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College is supposed to be the start of something new. For Riley, it's something else entirely.
Set in the 1990s, this is a quiet, slow-burning coming-of-age story about friendship, identity, and the questions we don't always have words for.

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Copyright © Natasa Jacobs. All Rights Reserved.

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College is supposed to be the start of something new. For Riley, it's something else entirely.
Set in the 1990s, this is a quiet, slow-burning coming-of-age story about friendship, identity, and the questions we don't always have words for.

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Copyright © Natasa Jacobs. All Rights Reserved.

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I've always loved playing soccer.
Ever since I was eight, it's been my thing — the rush of sprinting across the field, the feel of the grass under my cleats, the thump of the ball as it left my foot and curved just right into the goal. Back then, it was Saturday mornings in rec league, my mom yelling from the sidelines and orange slices at halftime. It was beat-up shin guards and hand-me-down cleats, but none of that mattered when the ball was at my feet.

Now I'm eighteen, and yeah — I'm still damn good at it.
I can't believe I'm a freshman again, though. College this time. New place, new people... but the same old love for the game.
Still, I'm not the loud type. Never have been. I let other people talk first. I take my time before jumping into anything — conversations, parties, even the lunch line. Most of the friends I had in high school were girls. They didn't tease me about being quiet. Or about scribbling superhero scenes in the margins of my math homework.
They liked me for who I was — even when I wasn't sure I liked myself.

I still write. A lot. My favorite story's about a guy named Tyler Cross — part Superman, part Flash, all heart. He can lift a bus and vanish in the blink of an eye, but he still helps old ladies carry groceries. He's the kind of person who knows exactly who he is.
Sometimes I wish I was more like him.
Instead, I've got a half-used notebook, a Walkman with batteries that barely last the week, and this tiny dorm room with flickering overhead lights and a radiator that makes weird clicking sounds when it's thinking too hard. The wallpaper is peeling in one corner, and someone scratched the word "BONES" into the underside of my desk. It smells like old textbooks and whatever the last guy spilled behind the mini-fridge.

The only reason I didn't completely fall apart on move-in day was because of them — Maya, Claire, and Jess.
We've been friends since middle school. The kind of bond that sticks no matter what. And somehow — by luck, fate, or shared fear of being alone — we all ended up at the same college.
Claire's in the dorm across from mine. Jess is two floors up. Maya's just down the hall.

Maya was the first one to find me after my parents split.
It was a messy, quiet kind of divorce — the kind where no one yells, but everything still breaks. My dad moved out right before senior year started, and for a while, I didn't really know what to say to anyone about it.
But Maya didn't ask for explanations. She just showed up. With instant ramen, her old boombox, and a VHS copy of The Iron Giant. We watched it on the tiny TV in my room while the rain tapped against the window, and for the first time in weeks, I didn't feel completely hollow inside.

Now here we are again — different building, same energy.
"You look like someone just got dumped," she said, carrying a grocery bag full of snack packs and shampoo bottles. Her hair was in a messy bun, her sneakers already untied, and she was grinning like she knew exactly what I was thinking.
I shrugged. "It's weird. Being here."
"No kidding. My dorm smells like chalk and sadness," she said. "But I got the top bunk, so I win."

It wasn't just soccer that got me here. It was the grades, too. Barely.
Now I had to keep both up — or risk losing my spot on the team. And that meant five classes, all before 2:00 p.m., so I could make it to practice on time.

English Composition was first. I actually liked that one. It felt familiar — almost safe. I already had a draft of our first assignment done in my notebook before the professor even explained it. I didn't tell anyone that.
College Algebra was... fine. Numbers weren't really my thing, but Maya promised she'd help if I got stuck.
Then came General Biology, which smelled like rubbing alcohol and plastic frogs. We weren't dissecting anything yet, but the lab gloves already made my hands sweat.
U.S. History was taught by a guy who looked like he'd lived through half of it. He had a stack of overhead projector slides taller than my backpack and a cough that never went away.
And finally, there was this weird class called Foundations for Student Success — basically a fancy way of saying "learn how not to fail." Most of the other athletes were in that one too. It felt like homeroom with more pressure and fewer jokes.

I'm not sure why I need all these classes just to be a soccer champion, but hey — if it keeps me on the field, I'll do it.

The sun was still high when I got to the practice field, my cleats slung over my shoulder and my water bottle half full from earlier. The men's team was already trickling in — tall guys with duffel bags and athletic tape wrapped around their ankles, laughing like they already knew each other.
I didn't.
Coach hadn't said much yet, just sent out a schedule and told us to bring our own gear for the first week. This was more of a conditioning session than anything official, but everyone still acted like tryouts were happening today.

I laced up fast and jogged out with the others. The grass was uneven in places, the lines faded, but it still felt good. Familiar. My legs knew what to do even if my head was still spinning from U.S. History.
Coach split us into groups for warmups. I kept my head down, stayed focused, didn't try to impress anyone. Just ran my laps, did my stretches, touched the line and came back like we were supposed to.

Then, during a water break, I saw them — the women's team, practicing a field over.
They were doing footwork drills, cones spread out like chess pieces. One girl with bright green cleats moved like she was floating — fast, light, precise. I watched her for a moment, then scanned the rest of the field.
I couldn't help but think of Maya, Jess, and Claire. We used to kick the ball around after school — Maya all elbows and determination, Jess showboating, Claire moving like poetry in motion. It felt like another life.

I didn't even notice how long I was looking until—
"Whitlock, eyes over here."
Coach hollered it from halfway across the field, his voice sharp and clipped.
I jumped, nearly spilling what was left in my water bottle.
"Sorry!" I called back, trying not to sound like I'd just been caught daydreaming in homeroom.
A few of the other guys snickered. One of them muttered, "Got a little crush already?" under his breath.
I didn't answer. Just picked up my pace and rejoined the group.

Practice picked up after that. No more breaks, no more watching the other field.
Coach had us running 5-vs-5 possession drills, rotating out every few minutes. The air smelled like grass and sweat, and the sun had started to dip just enough to cast long shadows across the field.
I tried to lock in — really. My legs moved fine. Muscle memory kicked in. I made crisp passes, kept the ball close, even juked past a defender once with a quick step-over. But my head... my head wasn't all there.

I missed a cue and passed too early.
One guy on my squad, tall with a buzzcut and a mouth that didn't stop moving, threw up his hands. "C'mon, Riley! Look before you pass!"
"Yeah, yeah," I muttered, shaking it off.
Coach blew the whistle, barked out a few corrections, then reset the drill.
I adjusted my shin guards and took a deep breath.

The next round, I played better. Got in sync with the rhythm. Forced a turnover and made a clean assist — nothing flashy, but it felt good. Like I still belonged here.
"Nice one, Riley," someone said. I didn't catch who.

The last fifteen minutes were conditioning: sprints, suicides, and stairs — the kind of stuff that made your legs feel like jelly and your lungs burn. I didn't complain. None of us did. We just ran.

By the time Coach blew the final whistle, my shirt was soaked through, my calves were aching, and my brain had finally quieted down.
For now.