"And Whitlock takes control at midfield—cutting through two defenders—this girl is on fire today!"

The announcer’s voice crackled over the PA system, half drowned out by the crowd noise. It wasn’t a packed stadium, but it was enough — students ringing the bleachers with homemade signs painted in school colors, the steady smack of thundersticks keeping tempo, cowbells jangling out of sync, and someone’s portable boom box still blasting from the tailgate lot behind the fence. You could smell bratwurst and rain-soaked charcoal from the grills, the scent riding the wind like a memory.

I didn’t look at any of it.

Ball at my feet. Defender on my hip.

Focus.

The field was slick from this morning’s rain — little patches of damp clung to the grass in uneven spots. My cleats caught and slid just enough to keep me alert, every step balanced on instinct. The wind cut through my jersey like it had teeth, sharp and persistent, making the fabric cling to my sides and whip at the hem.

The rival college — all black-and-red kits, loud and chest-thumping aggressive — were right on us. I could hear their bench shouting across the pitch, voices cracking like whips.

"She’s going left! Watch the switch!"

They weren’t wrong.

I juked right, spun left, and sent the ball sailing to Jess just before their center-back could clip my ankle. The moment felt slow and bright, like a snapshot mid-burst.

The crowd roared.

A couple girls behind the bench jumped up, waving signs that read “Go Whitlock!” and “No mercy!” in glitter marker. I spotted Claire pumping her fist in the third row, her purple sweatshirt sleeves pushed halfway up her arms.

Coach Walker’s whistle rang from the sideline. “Good pass, Whitlock!”

I caught my breath, adjusted the band of my ponytail, and turned back upfield, eyes already scanning for the next move. Every muscle buzzed — not with nerves, but with purpose. For the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel like I was on the edge of falling apart.

This was our first real game since… well, everything.

Since the locker room. Since the blood test. Since that quiet, terrifying moment in the mirror where I finally saw the girl everyone else was starting to see.

But out here?

Out here, I was just Whitlock again.
Not the question. Not the exception.
Just a player with fire in her lungs and cleats on the turf.

**

The ball moved fast — way too fast.
Red-and-black jerseys pressed in from both sides, and just as I darted for the return pass, I felt a sudden slam against my shin. My foot slipped. The world tilted.

I hit the ground hard.

The sharp slap of skin meeting wet turf echoed louder than I expected. For a second, I just lay there, the sky spinning overhead — white clouds streaking across pale blue, like the world hadn’t noticed I’d gone down.

The whistle blew sharp and short.
"Foul! Number seventeen, red!"

The crowd groaned. A few clapped. Someone yelled “Come on, ref!” from the bleachers. A horn blared faintly in the distance, maybe from a campus shuttle. Somewhere behind me, a portable boom box still played something grungy — a fuzzed-out guitar solo that didn’t match the moment at all.

I rolled to my knees, teeth clenched, heart pounding in my ears. My leg burned — not broken, but it hurt. Real bad. I looked up — the girl who clipped me was already backing away, hands raised like she’d done nothing wrong. Her face was unreadable beneath her sweat-soaked bangs.

I heard Coach Walker shout something from the sideline, but it didn’t register. Just noise.

The ref jogged over, glanced down at me, then waved toward the sideline. “You okay, twelve?”

I nodded, breathless, trying to get up. My cleats skidded slightly in the damp grass.

Coach’s voice came again, louder now. “Whitlock! Sub out. You need a minute.”

I froze.

“I’m fine,” I said.

“You’re limping.”

I looked down. I was. A little. But I didn’t care. I didn’t want to come off. Not now. Not after everything.

“Whitlock,” she said again, more firmly. “Sideline. Now.”

I exhaled sharply, nodded, and jogged off the field, my shin still aching. My chest even more.
The sting of leaving — of being taken out — throbbed worse than the bruise forming beneath my sock.

Jess gave me a look as I passed. I couldn’t tell if it was sympathy or frustration.

I sat on the bench too fast, pulled the water bottle into my lap, and stared at the grass. The label on the bottle was peeling from the condensation — a half-ripped sticker from some orientation-week giveaway.
BOB 100FM – New Country.
The cartoon logo’s face was warped, but the bold slogan next to it still read:
“Turn your knob to BOB!”

Somehow, it made my throat tighten even more.

It hit before I could stop it.
Tears blurred my vision.

I wiped at them quickly, but they kept coming — hot, humiliated, angry. I tipped my head down, hair falling forward to hide my face. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want this to be part of the story.

It wasn’t just the foul. It wasn’t just the pain.

It was everything.

The pressure. The stares. The way people still looked at me like I didn’t belong here — like being on the women’s team was some kind of mistake waiting to happen.

A trainer approached with an ice pack, but I waved her off.

“I’m okay,” I muttered.

Coach crouched down a few feet away, not right next to me — giving me a bubble of space. Just enough.

“You’re playing great,” she said quietly. “You just need to breathe.”

I nodded, but I didn’t look at her.

I didn’t want anyone to see me like this.

Not my teammates. Not Coach. Not the kid in the front row with the face paint and cowbell who didn’t even know my name.

I hated this.
I hated crying during a game.
I hated how the minute I stepped off the field, all that strength I’d built up cracked like it was made of glass.

“Sub going in!” someone shouted near the sideline.

I didn’t look up.

Not until I heard the clatter of cleats jogging past and a voice — familiar, fierce, warm — call out:

“I’ve got it.”

My eyes snapped up.

It was Maya.

She met my gaze for just a second — and gave me the smallest smile.

Confident. Solid.

Like she wasn’t just stepping onto the field.
She was stepping in for me.

Coach gave a quick nod and clapped once. “Alright, Hernandez — show ’em what you’ve got.”

Maya jogged into position like she belonged there. Because she did.

She didn’t look back.

She didn’t need to.

She already knew I was watching.

**

I wasn’t able to play the rest of the game.
Every time I thought about going back in, the pain got worse — a sharp, hot throb right below my knee that refused to be ignored. One of the first aid staff came over and had me stretch and walk and ice it down while the crowd kept cheering like I wasn’t even missing anything. She looked maybe twenty-five, ponytail sticking out the back of a battered university ball cap, clipboard in one hand, a roll of athletic tape in the other.

Eventually, she gave me a look and said, “Sorry, hon. You’re benched until it heals.”
“How long?” I asked, already knowing I wouldn’t like the answer.
“A week or two, maybe more. Depends how you take care of it.”
I nodded, biting down on the inside of my cheek.

No practice. No games. Just ice packs, elevation, and watching from the sidelines.
Awesome.

The smell of wet grass and popcorn from the concessions booth drifted over the bleachers. Some kid was still rattling a cowbell, and the boom box behind the bleachers hadn’t stopped since the second quarter — someone had queued up “This Is How We Do It” on cassette, and it warbled slightly every time the batteries slipped loose.

Oh — and by the way?
We won. Five to two.

And guess who scored the final goal?
Yeah.
Maya.

I saw it happen from the bench — the perfect setup, the way she cut through the defense like she’d been born to do it, the way she launched that ball into the upper corner of the net like it owed her money.

The crowd exploded. Her teammates swarmed her. The announcer shouted her name loud and clear through the speakers, and even the rival team looked impressed. A couple of them clapped. One coach even muttered something and scribbled in his notepad like he needed to adjust strategy just for her.

And me?
I clapped.
I smiled.
I hurt.

Not just my leg — but that ache that comes from being so proud of someone you love… and still feeling like you’re falling behind.

****

The sun was starting to set as we made our way across campus.
The sky was streaked with pink and gold, the kind of early evening light that made everything look a little softer than it really was. The kind of light that hit the tops of the brick buildings and made even the ugly science hall look like something from a postcard.

I clunked along on crutches, my gym bag bouncing awkwardly against my side.
Correction — was bouncing awkwardly.
Until Maya rolled her eyes, grabbed it off my shoulder, and threw it over hers without breaking stride.

“I got it,” she said. “You already look like Bambi learning how to walk.”
I laughed. “Gee, thanks.”
She grinned. “A very cute Bambi.”

I gave her a side glance. “Do you flirt with all your injured teammates, or just the ones you’re dating?”
“Only the ones who can’t chase me down.”
I bumped her lightly with one crutch. “You’re lucky I’m half broken.”

We kept walking — her steady, me a little wobbly, but managing. The old concrete walkway clicked under our shoes, scattered with dry leaves that hadn’t been swept yet. A flyer for a concert fluttered past our feet, snagged for a second on my crutch before blowing onward. I caught just enough of it to read: Björk – Live at First Avenue – November 9, 1995. Somewhere in the distance, a bike bell dinged twice before fading down a hill.

The crowd noise had faded. The field lights were just distant glows now. Campus was quieter, softer, like it had exhaled. Like we weren’t being watched anymore. Just two girls heading back, sharing the sidewalk and the quiet.

“I’m proud of you,” I said, finally.
She looked over. “For what?”
“For the goal. For stepping in. For killing it out there.”
She shrugged, but I saw the pink in her cheeks. “I had good motivation.”

I smiled, even though it stung a little.
Missing the next few games was going to suck.
But right now — walking beside Maya, the air cool on my face, the sound of her cleats clinking against the sidewalk — it didn’t feel quite so heavy.

**

By the time we reached our building, my arms were sore from the crutches and I was more than ready to collapse.

Maya held the door for me, one hand still gripping my gym bag, the other pushing the entry open with a little dramatic flair like she was my personal butler.

“Milady,” she said with a bow.

I rolled my eyes and hobbled inside, the rubber ends of my crutches squeaking against the linoleum tile. Someone down the hallway was blasting Alanis Morissette from behind a half-open door, the chorus of “You Oughta Know” bleeding into the common area like a war cry.

We were halfway down the hall when we both stopped.

Dead in our tracks.

The new whiteboard on our door — the one housing replaced after the last one.

Scrawled across it in thick, black permanent marker, all caps:

“YOU’RE AN EMBARRASSMENT TO REAL WOMEN.”

Maya’s body went rigid beside me.

I just stared at it. My heartbeat thudded in my throat, fast and loud and sick.

There was no witty response I could write back this time.
No passive-aggressive smiley face. No snarky comeback.
This wasn’t even trying to be subtle.

“Who the hell—” Maya started, but her voice caught somewhere in her chest. I saw her jaw tighten.

We stood there for a few seconds longer.

Long enough to feel every set of eyes peeking from cracked doors down the hall.
Long enough to hear the silence between the walls get just a little heavier.
Long enough for the chill in my skin to settle deep.

I could feel it in my gut — that old familiar ache of being watched, judged, picked apart.

Like I was being peeled open again.

“This is the second time,” I muttered. The words barely had weight behind them. I didn’t even sound surprised anymore. Just tired.

Maya dropped my gym bag to the floor with a thud that echoed more than it should have. Her hand was already in her pocket, fumbling for the key. She didn’t say anything else.

“I’ll get something to clean it,” she said finally, her voice low and sharp, the kind of tone that meant she was holding something back.

I didn’t stop her.

I just stood there, staring at the words like maybe they’d rewrite themselves. Like maybe if I looked long enough, they’d fade.
But they didn’t.
They just stared back. Permanent. Ugly.
Loud.