“Riley Whitlock!”

I looked up from my tray, heart thudding in my chest.

The sudden sound of my name echoed sharper than it should have across the noisy dining hall. Conversations didn’t stop, but they dipped — just slightly — enough to make me feel like half the room was now aware of me.

Maya stiffened across from me, her eyes darting toward the voice. “That’s your former coach, right?”

I didn’t answer. Just nodded and stood, my body moving before my brain had even caught up. The tray felt too heavy in my hands, like it might slide right out of my grip.

He was already heading toward the side exit of the dining hall — not rushing, not dramatic. Just a quiet motion, like he knew better than to cause a scene. Like he wanted this to be private.

I dumped my tray in a daze and followed him out.

The night air hit me like a slap — cool, damp, earthy. The scent of wet leaves and concrete filled my lungs. The sidewalk was still slick from earlier rain, the concrete shimmering faintly under the glow of the overhead lamps. I didn’t know if I was shivering from the cold or from everything suddenly pressing in on me.

Coach stood a few feet from the door, arms folded tight, eyes on the gravel. One of those humming sodium lights buzzed above him, casting everything in a yellow haze like an old streetlamp in a dream. He looked out of place — too real for the blur of campus nightlife happening just beyond the hedges.

“Sorry for the public callout,” he said, not looking at me right away. “I didn’t know where else I’d find you.”

I stuffed my hands into my hoodie pockets. My fingers were damp. Maybe from nerves. Maybe from the rain. “What’s going on?”

He took a breath — long and tired, like it was costing him something to say any of this.

“Heard about what happened after practice. Locker room.”

My stomach twisted. Hard. The memory was still fresh: the confused stares, the sidelong glances, the silence that followed me like a shadow once I changed.

“Word gets around,” he added. “I’ve been in this business a long time, Riley. When players run crying from the field, people notice. Doesn’t mean they understand, but they talk.”

“I didn’t cry on the field,” I muttered. “It was after.”

Coach cracked the faintest smile. “That’s more like you.”

We stood there in silence for a second, just the buzz of the overhead light and the distant thrum of traffic cutting through the dark. A breeze passed by, and the leaves around the dining hall entrance rustled, sharp and papery.

“I miss having you on my team,” he said suddenly. “You were one of the best I ever coached. Footwork, hustle, instinct. You had all of it.”

I didn’t say anything. My throat was tight again, the kind of tight that made it hard to even breathe right. There was something about hearing it — hearing past tense — that cut deeper than I expected.

“But the rules are the rules,” he went on. “Men’s teams are for men. Women’s teams are for women. That’s how the school sees it, and that’s how the athletic board wants it.”

He looked over at me then, and for a second, I saw how tired his eyes were. Like he’d argued about this behind closed doors more than once. Like maybe he'd tried.

“I didn’t want to let you go.”

My voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m not even the same player anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

I looked down at my sneakers, wet at the soles. Water had seeped in around the edges, soaking my socks. “My body’s different. Slower. Weaker. I get tired faster. I used to be fast — like, really fast. Now I just feel like I’m dragging. Like the spark’s gone. The zing.”

Coach nodded slowly, still hugging his arms across his chest. His breath misted in the air, briefly visible under the glow of the lamp. “You’re still learning your body, Riley. You’re going through more changes than most people deal with in a lifetime, and you’re doing it under a spotlight.”

“I thought maybe I could still be good,” I said. “Not even great. Just… worth it.”

“You are,” he said, without hesitation. “Even if you don’t believe it yet.”

The door creaked behind us — someone going in or out of the dining hall — but neither of us turned. The moment was too still, too full.

“I don’t know if the women’s team will give you a fair shot,” he said. “But I know what you’re made of. I’ve seen it. You keep showing up like you did today? You’ll earn your place.”

I blinked hard, willing the sting in my eyes to go away before it could turn into anything worse. I felt like if I blinked too fast, I’d break.

“You ever need a place to kick a ball around,” he added, “my door’s open. Might not be a team anymore, but you’re still one of mine.”

Then, without another word, Coach turned and walked away.

****

When I got back to the dorm with Maya, I didn’t say anything.
Not in the elevator.
Not in the hallway.
Not when we stepped inside and the door clicked shut behind us.

The hallway had smelled like overcooked ramen and someone’s too-strong cologne. The kind of mix that usually made us laugh. Not tonight. Tonight, it just made everything feel more suffocating.

I went straight to my desk.

The drawer stuck for a second — old wood swollen from humidity — but I yanked it open. The orange bottle was right where I left it, tucked under a folded notepad and a busted wristwatch I hadn’t worn in months. The label had started to peel at the corner.

I twisted off the cap with shaking fingers.

Maya didn’t ask.
She just stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed, watching me.
Not with judgment. Just… there. Present. Still.

The overhead light buzzed quietly, casting a faint golden halo over the ceiling. Outside, faint voices drifted in through the cracked window — laughter, footsteps, the low beat of a passing car stereo.

I tipped two pills into my hand and swallowed them dry. No water. No pause. The taste coated my throat — chalky, bitter. Familiar.

Maya finally spoke, her voice low. “Do they actually help?”

I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the scuff mark on the floor by the mini fridge. It looked like a comet streak — something burned in from a move-in day gone wrong. I didn’t even remember who made it. Maybe it had always been there.

“They keep the spiral from getting out of control. Usually.”

She came over slowly and sat beside me, careful not to crowd me. The mattress shifted slightly with her weight.

“Coach just wanted to tell me he still cares,” I said. “But he can’t do anything. Rules are rules. Boys with boys. Girls with girls.”

Maya nodded. “That’s the world we live in.”

I let out a small, bitter laugh. “Then where the hell does that leave me?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached for the edge of the blanket and pulled it around my shoulders like she had when we were kids hiding from the world in pillow forts and flashlights. Back when everything scary could be solved with a flashlight, a hug, and maybe some fruit snacks.

The weight of the blanket settled on my shoulders like muscle memory. Like something old and safe trying to protect something new and vulnerable.

“I don’t know where it leaves you,” she said softly. “But I know I’m not going anywhere.”

Outside, a siren whined in the distance. Someone on our floor slammed a door and shouted about microwave popcorn. But inside our room, everything was still.
For now.

Maya’s hand lingered on the edge of the blanket, her fingers brushing mine — soft and steady, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to stay but had already made up her mind not to leave.

I turned to look at her.
Her eyes were already on me — wide, steady, searching. Like she was waiting for a sign. Or maybe giving me one.

“I feel like I’m disappearing,” I whispered.

“You’re not,” she said. “You’re just changing. That’s not the same thing.”

I couldn’t hold it in anymore — not the ache, not the need to feel something good, something real. Something that didn’t have to be explained or justified.

I leaned in.
So did she.

It wasn’t tentative this time. It wasn’t soft or slow or unsure.

It was full of everything we hadn’t said out loud — the fear, the fire, the fight to still be here after everything. Her lips met mine, and for a moment, I stopped thinking. Stopped worrying about rules, or teams, or who saw what in me.

There was only this — her breath, her hands on my jaw, the warmth of her knees pressed into mine. The way she held me like I wasn’t fragile, but worth holding anyway.

She kissed me like she meant it. Like I wasn’t broken. Like I was worth it.
And I kissed her back like I believed her.