The locker room door slammed behind Soarin, nearly drowning out the stadium’s still-roaring crowd. The Wonderbolts derby was over, but he could still hear the flap of the starter’s flag. He could still feel the wind in his mane and see the fast-approaching finish line.
He could still sense Fleetfoot edging past him.
His sweaty flight suit landed on the ground, and he gave it an angry kick towards the row of lockers on the far wall. Tiny, cider-guzzling Fleetfoot beat him. Where was she at sunrise when he was tearing around the skies over the barracks, or after hours when he practiced their flight routines? “How’d I come in third?”
The door flew open as Spitfire stormed in, eyebrows knit into a scowl that could turn a storm cloud white. “What the hay was that, Soarin?”
He tipped his head back, groaning. “Not now, Spitfire. I’m kind of—”
“You’d better be about to say bleeding or on fire, because why the hay else would you leave before we could take our team victory lap?”
“I—”
She hovered over him, their noses inches apart. “The Wonderbolts are a team! I’ve been saying that for months, and you're still dragging us down!”
Soarin rolled his eyes and turned away. “Yeah, you’re always shouting that, but nopony’s listening. Fleetfoot’s bed smells like an apple orchard, the only time you’re not yelling at us is during shows, half the time Blaze is asleep… There’s no teamwork.”
Spitfire’s goggles smashed against the locker next to him.
He glanced back at her red-faced glare, but only for a moment. “You heard me.”
“That’s not true. Take it back.” She wasn’t shouting, but somehow her somber tone carried more anger and menace than if she'd been using a megaphone.
“No.”
“You want to know why Fleetfoot and I destroyed you today?”
He did. “No.”
She hovered closer, close enough for her breath to tickle his ear. “We’re actually trying.”
A chill swept through him. He hunched down, away from her words, before regaining enough defiance to turn and face her. “Hey! I’m up at sunrise every day! I practice late into the—”
“Since when?”
“Since my first day on the team!” Now he was shouting.
“And then what happened?”
“I was out there doing laps just this m—” his own memory caught up with his mouth “—I mean last… uh…”
It hadn’t been that long, had it? A few less wingups one day, skipping early morning laps the next, and a little extra to eat shouldn’t have turned into anything bad. It shouldn’t have, and yet he couldn't remember the last morning that didn't begin and end with pastries instead of practice.
“The rest of us are all out there busting our tails while you’re getting more breakfast. I don’t say anything because that’s your free time, just like when Blaze naps and Fleetfoot parties. The difference is you’re hurting our public image, you pie-eating baby.”
She pointed to a poster on the wall, an illustration of three pegasi flying over the Wonderbolts insignia. “That’s our team right there: the image of ponies in perfect formation, moving as one. I’ll keep shouting that until I lose my voice if I have to, because that’s what matters!”
Fleetfoot stepped through the doorway and groaned. “Oh, no. We’re not doing this again!”
Spitfire and Soarin turned in time to see her step out, shut the door, and lock it. Her voice floated through it a moment later. “You two are fixing whatever’s got you riled up right now, because I’m not putting up with another month of whining and shouting like after the Gala. You’re both staying in there until I hear apologizing or moaning. Got that?”
Spitfire slammed her shoulder against the door, which didn’t budge. “I’m bucking this thing down, Fleetfoot!”
“Ooh, say it louder! I don’t think all the reporter ponies coming to interview me can hear! This is for your own good, Spits.”
Soarin couldn’t help smiling. “It’s just our free time, Captain. It doesn’t matter what we do, right?”
Spitfire rounded on him. “This is different! Didn't you always used to be the one talking about integrity, teamwork, and something?”
His smile vanished. He looked at his discarded flight suit and thought back to his nearly abandoned morning ritual. “Perseverance.”
“So what happened, Soarin? Six months ago there was no stopping you. You were dedicated, and fast, and couldn’t stop chanting ‘integrity, teamwork, perseverance’ every morning in the barracks. Nopony’s come up through the ranks like that since me. Why do you think the fans call you one of the top three Wonderbolts?”
The floor felt cold when he sat down. All the sweating he’d done during the race would have him shivering soon. Worse still, he felt tired. He never used to feel tired, not unless he flew a marathon. The derby race had been ten laps around a small track; he should’ve been able to do twenty laps without breaking a sweat. “The Grand Galloping Gala happened.”
Silence hung in the air, just as he knew it would. Spitfire never talked about the Gala, and by silent agreement neither did he.
“That was just a big mistake,” she whispered.
“Huge.”
“And… and I figured you of all ponies would get that the rulebook is there for a reason… and you’d be able to put what happened behind us so we can be better Wonderbolts… a better team.”
There was that word again. “Heh, us… a team…”
“Don’t you start…” her voice rose, but not to a shout. That alone was an improvement.
“So the… mistake at the Gala… You figured that was just a one-time thing?”
She nodded, her familiar smile and her equally familiar anger replaced by simple contrition. “I’m sorry, all right? Afterwards I swore to myself I’d be a better captain from then on, and that means putting the team first… putting teamwork first.”
He nodded too. There was no point in saying anything else about it, about how he’d wondered ever since if one time could’ve turned into two, or three, or a hundred.
She held out a hoof and offered a smile. “Are we good?”
Her hoof beckoned to him. He stared at it, at her, and at his flight suit. The three words he’d once lived and flown by echoed in his ears. “No.”
Her eyebrows shot up and her ears drooped. That must have hurt. “But…”
“Permission to take a leave of absence, Captain? I need to clear my head, fix my eating habits, train harder… I’ll come back a better Wonderbolt.”
And if I can’t, I won’t come back at all.
Spitfire stared at him, her expression blank. “Okay… Granted.”
Soarin turned to the door and called to Fleetfoot. “We’re done fighting! Let us out!”
“Hey,” Spitfire whispered, a touch of worry creeping into her voice, “We’ll catch up in my office, whenever you're ready to come back. Deal?”
He nodded. Maybe he'd be back in a week. Maybe he'd never see her again. “Deal.”