The moment Madison and I stepped out of my bedroom, I knew we were catastrophically, irreparably fucked. And not in the fun, hour-long Olympic event we'd just wrapped up. No— this was the kind of fucked that comes with family witnesses and emotional trauma.
Madison was limping. Limping. Every step she took was basically a public service announcement for what we'd been doing.
Her hair looked like it had survived a hurricane and a car wash at the same time, mascara running down her face like she'd been front-row at a Nicholas Sparks movie marathon. She was glowing, smirking, radiating "yeah, I got wrecked" energy like it was her new perfume.
And of course, the audience: Mom, Sarah, and Emma. Standing there. Watching. Judging. Breathing my oxygen.
Emma was frozen on the couch where I'd left her, face redder than a TikTok kid after an energy drink overdose. Her eyes flicked from Madison's limp… to my jeans, which were currently failing spectacularly at hiding my post-game problem.
