?” Shauna snaps first, already turning on her.
Natalie actually laughs. “You’re kidding.”
“It was a bad pass.”
“It was right in front of you.”
“It was off.”
Natalie takes a step closer. “You froze.”
Shauna’s eyes narrow. “I adjusted.”
“You missed.”
A beat.
They’re too close now. Again.
(Always)
“Maybe if you had any control—”
“Maybe if you had any instinct—”
“Enough!” coach yells from somewhere.
Neither of them looks away right away.
Of course not.
.
Another day.
Jackie’s talking. Shauna’s listening like she’s being personally addressed by God.
Natalie watches for a minute longer than she means to.
Then she just can’t keep it. Shauna has that effect on her. “Jesus Christ.”
Shauna glances over. “What?”
Natalie shrugs, casual. “Nothing. Just didn’t realize we were doing this whole—” she gestures vaguely between them, “—loyal doggy thing you are doing.”
Jackie frowns. “I’m just—”
“Not talking to you, Jackie” Natalie cuts in, still looking at Shauna.
That does it.
“What’s your problem?” Shauna asks.
“My problem?” Natalie tilts her head. “You ever think for yourself, or is that, like, optional? Only when Jackie is not around”
“Okay I think we need to—” Jackie tries to intervene.
Shauna steps forward. “Fuck you Nat. At least I show up and play. I am not a fucking ticking bomb”
“Bullshit. I am always there when I must” Natalie says. “You just only mention it when it suits you.”
“Yes keep telling yourself that Nat” Shauna scoffs and takes a step closer “As if you haven’t lost a dozen of game planning meetings to do God knows what.”
Natalie raises to the challenge “At least I don’t need Jackie to hold my hand through it.”
That hits.
Good.
Shauna’s expression tightens. “Better than showing up half-drunk and screwing everything up.”
Natalie’s smile drops.
“Careful,” she says.
“Or what?”
They’re close again.
Always back here.
They always end up too close.
Natalie doesn’t step back.
She can almost smell—
Cherries.
The thought hits out of nowhere.
Natalie frowns slightly, like that’s the offensive part of this.
Then she scoffs and looks away first, like she’s bored.
.
.
For once. For the first time since she’s met her…
…it isn’t Shauna’s fault.
Natalie knows it. Knows it the second the whistle blows, the second the score locks at 2–1, the second the game ends and there’s nothing left to argue about.
The tackle had been bad, yeah.
Reckless. But necessary.
Van blocked the penalty.
If it had been anyone else…Natalie would’ve shrugged, spat on the ground, said good call.
Left it there. But it’s not about the game. It hasn’t been for a while.
.
Everything’s been wrong.
Her dad.
the sound ; bang
the way it doesn’t leave, no matter how much she tries to drown it out. She closes her eyes and she can hear it. Bang
She opens them and she can see his blood.
Her mom—
meaner lately, sharper, like she’s looking for something to break.
She always thought that their relationship couldn’t get wrong after that night in the bathroom. She was wrong.
And School’s a joke.
Soccer’s supposed to be the one thing that makes sense and even that feels off, like she’s a step behind herself all the time.
Like she’s going to crack open if something doesn’t give.
Natalie walks into the locker room already tight with it. Too tight. Her ribs are holding something in that doesn’t want to stay there.
She needs. Something. Anything.
Or she’s going to explode.
.
Shauna walks in.
Alone.
Of course.
The door shuts behind her.
And that’s it.
That’s all it takes. “That was stupid.” It comes out sharp. Loud in the empty room.
Shauna stops mid-step. Looks at her.
“Excuse me?”
Natalie doesn’t even pretend. “That tackle. What the hell was that?”
“It stopped the goal.”
“And then what?” Natalie snaps. “We just…what? Win with ten players?”
“We weren’t winning,” Shauna shoots back.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“I made the call that needed to be made.”
Natalie laughs, but there’s nothing funny in it. “God, you really believe that, don’t you?”
Shauna’s eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Natalie steps closer.
Because she wants to.
Because she needs to.
“Means you love this,” she says. “Big plays. Big moments. Acting like you’re in charge of everything.”
“I’m not—”
“You act like it,” Natalie cuts in.
“At least I do something when it matters.”
“There it is,” Natalie says. “That ego again.”
“And it seems that only I have one.”
“At least I don’t pretend I’m captain when I’m not.” Nat spats.
Shauna goes still.
It hurt. Good.
Natalie doesn’t stop. She needed to get rid of this hurt. She needed to get it out. And Shauna was the reason she was feeling like this. Because if it wasn’t for the stupid mark he wouldn’t—
And she wouldn’t have—
And he would have been alive.
“You’re not leading anything,” she says, quieter now. “You’re just hovering? Right next to Jackie, hoping it rubs off?”
That hits.
Natalie sees it. Pushes harder.
“Must be sad,” she adds. “Never having to actually be the one people look at. Just stand there, nod along—”
“Shut up.”
“No, seriously,” Natalie keeps going, voice sharper now, faster, because she can feel it building, that pressure finally cracking open, “It’s not you who is the captain Shauna. It’s Jackie.”
“Shut the fuck up, Nat.”
“Or what?” Natalie steps right into her space. “You’ll tackle me too? Ask your owner for permission first. Oh wait she is on a date and doesn’t give shit about you”
At this point Natalie is just saying things to hurt Shauna. She doesn’t even know why…there is all this rage inside of her that just—
Shauna moves. Fast. Not a punch. Just enough to shove her back hard. Natalie stumbles, then immediately surges forward again. Hands grabbing, pushing back.
“Yeah, there you go,” she snaps. “That’s all you’ve got Shipman”
“At least I’m not a fucking burnout” Shauna fires back, grabbing her jersey.
“Oh, we’re doing that now?” Natalie says, breath sharp.
“You show up like this and expect no one to notice?”
“Notice what?” Natalie challenges. “Go on.”
“That you’re screwed up half the time—”
“Say it.”
A beat.
“You and Bobby,” Shauna says. “Your legs not working well from too much kneeling?”
That lands. Hard. Natalie’s vision sharpens.
Focus narrows.
“Yeah?” she says, low. “At least I’m not stuck being someone’s shadow.”
She knows were to hit.
Shauna’s grip tightens.
“Say that again.”
“You heard me,” Natalie shoots back. “All that pretending…like you’re important when you’re just boring”
Shauna snaps. It’s messy. Not a clean fight. Hands, shoulders, pushing, grabbing, half-wrestling, half trying to shut the other up.
Natalie goes at her hard, fueled by everything that’s been sitting in her chest all day, all week
everything she hasn’t said
everything she can’t fix
It spills out through her hands instead. To her destined enemy. (Or soulmate)
She can take it and Nat lets it all out. Shauna meets it. Doesn’t back down. Pushes back just as hard. Fights as hard.
But she’s stronger. More grounded. Natalie feels it when Shauna shifts, uses her weight, turns it and suddenly Natalie’s the one being forced back.
Her spine hits the lockers.
Air knocks out of her just enough to stall her.
Shauna’s hands close around her wrists.
Pinning them.
Hard.
Natalie inhales sharply.
It’s not pain.
Not exactly.
But her wrists.
They burn.
Not like before. Not like that first night. This is different.
Hotter. Sharper. Kinder.
Her breath catches.
For a second, everything just;
stops.
Shauna’s right there.
Too close.
Always too damn close.
No space at all.
Natalie can feel her grip, the pressure right over the skin where the names sit, like something’s being pressed into place instead of carved out.
Her pulse jumps.
Too fast.
Too loud.
She doesn’t pull away.
Doesn’t move. Just stays there. Looking at her.
Shauna’s breathing hard too. (Do you feel that too?)
Eyes locked on hers. Not angry. Not just angry.
Something else mixed in. Same as before. Stronger now.
Natalie’s brain stutters. There’s a split second;
small, stupid, completely out of place, where something shifts.
Where instead of pushing back instead of breaking away—
she wonders; what if she didn’t?
What if she just closed the gap.
Shut her up properly.
Not because it’s Shauna.
Not that. Just because she’s tired of this.
Tired of always fighting. Tired of everything being sharp and painful and wrong.
Just something else, for once.
The thought hits and Natalie recoils from it immediately.
“Let go,” she mutters under her breath, more to herself than anything.
Shauna’s grip loosens.
Just slightly. Like she felt it shift too. Natalie yanks her hands free. Steps back fast.
Too fast. The space between them feels wrong now.
Neither of them speaks..
They just stand there.
Breathing.
Staring.
Like something almost happened and neither of them knows what it was. Or what to do with it.
Natalie grabs her bag. Doesn’t look at her again.
“Next time,” she mutters, heading for the door, “try not to screw it up.”
It sounds weaker than it should.
She hates that.
The door slams behind her.
And the whole way out, her wrists still feel off.
She shoves her hands into her sleeves.