The warm, mouthwatering aroma of hay fries and veggie stir-fry filled the Wonderbolts’ mess hall, making the team practically float to the table on the scent alone. Plates were piled high, and Soarin looked particularly starry-eyed at the sight of an entire tray of fresh rolls stacked up just for him—or so he assumed. Fleetfoot slid in between Blaze and High Winds, her stomach growling loud enough to turn a few heads.

“Easy, Fleet, don’t eat the table,” Blaze snickered, elbowing her.

“Table’s looking like dessert if you don’t let me at those hay fries,” Fleetfoot shot back, already reaching across for a loaded plate. As everypony dug in, conversation was mostly muffled between bites, grunts of approval, and the occasional skirmish over the last roll (which Soarin expertly swiped three times in a row before Spitfire finally slapped his hoof away).

“Not bad for a day’s work,” Spitfire said eventually, looking around at the satisfied faces of her team. “We’re shaping up fast this season.”

“It’s the food,” Soarin declared, munching on yet another roll like it was his life source. “Rolls are Wonderbolt fuel, simple as that.”

Blaze snorted. “Or maybe it’s the sugar rush from all those pies you sneak in on the weekends.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Soarin defended, holding up his hooves. “That’s called ‘strategic reserves.’ I’m just preparing for emergencies.”

Fleetfoot burst out laughing. “Oh sure, Soar. You keep an apple pie in your locker in case of, what, a dessert shortage?”

“Exactly,” he replied, feigning seriousness. “It’s called thinking ahead.”

Spitfire rolled her eyes, snatching the roll right out of Soarin’s hoof. “Yeah? Well, think about leaving some ‘strategic reserves’ for the rest of us. Some ponies still haven’t had dessert yet.”

Soarin’s jaw dropped as he watched his precious roll vanish onto Spitfire’s plate, but he managed a shrug, leaning back like he was totally unfazed. “Fine, more hay fries for me anyway.”

Blaze groaned. “Spitfire, please, keep him away from the carbs. We need him to actually fly tomorrow, not nap mid-loop.”

They all laughed, leaning back with full bellies and lighter spirits after a tough day of training. Fleetfoot felt a wave of nostalgia, thinking back to her early days with the team—the jokes, the stories, the bonding over food after grueling practice. It felt like home. But then Soarin, who had the uncanny ability to miss tension even when it was slapping him in the face, had to go and bring up something that froze the table mid-laugh.

“Oh, and speaking of old friends,” Soarin started, chomping on a fry, “you won’t believe who Surprise ran into yesterday—Ray Dancer. Apparently, she’s back in Cloudsdale.”

The table went dead silent. Even the hay fries seemed to stop sizzling in anticipation. Spitfire’s ears perked, her usually relaxed posture going stiff as she put on the poker face of the century, casually taking a sip of her drink like the news was no big deal. “Ray’s back?” she asked in a voice that almost sounded relaxed—if you didn’t notice her white-knuckling her glass. “Huh. Didn’t think she’d show her face around here again after… well, you know.” Fleetfoot shot Soarin a look that screamed Read the room, Soar, but he was oblivious.

“Yeah, Surprise spotted her with Thunderstrike,” he continued, blissfully unaware of the glances everyone was now shooting each other. “They were at some fancy place. Can you imagine Thunderstrike wining and dining? Probably ate a salad with a side of, like, macho posturing.”

Blaze coughed to cover a laugh, but everypony else was stealing wary glances at Spitfire. She set her glass down with a little more force than she meant, causing a slight rattle that made Soarin finally raise an eyebrow. Spitfire gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Thunderstrike and Ray Dancer, huh? Guess some things never change. He always did have a knack for keeping ponies around longer than they intended.”

Fleetfoot caught a flicker of something in Spitfire’s eyes—nostalgia, annoyance, maybe indigestion; it was hard to tell. Blaze, ever the blunt one, stepped in to lighten the mood.

“Well, hey, good for them, I guess. If Ray’s back, maybe she’ll swing by HQ. Y’know, just to catch up, have a roll or two.”

High Winds raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of his drink. “Catching up could be fun. Maybe we’ll see her at the next show, throw her a few snacks to see if she still remembers us.”

Fleetfoot finally joined in, trying to keep her voice light. “Who knows? Ray’s never been one to just pop in out of the blue. She’s probably off doing her own thing somewhere.” She glanced at Spitfire, who was suddenly very focused on her empty plate. The silence that followed was thick, each of them lost in memories of Ray and wondering what her sudden return might mean. After a long pause, Spitfire finally broke the quiet, clearing her throat and forcing a faint, almost-too-casual smile.

“Wherever she is, hope she’s doing all right. And if she wants to catch up…” She shrugged. “Then maybe we’ll see her around.”

For a second, the table was silent, each pony absorbing Spitfire’s words. But then Soarin, trying his best to inject some lightheartedness, grinned and nudged Blaze. “So, about that time you nearly flew into the bleachers during a show. Care to explain the technique?”

Blaze rolled her eyes. “Oh please, like your ‘freestyle tumble’ was any better. Half the crowd thought you were performing acrobatics. The other half thought you were about to faceplant.”

The mood lightened as laughter filled the mess hall again, and High Winds jumped in with a dramatic retelling of his solo debut, during which he’d forgotten his goggles and spent the entire routine squinting into the wind, somehow managing not to crash—barely. Fleetfoot joined in, but her thoughts kept drifting back to Ray. She glanced over at Spitfire, who was listening to the banter with a faint, far-off look in her eyes, the usual edge softened just a bit.

Finally, as they got up to clear their plates, Fleetfoot lingered behind, catching Spitfire just as she was about to leave.

“You good, Spitfire?” she asked, keeping her tone casual.

Spitfire raised an eyebrow, surprised, but gave a small nod. “Yeah. Just… hearing Ray’s name brought back a few memories. Nothing I can’t handle.”

Fleetfoot nodded, giving her a friendly nudge. “Think she’ll show up around here?”

Spitfire shrugged, a flicker of her usual confidence returning. “Who knows? If she does, we’ll handle it—just like always.”

With that, she gave Fleetfoot a firm nod before heading out, leaving Fleetfoot alone with her thoughts. The day had ended on a high note, but Fleetfoot could feel something unresolved, a new tension creeping into the team’s easygoing flow. Whatever the next few days would bring, one thing was for sure: if Ray Dancer did decide to show up, the Wonderbolts were in for a wild ride.

Author's Note

this one's a bit shorter, hope it's still good tho :)