Highway to Elle
Chapter 11: Altered State
by Paige Turner

Logan stared at his reflection in the mirror of the team locker room, the now-familiar ritual of pregame readiness underway. The Westridge Academy Elite cheerleaders were preparing for their final and most important performance of the football season—the State Championship game against Central Valley High. The atmosphere crackled with an electric mix of anticipation and anxiety.

"Five minutes, ladies!" Coach Winters called through the door. "Final uniform check and then we're on the field!"

"These championship uniforms are seriously next level," Madison whispered, carefully applying a final coat of setting spray to her performance makeup. "The rhinestones alone probably cost more than our tuition."

"Worth it," Alexis replied confidently, adjusting her royal blue bow with exacting precision. "We need to stand out on camera. This is being broadcast nationwide."

Logan nervously smoothed invisible wrinkles from the special uniform, a sleek design that Westridge had commissioned specifically for the playoff run. The royal blue and white ensemble perfectly balanced athletic functionality with eye-catching details that would stand out under the stadium lights.

The uniform consisted of two precisely engineered layers working in concert to create a seamless look. The foundation was a cropped, mock turtleneck compression body liner intended to help the cheerleaders preserve some amount of body heat against the cold December night. It hugged his transformed physique like a second skin, the spandex-blend material creating an almost suffocating embrace that squeezed against his body with each breath.

Over this base layer, a sleeveless royal blue shell top exposed several inches of his midriff. A sharp white V-shaped accent cut across the neckline, framing "WARRIORS" emblazoned in bold white letters across his chest, the modern blocky typeface emphasizing school pride. The royal blue fabric felt almost rigid against his skin as it molded to his enhanced chest, the high-performance material engineered to maintain its shape through even the most demanding stunts.

Tiny rhinestones were embedded throughout both pieces of fabric, creating a subtle sparkle effect that caught the light with every movement without appearing gaudy.

The matching high-waisted royal blue skirt sat snugly against his waist, its clean A-line silhouette offering a contemporary look. A white chevron accent along the bottom hem provided visual continuity with the top, while a subtle side slit allowed for mobility during complex routines.

Logan had initially balked at the uniform's revealing design, but months into his role as featured flyer, such concerns had become secondary to the practical requirements of performance. The precision engineering that made the garment perform so exceptionally also meant it tracked every centimeter of his body with relentless attention. The high-performance materials showcased his transformation, the design highlighting rather than disguising the artificial femininity Dr. Gupta had engineered.

The past few weeks had been a whirlwind of intensified practice and mounting excitement as the Westridge Academy Warriors advanced through each round of the state playoffs. Logan had found himself fully absorbed in championship preparations, his body responding to the increased training demands with the same athletic discipline that had once made him a star receiver.

Alongside the physical preparation, Logan had been navigating the social complications that arose with the team's success. Chase Montgomery, the star wide receiver whose acrobatic catches had propelled Westridge through the semifinals, had been increasingly present in Logan's orbit. Since the moment at homecoming when Chase had helped him escape from Ethan's unwanted advances, the football player had shown a persistent interest that was becoming increasingly difficult to avoid.

What had begun as casual hallway greetings had escalated to direct messages on Instagram, invitations to study together, and "coincidental" appearances wherever Logan happened to be on campus. The school rumor mill had already paired them in whispered conversations and knowing glances, despite Logan's careful maintenance of polite distance.

"Chase was looking for you after practice yesterday," Alexis mentioned casually as she adjusted her championship bow. "He said he wanted to know if you were coming to his party after the game tonight."

"I know," Logan replied, discomfort evident in Elle's higher register. "He's been, like, everywhere lately."

"Because he's totally into you," Madison interjected, picking at her hair in the mirror. "The way he looks at you during pep rallies is seriously intense."

"Half the cheer squad would literally die to be in your position," Tiffany added, sliding into the conversation. "Chase Montgomery is basically royalty at Westridge."

Logan forced a noncommittal smile, unwilling to engage with their romantic speculation. How could he explain the fundamental impossibility of the situation? That the person Chase was pursuing didn't actually exist? That "Elle Turner" was merely an elaborate disguise forced upon him by GIRLI's invasive technology?

"Elle, you look pale," Alexis said, appearing at his side. "Everything okay?"

"Just nervous," Logan replied, grateful for the change of subject. "There's going to be, like, sooo many people watching."

"You've been flawless in practice all week," Alexis assured him, adjusting a strand of his copper hair. "Just focus on your counts and let muscle memory take over."

Muscle memory. The phrase struck Logan with bitter irony. His body now contained two sets of athletic memories—the original football instincts, buried but not entirely erased, and the newer, artificially programmed cheerleading movements that emerged with disturbing ease. Sometimes he wondered if his body remembered being Logan at all, or if those memories were gradually fading like outdated software.

"Squad circle!" Coach Winters announced, gathering the team for their pre-game huddle. The cheerleaders formed a tight knot, arms draped over each other's shoulders, a ritual of solidarity before every performance.

"This is what we've trained for," Coach said, her expression bright with excitement. "This is our moment to show everyone what Westridge Elite is made of! I want to see your biggest smiles, your highest energy, and your absolute best performances tonight. Remember, we're here to support our team, but that doesn't mean we can't showcase our own incredible talent too."

The girls nodded eagerly, feeding off Coach Winters' enthusiasm.

"Our bases," she continued, making eye contact with the stronger girls who formed the foundation of their stunts, "stay solid and communicate. Our tumblers," she turned to another group, "hit those passes clean and powerful. Our dancers," she nodded toward several others, "keep those movements sharp and synchronized."

Her gaze finally swept to the smallest members of the squad. "And our flyers," she said, her eyes locking with Logan's, "show them what it means to truly soar. You're the ones they'll remember, so make it count."

Logan felt his teammates' eyes on him, knowing he was featured prominently in their routines. The weight of their collective trust settled on his shoulders with unexpected heaviness. Despite the bizarre circumstances that had brought him here, he found himself genuinely not wanting to let down his teammates.

"I'm ready," he replied with more confidence than he felt.

Coach Winters nodded once, satisfied. "Elite on three!"

The team stacked their hands in the center of their circle.

"One, two, THREE!"

"ELITE!" they shouted in unison, breaking the huddle with a collective surge of energy that even Logan couldn't help but feel.

The roar hit them the moment they emerged from the tunnel—a wall of sound from thousands of spectators packed into the stands. Logan was hit with a wave of déjà vu as he stepped onto the field of Westlake Stadium—the neutral site chosen for the championship game. This was the college stadium where he had played countless games before his injury at Westlake University. Now he returned as "Elle Turner," a Westridge Academy cheerleader. The familiar sight of the stadium from this altered perspective sent a disorienting ripple through his sense of self.

The night air carried the tang of excitement, the smell of popcorn and hot chocolate mixing with the crisp December breeze. Westlake Stadium, significantly larger than Westridge Academy's home field, was filled to capacity, with fans crowding every section of the enormous venue. News cameras had been positioned at strategic points to capture the State Championship in its entirety.

Logan's gaze swept across the crowded stadium, subconsciously calculating the increased audience size. During regular season games, a capacity crowd usually meant a few hundred spectators. Tonight, the historic game had drawn alumni, parents, and football fans from across the state. Every seat was filled, with additional spectators standing in the aisles and gathered around the field perimeter. Logan felt the sudden pressure of performing before a roaring mass of thousands.

The opening ceremonies began with typical pageantry—the presentation of the state flag, the national anthem, and the introduction of dignitaries. Throughout it all, the Elite Squad maintained their performance smiles, their bodies poised in picture-perfect formation. When the announcer finally introduced the teams, the crowd erupted, battle lines clearly drawn between Westridge blue and Central Valley red.

As the football teams crashed through their respective banners onto the field, Logan experienced a disorienting moment of memory collision. He had made that entrance countless times in his previous life—sprinting onto this very same field with his Westlake University teammates, helmet held high, the roar of the crowd fueling his competitive fire. Now he watched from the sidelines, a spectator to the athletic glory he'd once claimed as his own.

For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to imagine he was still playing for Westlake, charging onto the field in his football uniform rather than standing at the sidelines in a cheerleading skirt. But the fantasy crumbled as quickly as it formed. The breeze against his bare legs, the weight of his ponytail pulling on his scalp, and the press of the sports bra against his augmented chest served as inescapable reminders of his transformed reality.

"Warriors on three!" Alexis called out, and the squad broke into their opening sideline cheer as the football teams took their positions for kickoff.

Logan's body moved through the familiar motions—the precise arm movements, the synchronized chants, the sharp transitions between formations. The routines didn't seem as automatic these days—less a programmed output of GIRLI's conditioning and more the result of months of repetition with the squad. His voice called out cheers in perfect pitch with the other girls, his muscles responded to the practiced cues without conscious thought, and his face maintained Elle's bright, engaging smile without effort.

The first quarter progressed with both teams trading possessions but neither gaining a decisive advantage. Across the field, the two school bands engaged in their own battle, trading fight songs that clashed and overlapped in a cacophony of brass and percussion. The Central Valley Marching Hawks would blast their fight song, only to be answered moments later by the Westridge Warrior Band's counter-melody, creating a musical tug-of-war that mirrored the on-field competition.

During a brief pause between cheers, Tiffany nudged Logan's arm. "That was an amazing play! Did you see how they set up that screen pass?"

Logan blinked, suddenly realizing he had been watching the crowd's reaction rather than the actual play. "Oh, um, yeah. Totally amazing," he replied vaguely, with no idea what had actually happened on the field.

"The way they sold that fake was insane," Tiffany continued enthusiastically. "I bet Central Valley wasn't expecting that at all!"

"Right, the fake," Logan echoed with a nod, wondering when he'd stopped paying attention to the technical aspects of football altogether. Just months ago, he would have been analyzing every play, but now the specifics barely registered.

By halftime, the score was tied 14-14, both teams playing with championship intensity. The crowd remained energized, filling the stadium with competing chants and rhythmic stomping that vibrated through the metal bleachers. As the teams headed to the locker rooms, the Elite Squad took the field for their championship halftime performance.

The minutes that followed were a blur of finely tuned precision—their competition-level routine executed flawlessly under the stadium lights. Logan's featured aerial sequence drew particular applause, his body lifting through the air in a series of increasingly complex tosses that showcased his "optimal parameters" to their full advantage. When it was over, the stadium erupted with appreciation, even Central Valley supporters acknowledging the technical excellence of their performance.

The teams returned to the field for the second half, reinvigorated by their brief rest. As the third quarter began, Logan found himself entranced by the spectacle around him rather than the game itself. From his position on the sideline, he noticed details he'd never appreciated as a player—the intricate choreography of the referees as they moved in concert with the flow of play, the synchronized movements of the photographers tracking the action, the elaborate dance of the chain crew marking first downs. He found himself captivated by the rhythmic swaying of the crowd as they reacted to each play in waves of emotion, rising and falling like a human ocean.

Logan found his attention magnetically drawn to the spectators. He caught himself cataloging the crowd's micro-expressions—the tightening around eyes during third downs, the unconscious leaning forward before crucial plays, the synchronized intake of breath at near-interceptions. Where once he'd processed this stadium as a backdrop to his own performance, now he read it like a living emotional barometer, sensing the invisible currents of anticipation, dread, and elation flowing through sections of blue and red.

By the fourth quarter, Westridge had taken a tentative lead on two field goals, only for Central Valley to start driving downfield with just under five minutes remaining. The stadium rumbled with tension as fans on both sides rose to their feet, unable to remain seated while the action unfolded. Logan realized he was genuinely invested in the outcome, his cheers no longer a performance but a sincere expression of support.

Central Valley's lengthy drive seemed to stall at Westridge 20-yard line. Their kicker emerged to kick a field goal, only to fake the kick and throw a touchdown pass instead. The daring play gave Central a valley a 24-20 lead with barely two minutes remaining.

"Time out Westridge!" the announcer's voice boomed through the stadium speakers.

As the teams huddled with their coaches, Coach Winters called the cheerleaders together for a quick formation change. "Timeout routine, now!" she commanded. "Keep the energy up! They need us more than ever!"

The squad immediately shifted into their high-energy timeout performance, designed specifically to maintain crowd enthusiasm during breaks in play. Logan found himself at the center of their formation, executing sharp, synchronized movements that drew the audience's attention and encouraged their participation. The stadium responded, clapping and stamping in time with their routine, the collective energy building as the cheerleaders worked to create an atmosphere of unstoppable momentum.

As the timeout ended and the players returned to the field, Logan caught glimpses of their determined expressions. He recognized that look—the focused intensity of athletes who refused to concede defeat, the same mindset he'd once carried into critical moments of his own games.

The teams lined up for the final drive of regulation. The crowd rose as one, their noise becoming a physical presence that vibrated through the air. Logan's heart raced with the anticipation of a game-defining moment.

"Here we go," Alexis whispered beside him, grabbing his arm in nervous excitement.

The final two minutes of play unfolded like something out of a movie. Westridge's quarterback executed a methodical drive downfield, completing precise passes that stopped the clock at critical moments. Logan watched, caught up in the collective tension as the team pushed deeper into Central Valley territory. With each successful play, the crowd's energy intensified, feeding the momentum of the drive.

With six seconds remaining, Westridge faced a crucial third down at Central Valley's thirty-yard line. The crowd noise swelled to a deafening roar as the teams lined up for what would likely be the final play of regulation.

The snap was clean, the offensive line forming a perfect pocket as the quarterback dropped back. Chase exploded off the line, his movements a blur of speed and precision. At exactly the right moment, he created separation from his defender, finding an opening in the coverage.

The pass arced through the night air, a perfect spiral that seemed to hang suspended for an impossible moment. The game clock ticked down to zero. The buzzer sounded, signaling that this play would be Westridge's last chance at victory. Chase launched himself toward the ball, extending fully with the practiced grace of an elite athlete. His fingers closed around the pass just as he crossed into the end zone, both feet touching down inbounds before momentum carried him into a controlled roll.

Touchdown. Westridge 26, Central Valley 24.

The stadium erupted in blue-and-white pandemonium. Players embraced on the field, coaches shook hands, and spectators poured from the stands. The moment was pure chaos—a swirling mass of exuberant celebration as months of work culminated in championship glory.

Logan found himself caught up in the genuine excitement of the moment, his squad's victory routine emerging less as Elle's programmed performance and more as a sincere expression of school spirit. Despite everything—the forced transformation, the loss of autonomy, the daily indignities of his situation—he couldn't help but feel a spark of authentic joy in the team's achievement.

As the cheerleaders executed their celebration formations, Logan focused entirely on the choreographed movements, the precise timing of their victory chants, the collective jubilation of his squad. His thoughts momentarily drifted to what this moment meant for the players—how this single perfect catch had just cemented Chase Montgomery's place in Westridge Academy history, how this game-winning play would be remembered for years to come. Logan knew from his own past what that feeling was like—the surreal experience of personal achievement amid collective victory, the unique high that only championship glory could provide.

So focused was Logan on the celebration and these reflections that he had no warning of what came next. The first indication that something was happening was a sudden shift in the reactions of the cheerleaders around him—widening eyes, surprised expressions, a few knowing smiles. As Logan turned to see what was causing these signals, strong hands gripped him and he was suddenly airborne, lifted effortlessly off the ground in a sweeping gesture of exuberant celebration.

Logan found himself eye-to-eye with Chase Montgomery, his diminutive 5'2" frame held aloft by the football player's athletic build. Chase's face was flushed with victory and exertion, his game-winning touchdown celebration bringing him directly to Logan. Their eyes locked in a moment of pure joy and celebration amid the public chaos.

Then, without hesitation or warning, Chase closed the distance between them and kissed him.

Logan's world imploded.

Everything around him seemed to recede, as if he were suddenly watching the scene from a great distance. The roaring stadium, the celebrating teammates, the thousands of spectators—all faded into a distant background, like scenery observed through thick fog. Each millisecond stretched into exaggerated clarity, Logan's consciousness expanding to fill the suspended moment with hyperaware observation.

His senses sharpened to painful acuity, registering the warm pressure of Chase's lips against his own, the faint scratch of stubble against his smooth skin, the salt-sweet taste of sweat mixed with sports drink. The physical contact felt impossibly intimate, exposing nerve endings Logan hadn't realized existed in his transformed body.

But what truly terrified him was what happened next—a sudden, electric jolt of unmistakable attraction surged through his system. It was as though someone had flipped a switch inside him, reactivating circuits that had been left dormant. For weeks, his sexuality had been completely neutralized—neither men nor women registering as objects of desire, his body responding to them all with the same aesthetic appreciation one might have for a sunset or sculpture.

Yet now, with Chase's lips pressed against his, that deadened part of him roared back to life with overwhelming intensity. Heat bloomed across his skin, his pulse quickened, and his body responded with a rush of hormones that left him light-headed. Most shocking of all was the clear direction of this reawakened desire—it was focused entirely, unmistakably on Chase.

The revelation created a psychic earthquake that shattered Logan's fragile internal equilibrium. This wasn't just shock or surprise. It wasn't simply Elle's programmed persona responding. It was a genuine sexual attraction—to a man—erupting from some part of his brain that hadn't existed before.

Logan's consciousness fractured into competing segments of awareness. His core self—his male identity—recoiled in horror at finding pleasure in this masculine contact. Yet simultaneously, his body betrayed him with its enthusiastic response, sending signals of pleasure and desire that couldn't be denied or dismissed as mere programming.

The conflicting impulses tore through him like opposing electrical currents. His lips softened automatically against Chase's, while his arms—almost of their own volition—slid around Chase's neck, pulling their bodies closer. The gesture felt shockingly natural, as if his body knew exactly what to do even as his mind reeled in confusion.

Most alarming was the cascade of physical sensations that accompanied the kiss—the flutter in his stomach, the sudden warmth spreading through his chest, the tingling that radiated from his lips to his fingertips. These weren't just emotional responses but unmistakably physical ones, his body chemistry reacting to Chase's presence. It was as though his new body was purpose-built to respond this way, to fit perfectly against Chase's larger frame, to melt into this embrace as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The kiss itself lasted perhaps two seconds before Chase set him down, a victorious smile illuminating his face as he stepped back slightly to gauge Logan's reaction. But those two seconds had catalyzed an existential crisis that threatened to completely overwhelm Logan's sense of self.

The moment his feet touched the ground, panic exploded within him. He needed to escape—from Chase, from the crowd, from the thousands of eyes that had just witnessed this moment. Most urgently, he needed to escape from the disturbing internal response that suggested his transformation might be deeper than he'd understood.

"I'm sorry—I can't—" Logan managed, his voice barely escaping his lips.

Without waiting for a response, he turned and plunged blindly into the crowd, pure animal panic overriding any programmed grace or practiced movements. The celebrating mass of humanity became a suffocating forest of bodies, most chests and shoulders hitting at eye level, blocking all sight lines to potential exits. Where his former body would have created natural pathways through sheer physical presence, his diminutive frame now left him powerless to part the human sea.

Every attempted step forward resulted in collisions that sent his lightweight form rebounding between celebrating fans who barely registered his existence. Elbows grazed his head and shoulders knocked him sideways as he tried desperately to navigate by instinct alone.

Behind him, he could vaguely hear Alexis calling Elle's name, but the sound barely registered through the storm of confusion raging in his mind. He pushed forward blindly, ducking under elbows and slipping between groups of spectators until he managed to break free from the primary celebration.

Logan didn't stop until he reached a secluded service area behind the stadium's main scoreboard—a shadowy alcove blocked from view by large equipment cases and the massive steel support structure of the scoreboard itself. The area was unlit except for the faint glow of distant security lights, creating a dark pocket of solitude in the otherwise illuminated stadium complex. Leaning against the cool metal structure, he tried to steady his breathing, to regain some semblance of control over his fracturing consciousness.

What had just happened? What had he just felt?

Pressing trembling hands against his face, Logan tried to ground himself in the solidity of physical sensation. His mind raced through possible explanations. Had Dr. Gupta specifically engineered this? Had she programmed him to respond sexually to men? Was this just another extension of GIRLI's manipulation—another way to ensure his compliance and integration into the identity they'd created for him?

Or was something even more terrifying happening? After months of living in this feminized body, of experiencing the world through Elle's sensory input, of being bathed in female hormones, was his brain rewiring itself naturally? Was his orientation shifting not because of specific programming but as a biological response to the radical changes in his physiology?

Which was more horrifying—that GIRLI had deliberately altered his sexual orientation, or that his brain was adapting to his female body on its own, developing attractions that aligned with his new physical form?

The questions spawned cascading subclusters of panic, each more disturbing than the last. If this was programming, how deep did the manipulation go? If it wasn't programming, what did that mean for his identity? For his understanding of himself? Had the boundary between "Logan" and "Elle" finally collapsed completely?

Logan was so absorbed in this internal crisis that he didn't immediately notice his phone vibrating against his skin, tucked inside the discrete pocket sewn into the racerback of his sports bra. When the persistent buzzing finally penetrated his awareness, he reluctantly retrieved the device, expecting texts from Alexis or the other cheerleaders asking about his sudden disappearance.

Instead, he found dozens of notifications from social media platforms. Instagram tags. Twitter mentions. Snapchat alerts. With mounting dread, he tapped the most recent notification—a link to an Instagram video already accumulating thousands of views.

His mouth falling open, Logan watched the clip that had been captured from the stands: Chase breaking away from his teammates, jogging directly toward the cheerleaders, lifting Logan effortlessly off the ground, their brief eye contact, and then the kiss that had shattered Logan's sense of self. The video ended with Chase's victorious smile as they separated, the perfect championship moment captured for posterity.