They meet at the edge of the woods behind the Cons’ home rink, as usual. It’s 8:30 in the morning and the just-risen sun highlights the frost on the branches and hanging in the air, covering the world in a hazy, surreal glitter. It’s November, cold now and getting colder. Wheeljack’s been in sweatpants for a month. Soon, Starscream might even stop wearing shorts everywhere.
“Who’s filling in for you on first line?” Wheeljack asks as Starscream comes around the corner.
“Hello to you, too.” Starscream kicks a chunk of ice out of the path. “Why so sure I’m not playing?”
Wheeljack gestures to Starscream’s face. She’s got a black eye and a scabbed-over scrape running up the same temple. “No way there’s not a concussion to go with that. And you’re wearing makeup.” She shivers at the sight of Starscream’s bare legs under her basketball shorts, her breath freezing in the air between them. Too fucking cold for that. She takes a sip of her coffee. “Good morning, by the way.”
Starscream holds a hand out for the coffee. “Too much cream. Needs more sugar.”
“Make your own, then.” Wheeljack takes the thermos back and takes another sip. Starscream left a lipstick print on the rim.
“Slipstream’s coming up to center Warp and TC,” Starscream says. “Third line wings’ll get rotated in with Onslaught’s line, which they’re not happy about.” Wheeljack gives her a blank look, and she clarifies, “Number 47, the skinny one with the long hair. She’s going to center Skywarp and Thundercracker.”
“Oh.” Wheeljack turns that over in her head, replacing Starscream’s sharp hit-and-run style with 47’s quick plays. She’ll have to let everyone know during warmups. Without Starscream, it’ll be easier to keep an eye out for Thundercracker’s slapshots, but Slipstream and Skywarp will be dangerously fast on the attack. “Ratchet pulled a hamstring at practice on Thursday,” she offers. “She’s still slow to get down on the left.”
Starscream nods. She pulls a protein bar out of her jacket pocket and unwraps it, breaking it in two and handing the top half to Wheeljack. She takes a bite and chews contemplatively, looking out into the parking lot. Optimus and Prowl just pulled in. They’ve got another ten minutes, maybe.
“What happened?”
Starscream goes to rub her eye, then thinks better of it and tucks a nonexistent stray hair back under her hat instead. “Oswego last weekend. That one girl’s got it out for me.”
“How’d you end up with a black eye?”
Starscream takes another bite and mumbles something incomprehensible.
Wheeljack presses her lips together, trying not to laugh. “Starscream.”
“Wheeljack.”
She’s losing the fight with the laughter. “Starscream. You’re suspended, aren’t you?” Starscream says nothing, and Wheeljack bursts out laughing. “Ha! Why’d you take your helmet off, dipshit?”
Starscream blushes an indignant red and shoves Wheeljack’s shoulder. “Shut up! I wasn’t just going to stand there and take it! And she took the gloves off first. What was I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know, not take your helmet off?” Wheeljack nearly drops her protein bar laughing. “You know, I don’t really blame her. Your face is very punchable. Especially when you glare at me like that.”
Starscream shoves her again. She’s laughing now, too. When Wheeljack slips and falls into the snowbank she grabs Starscream by the edge of her jacket and pulls her down with her. They fall in a laughing, shrieking tangle. Starscream lands on top of her, breathlessly cursing her out between peels of laughter. The snow’s cold, Wheeljack thinks, but God, if Starscream’s this warm all the time, she understands how she wears shorts all winter.