The women's team practiced on the east field, the one with the uneven turf and the crooked goalpost that never got fixed.

My former coach had told me to show up there at 3:30 sharp. "Unofficial," he said. "Just drop in. Show them what you've got."

It wasn't a real tryout. Not officially. But I knew what it really was.

A test.

I was early. Not by much, but enough to stand there awkwardly with my cleats in one hand and that too-tight feeling in my chest again. The girls were scattered across the field — stretching, passing, tying up ponytails. A few glanced my way. Not hostile. Not exactly friendly either.

Just... waiting to see what I was.

I found a patch of grass near the sideline and started warming up alone — hamstrings, knees, ankles. The motions were familiar, muscle memory stuff. My body still knew what to do, even if it didn't feel like mine lately.

"Hey."

I looked up.

A tall girl with light brown skin and curly hair in a bandana stood a few feet away. She had a captain's armband and the kind of confidence that didn't need to prove anything. Her eyes weren't unkind — just sharp.

"You're Riley, right?"

I nodded, straightening up.

She gave a short whistle. "Damn. Didn't think you'd actually show."

"Neither did I," I said quietly.

She watched me for a beat, then stuck out a hand. "Daniell. Coach told us to expect you."

I shook it. Her grip was strong.

"Look, we don't care what you used to play," she said. "All that matters now is if you can keep up. That fair?"

"Fair," I said, even though I was already replaying every drill I'd ever failed in my head.

"Cool," she said, already turning. "Let's see what you've got, then."

Danielle jogged back toward the others without looking back, and I followed like I had something to lose. Maybe I did.

Coach Lacey was already setting up cones for warm-up drills — tight zigzags meant to test footwork and ball control. She had that look — the kind of coach who didn't believe in small talk. Just movement, sweat, and results.

"Riley," she said, not even raising her clipboard. "Grab a vest. You're blue today."

I pulled one from the plastic bin, slipping it over my long-sleeve tee. It smelled like grass and old detergent.

"Pair up," Coach barked. "Two lines. Passing drills. I want tight control, two-touch max. Eyes up."

The girls moved without hesitation, grouping off in pairs. I hovered for a second too long before Danielle motioned with a tilt of her head.

"You're with me."

We faced each other across a six-yard space. The ball rolled toward me. I trapped it with my right foot, passed back. Clean.

Again.

Danielle's touches were sharp — just enough power, just enough spin. Not showing off, just steady. She didn't talk much. Just nodded when a pass was solid, frowned slightly when I sent one too wide.

We went back and forth, our shoes slicing through damp grass.

I tried to quiet the noise in my head — all the things I'd overheard in the locker room last week, the way Coach Walker couldn't look me in the eye, the echo of Jess saying, "I just need time."

Focus.

Trap. Pass. Shift weight.

"Alright!" Coach Lacey called. "Split for 3v3. Half-field. First to two."

Danielle pointed to me and two other girls — a short redhead named Lexi and a stocky defender called Val.

We started fast.

Danielle had control in the midfield, barking directions like a general. "Wide! Riley — run left! Overlap!"

The ball came to me and I took it on instinct, dragging it past a defender with a move I hadn't practiced in weeks. My lungs burned, but I didn't stop. I cut in, quick pass to Lexi, who sent it back on a short flick.

One touch.

I took the shot.

It hit the inside post and bounced in.

I froze for a second — like maybe I dreamed it — before I heard Danielle shout, "There we go!" and slap my back hard enough to sting.

Lexi grinned at me. "Nice footwork."

We rotated teams after the first match. My pulse was still racing, sweat clinging to my collar despite the misty air. I tugged at the neckline of the vest and tried to stay focused, but I could feel it — the sideways glances, the ones that weren't there at the start.

As I headed toward the sidelines to grab a sip of water, I passed a group of girls sitting on their cleats, tying laces and catching their breath.

One of them — tall, blonde, with a sharp voice I hadn't heard earlier — didn't lower it when I got close.

"I don't care what Coach says. It's still weird," she muttered.

Another girl snorted. "We're seriously letting a guy just... join? Like, does that not mess with everything?"

"Did you see the shot though?" a third girl said. "She's good."

"Yeah, well, maybe if I had testosterone for eighteen years, I'd be good too."

They laughed — low and bitter.

My chest felt hollow, like someone had scooped everything out and left only the echo of their voices behind. I kept my eyes on the grass, blinked fast — once, twice — but it didn't help.

The tears came anyway.

Danielle caught my eye from across the field. Her expression shifted. One second it was neutral, the next it was something closer to concern. She didn't say anything. Didn't wave me over or call attention to it. But I saw the way her brows drew in, like she wanted to fix something but didn't know how.

Coach Lacey blew her whistle from mid-field. "Let's go again — clean passes, quick turns. Play like you mean it."

But I couldn't.

I dropped the water bottle and walked off the field.

I didn't run. I didn't storm off or throw anything.
I just... left.
Past the edge of the field, past the scraggly bleachers, through the small gap in the chain-link fence where the maintenance guys kept forgetting to patch it.

I sat behind the storage shed, knees to my chest, arms wrapped tight like I could hold myself together that way. The crying had mostly stopped by the time I got there — or maybe it just ran out of steam. Either way, I felt hollow.
Not broken. Just... emptied.

I heard footsteps crunching in the gravel before I saw them.

Danielle came around the corner first, her cleats scraping with each step. She crouched a few feet away, giving me space.

"You okay?" she asked, voice quiet.

I didn't answer right away.

"They were out of line," she added. "You didn't deserve that."

"I know," I said softly. "Doesn't make it hurt less."

She nodded, resting her arms on her knees. "No. It doesn't."

Another set of steps followed — steadier, heavier. Coach Lacey appeared behind her, arms crossed. Her face wasn't exactly warm, but it wasn't cold either.

"You walked off my field," she said.

I looked down, ready to be chewed out.

But she didn't yell. She just exhaled and leaned against the shed wall.

"Some of those girls have a lot to learn," Coach said. "But so do you — about how to handle shit like that. It's not fair, but it's real. You want a spot on this team? It means pushing through that noise. Not running from it."

"I wasn't running," I whispered. "I just... couldn't breathe out there."

She didn't respond right away. Then, softer: "That's fair."

Danielle stood, brushed off her knees, then looked down at me. "You coming back out?"

I hesitated.

My legs were stiff. My heart felt heavier than it had all week. But I nodded anyway.

"I'll try."

"Good," Coach said. "Because talent's not your issue. Your heart's in the right place. You just gotta let it carry you."

I wiped my face with the sleeve of my sweatshirt, took a breath that didn't feel deep enough, and stood.

The shed cast a long shadow over the grass as I followed Danielle and Coach back to the field. The others were still drilling — a triangle pass pattern this time, three cones, sprint to receive, redirect, pass.

Coach pointed to a spot. "Slot in with Lexi and Dani. Let's see how you do."

I nodded and jogged over. My legs felt heavier than they should. My chest was tight again, not from emotion this time — just from effort.

Lexi tossed me a half-smile. "Hey," she said, not unfriendly.

I fell into the rotation. Ball to Lexi. Sprint to the next cone. Receive from Dani. Pivot. Pass.

It should've felt automatic.

But something was off.

My timing was clumsy — just a half-second behind, like my reflexes were fogged up. My passes were slower, less punch behind them. On the third rotation, I stumbled on the cut and had to chase the ball as it rolled out of line.

Lexi caught it and sent it back gently. She didn't say anything, but I felt the hesitation in her silence.

I kept going.

Sweat soaked through my shirt. My breathing got ragged faster than I remembered. The strength I used to feel in my calves and thighs — that solid, spring-loaded power — just wasn't there. Everything felt dulled. Like someone turned the volume down on my own body.

Coach called for a short scrimmage. Danielle pulled me onto her squad again, but I knew I wasn't ready. Not like this.

We played short field, three-on-three. I tried to push myself, tried to call on the speed and instinct that had made me a starting midfielder last semester.

But when the ball came, I hesitated.

When I cut left, I was slower than the defender.

When I took the shot, it died at the goalie's feet.

By the end, I was bent over near the sideline, hands on my knees, lungs burning like they hadn't since pre-season drills.

Danielle came over and handed me a water bottle. She didn't say anything.

I didn't meet her eyes.

Because she knew.

And I knew.

I wasn't the same player anymore.

****

The locker room echoed with the usual post-practice sounds — running water, slamming lockers, the hiss of a sports bag zipper. I sat on the edge of the bench near the far wall, trying to stay small, hoping the ache in my legs would distract me from the heavier ache under my ribs.

I'd been the last one into the locker room, hoping most of them would be gone by the time I made it there.

I was wrong.

Laughter floated from around the corner — it didn't exactly sound joyful. It had that tight, sharp edge to it. Like something being sharpened.

I kept my head down.

Too late.

"Hey."

I didn't look up. But I knew that voice. The tall blonde from earlier — the one who didn't bother to lower it during practice.

"What, you get lost or something?" she said. "Men's locker room is down the hall."

Another girl giggled behind her. "Maybe she forgot which team she's on."

I stood up slowly, but not to fight. Just to leave.

"Seriously though," the blonde girl said, stepping closer, "we're supposed to feel safe in here. And no offense? You being in here... doesn't exactly help with that."

I swallowed. My fingers trembled as I gripped the strap of my bag. "I'm not here to bother anyone. I'm just trying to change and leave."

"Oh, so now you care about rules?"

More laughter.

My cheeks burned. I tried to move past them, but one of them stepped in front of the aisle, blocking me. I looked up, met her eyes for a split second.

Big mistake.

"What? Gonna cry again like you did on the field?" she said, voice syrupy-sweet. "You're not a girl just because you say so."

Something cracked behind my ribs.

Before I could move, someone's voice cut through.

"Enough."

Danielle.

She'd come back — hair damp, cleats hanging from one hand. Her voice was calm but cold.

The group turned.

"I said, that's enough," Danielle repeated. "We're teammates, not middle school mean girls. Back off."

One of them rolled her eyes. "Oh come on, Dani, you seriously—"

"Yeah," she snapped. "I seriously. She belongs here more than any of you right now."

Silence.

They didn't argue after that. Just grabbed their stuff, muttering under their breath as they filed out.

Danielle didn't say anything else. She just waited until they were gone, then looked at me.

"You okay?"

I nodded, barely. "They don't even know what they're talking about..."

My voice cracked, but I forced it out. "I'm not... I didn't choose this. I didn't do anything."

Danielle's expression softened. "I know."

I looked down at my hands. "I didn't change who I am. My body did."

She was quiet for a beat, then said, "Yeah. And that's not something you owe them an explanation for."

****

The dining hall buzzed with the usual dinner noise — forks clinking, trays sliding, muted laughter echoing off the beige walls. The air smelled like overcooked pasta, industrial dish soap, and something vaguely tomato-based that had probably started as soup.

I stood in line with my tray, eyes scanning the options. Meatloaf. Salisbury steak. Something labeled "turkey tetrazzini" that looked like regret.

I passed them all.

At the end of the line, there was a big metal pan of roasted vegetables — zucchini, potatoes, carrots, red peppers. Probably from lunch, maybe from yesterday. I didn't care. I scooped a double portion next to a scoop of rice and a square of cornbread that steamed faintly when I touched it.

It was hot. It was quiet. It was enough.

I found a corner table by the window, far from the TV blaring game highlights and the group of baseball guys shouting over a ketchup bottle.

I took a bite of rice and closed my eyes for a second. The locker room still buzzed under my skin — their words, their laughter. The way it felt like the whole room turned inside out. And Danielle. Standing there. Defending me without asking for anything back.

I didn't know what to do with that.

Another bite. The zucchini was soft, a little soggy, but it grounded me. Warm food in my mouth. My body, still aching. My heart, still uncertain.

I was just starting in on the cornbread when a voice pulled me back.

"Mind if I sit?"

I looked up.

Maya.

She had her own tray — pasta, a breadstick, some weird Jell-O square wobbling like it was alive.

"Yeah," I said, my voice softer than I meant.

She slid into the seat across from me, giving me a small smile. "Heard practice was rough."

I didn't answer.

She didn't push.

Instead, she broke her breadstick in half and offered me a piece.

I took it.

Maya twirled her pasta with a fork, pausing only to flick a piece of lettuce off her plate like it offended her.

"So," she said between bites, "Danielle texted me."

My brows lifted. "You two text now?"

"She's in my women's lit class," Maya shrugged. "We've passed notes about how awful the professor's breath is. Solid foundation for a friendship."

I almost smiled.

"She told me what happened. In the locker room."

The warmth that had been growing in my chest flickered, and I looked down at my tray.

"She didn't tell me to talk to you about it," Maya added. "That's me."

"I don't really want to relive it."

"You don't have to. I just..." She trailed off, chewing slowly. "I hate that you're going through this alone."

"I'm not," I said before I could stop myself. "Not when you're here."

Maya's eyes met mine, soft and certain. She reached out, just briefly, and touched my wrist — not enough to draw attention from anyone else, but enough to say she was still with me.

"You're stronger than you think," she said. "And you've already done the hardest part."

I didn't answer.

Because part of me wasn't so sure.

I poked at the last of the roasted potatoes with my fork, watching them slide across the tray. The overhead lights buzzed faintly. Students came and went. The world kept moving.

Then, just as I lifted the cornbread to my mouth, a voice cut through the hum of the room — sharp, male, loud enough to be deliberate.

"Hey! Riley Whitlock!"

Heads turned. So did Maya.

I froze.

The voice was familiar.

I looked toward the entrance.

And felt my stomach drop.

He was standing just inside the dining hall doors. Windbreaker, athletic pants, clipboard in one hand.

My former coach.

Looking right at me.