Highway to Elle, Chapter 9: High Maintenance

Highway to Elle
Chapter 9: High Maintenance
by Paige Turner

"Ladies and Gentlemen," the voice bellowed through the stadium. "Welcome to the field… YOUR! WESTRIDGE! ACADEMY! WARRIORS!"

The football team burst through the banner at the end zone, helmets gleaming under the stadium lights as they charged onto the field. Alongside them, the Westridge Academy Elite cheerleaders ran in perfect formation, a wave of royal blue and white uniforms flooding into the stadium's bright lights. Several girls immediately launched into tumbling passes, their bodies flipping and twisting across the turf with flawless execution. The marching band's brassy fanfare crashed around them, thousands of spectators roared in anticipation, and the scent of popcorn and autumn air filled the stadium.

The sensory overload struck Logan with disorienting force, despite having performed at every home game this season. This homecoming game was different—more intense, more significant. Of course, he had made similar entrances at homecoming games in his previous life—but he had been the one being cheered for, not the one doing the cheering. His mind flashed to his last homecoming game at Westlake: sprinting onto the field at his full 6'2" height, shoulder pads adding intimidating bulk to his frame, thousands of fans screaming his name specifically after his record-breaking performance the previous week.

Now he entered as Elle Turner—petite 5'2" cheerleader with copper hair secured in a high ponytail topped with an oversized royal blue bow, body transformed into a delicate feminine silhouette that bore no resemblance to his former athletic build.

Logan felt acutely self-conscious as they took their place in front of the packed student section, painfully aware of countless eyes following his every movement in the revealing uniform. The white shell top with its royal blue lettering stretched across his artificially enhanced chest, while the short skirt left his legs exposed to both the cool night air and the scrutiny of the crowd.

"Gather around, Elite Squad," Coach Winters called, bringing the cheerleaders into a tight huddle at the edge of the field. "This is homecoming. This is when we show every alum in those stands exactly why Westridge cheer is nationally ranked. Full energy, perfect execution, no mistakes. Clear?"

The squad nodded with collective determination.

"Elite on three!" Coach continued, her hand extended into the center of their circle. The cheerleaders stacked their hands on top of hers.

"One, two, THREE!"

"ELITE!" the squad shouted in unison, breaking their huddle and taking formation along the sideline.

"Ready?" Alexis called from the front of their line.

"Oh! Kay!" The rest of the squad responded in perfect synchronization.

And with that, the cheerleaders exploded into their opening sideline cheer, firing up the crowd for the upcoming kickoff. Logan's body responded with ingrained precision, shouting the memorized cheers in perfect sync with the rest of the squad. He executed tumbling passes and coordinated movements that emerged without conscious effort. Despite his internal disconnect, his external performance remained flawless—another division between mind and body that had become his constant reality.

The first quarter passed in a blur of sideline routines and carefully timed cheers. During a water break, Coach Winters gathered the flyers and their respective bases.

"Remember, Elle, just like we trained," she said, her expression serious but reassuring. "Trust your bases and spot. Focus on your core. You've got this."

Logan nodded, swallowing against the tightness in his throat. The aerial stunt sequence they'd been preparing for weeks—his debut as a featured flyer—was scheduled for the break between first and second quarters. After months of transformation and training, the moment of truth had arrived: performing complex aerial stunts before the entire homecoming crowd.

As the first quarter ended, Logan took his position in front of Brittany and Madison, his assigned bases. Tiffany stood ready as his back spot, her experienced hands prepared to guide and protect him through the sequence.

"Five, six, seven, eight!" Alexis counted.

In an instant, Logan was airborne, the bases grabbing his feet and lifting him to prep level at their shoulders, then higher as their arms pressed him into a full extension. From this elevated position, he could see across the entire stadium—the packed stands, the field below, the world suddenly open in all directions. His gaze swept across the crowd, landing on Ethan Ryan, the lacrosse player he'd met on move-in day. Ethan was watching him intently, a lascivious smile forming as he nudged his friends and pointed up at the stunt.

The routine continued, and the final element—the basket toss—approached. As his bases dipped and threw him in perfect unison, Logan was propelled higher than ever before. Time slowed at the apex of his trajectory as he executed a flawless toe-touch before tucking into a back tuck rotation. The sensation was unexpectedly familiar—reminiscent of executing a perfect jump catch during his receiver days—but different, the suspension lasting longer, the freedom more complete.

For a brief, transcendent moment, Logan felt something he hadn't experienced since his injury: the peace of athletic achievement. Up here, away from the ground, neither Logan nor Elle existed—just the perfection of human movement through space.

The crowd's roar seemed distant as Logan lost himself in the exhilaration of flight. In this suspended moment, the identity crisis that constantly plagued him evaporated. There was no male or female, no deception, no dysphoria—just the pure athletic thrill of perfect execution.

The bases caught him securely, their skilled arms absorbing his descent. As they lowered him to standing, the spell broke. The crowd's cheers crashed over him like a wave, reality flooding back as his feet touched the turf.

"That was PERFECT!" Alexis exclaimed, rushing over with the other cheerleaders. "Did you hear the crowd when you hit that liberty? Everyone was watching you!"

"You're a natural," Madison told him. "Seriously, it's like you were made to be a flyer."

"Made to be a flyer." Though intended as praise, Madison's comment caused Logan to completely forget the exhilaration he'd just experienced. "Made" was the perfect word for what had happened to him. He hadn't been born like this—he had been manufactured, reduced, compressed, and reconfigured by GIRLI's precise protocols. There was nothing "natural" about it. He was the product of Dr. Gupta's cold engineering, "made" in the most literal sense possible.

Logan nodded, still processing the contradictory emotions surging through him. The genuine athletic satisfaction of a perfect performance collided with the fundamental wrongness of his situation—creating a dissonance that left him momentarily speechless.

The rest of the game passed with Logan in a strange dissociative state. His body continued performing the required routines flawlessly, but his mind remained caught in the conflict between the athletic triumph he'd just experienced and the profound sense of displacement that followed.

By the fourth quarter, Westridge had secured a commanding lead, ensuring a homecoming victory that energized the crowd and the cheerleading squad alike. As the final seconds ticked down, Logan found himself genuinely caught up in the collective excitement, the line between performance and authentic response blurring in ways he couldn't clearly define.

The final whistle blew. The crowd erupted. Logan joined the team's victory formation automatically. His body moved through the choreographed celebration while he found himself genuinely caught up in the excitement and school spirit. As their routine concluded and the squad began to file off the field, Logan caught a glimpse of the football players celebrating their victory. Their camaraderie and physical power triggered a pang of loss that momentarily constricted his chest.

The ache was more than just missing football—he'd been feeling that ever since his injury. This was new, the pain of being relegated to the sidelines of others' triumphs. Where once he'd been at the center of celebration, lauded for his own athletic feats, now he existed only to amplify others' accomplishments. He was no longer the victor but merely the supporter of victors—perpetually outside the circle of achievement, his own talents repurposed to highlight someone else's glory.

As excited students began pouring onto the field to celebrate with the team, cheerleaders and band members, Alexis grabbed Logan's hand.

"Come on! Everyone's heading to Cassie's house for the post-game!"

Logan pulled his hand free, forcing an apologetic smile. "TBH, I'm completely drained. Tomorrow's the dance and everything, so I need to recharge."

Alexis looked disappointed but nodded. "Fine, but you're missing out! Text me when you get back to the dorm."

"Totally will," Logan promised with artificial brightness. "Love ya!"

As the celebration spilled across the field in waves of royal blue and white, Logan slipped away quietly. He navigated through the excited crowd, dodging jubilant students and alumni until he reached the edge of the stadium where the noise began to fade. The bright lights of the field gradually dimmed behind him as he walked alone across the darkened campus, the contrast between his current solitude and the team camaraderie he'd just witnessed weighing heavily on him.

Back in his dorm that night, Logan collapsed onto his bed, emotionally and physically drained. The homecoming victory celebration continued without him, echoing distantly across campus as he drifted into restless sleep, his dreams filled with flying and falling.

The following afternoon, preparations for the homecoming dance transformed Logan and Alexis's shared dorm room into an impromptu beauty salon. Music played from a portable speaker while the girls readied themselves for the event, makeup and hair products covering every available surface.

Madison and Tiffany had joined them, turning the preparation into a squad event. Madison was curling Tiffany's hair while Logan was the center of Alexis's focused attention.

Logan couldn't believe that getting ready was taking longer than the actual dance itself would last. Homecoming preparation as a football player had consisted of a quick shower and throwing on a button-down shirt. Fifteen minutes, tops.

"Hold still!" Alexis commanded, wielding an eyeliner pen with surgical precision. "If you keep flinching, I'll mess up your wing and we'll have to start over."

Logan watched as Madison expertly wrapped a section of Tiffany's hair around the curling iron, noticing how she used her other hand to shield Tiffany's neck from accidental burns. Just a few months ago, he wouldn't have registered such details. Now, after weeks of living immersed in feminine rituals, he absorbed these techniques almost instinctively.

"Almost done," Alexis murmured, leaning back to assess her work. "Your eyes are seriously perfect for dramatic makeup."

Logan caught his reflection in the mirror Alexis held up. She wasn't wrong. The face staring back was startlingly beautiful—eyes enhanced with precise makeup that made them appear enormous, the jade green of his irises intensified by the strategic application. His cheekbones were sculpted with precise contouring, his lips filled with a subtle rose color.

As Alexis shifted her attention to his hair, Logan surrendered to the strange intimacy of the moment. This was a ritual of feminine bonding he'd never experienced before. The girls chattered about classes, shared gossip about who was taking whom to the dance, and swapped makeup tricks with easy familiarity.

"Can you believe Ms. Peterson assigned that paper due Monday?" Tiffany groaned. "Like we don't have homecoming weekend to recover from."

"I already finished mine," Madison said smugly. "Sacrificed my Thursday night, but worth it to enjoy tonight stress-free."

"Elle, how's yours coming along?" Alexis asked, carefully wrapping a section of Logan's copper hair around the curling wand.

"Actually, I was working on it yesterday and got obsessed with all the symbolism in Hamlet," Logan replied, his voice lifting at the end to form a question. "Not even kidding—it's actually fascinating."

His English Literature assignment had flowed surprisingly easily. Something about the protagonist's identity crisis and performance of a role had resonated with him on a level his former self wouldn't have appreciated.

Logan glanced over at Madison, who was putting away the curling iron after finishing Tiffany's hair. "Mads, do you need help with your hair when Alexis is done with mine?" he offered, feeling an unexpected but overwhelming desire to participate fully in this feminine ritual, to be accepted as part of their circle.

"That would be amazing," Madison replied. "I can never get my crown braid right in the back."

As the afternoon progressed, the girls rotated through stations of makeup, hair styling, and outfit preparation. Logan participated in the collaborative preparation, helping Madison with her intricate braid while Tiffany painted Alexis's nails. The efficiency with which they all worked together created a strangely satisfying rhythm to the chaos.

Tiffany emerged from the bathroom in her emerald green dress, heading toward Logan's closet. "Your turn, Elle!" she said, carefully removing the garment bag hanging on the door.

Logan stared at the dress with a mixture of dread and resignation, thinking back to how Alexis had insisted he purchase the tiny wisp of fabric. "I seriously can't believe I let you talk me into buying this," Logan muttered, eyeing the barely-there garment. "Our cheer uniform literally covers more than this does."

Alexis laughed, adjusting one final curl in Logan's hair. "That's literally the point! It's homecoming, not a church service."

Logan shed his dressing robe, revealing the diabolical underthings Alexis had declared were non-negotiable for any formal. The strapless adhesive "sticky bra" uncomfortably clung to his skin, reshaping his B-cups to accommodate the dress's plunging neckline while leaving the side contours of his breasts exposed. Below that, a Skims body shaper compressed his lower body with a vice grip, creating an even more exaggerated feminine silhouette. These foundation garments felt like armor—restrictive, uncomfortable, but an appreciated extra layer between himself and the nothing of a dress.

Logan stepped into the dress, zipping up the back and adjusting the straps with expert hands. The silky material slid over his transformed body, clinging to his curves with whisper-light pressure. Despite its minimal weight—the entire garment couldn't have weighed more than a few ounces—Logan felt paradoxically restricted by its delicate presence.

The extremely short, rose-gold mini dress caught the light with subtle shimmer. Its delicate spaghetti straps and plunging neckline were designed to showcase his perky breasts. Below his chest, the fabric clung to every curve Dr. Gupta had engineered in her lab, before flaring slightly at his mid-thigh.

The barely-there fabric seemed to hover against his skin, creating a constant awareness of exposure that felt heavier than any football pads he'd ever worn. The airy nothingness of the dress demanded a level of self-consciousness that weighed on him far more than its physical mass, each subtle shift of the fabric a reminder of his vulnerability and visibility. This contradiction—feeling simultaneously weighed down and exposed by something so physically insubstantial—was yet another disorienting aspect of his new reality.

"Ohmigod these shoes!" Madison exclaimed, snapping him back to reality. She held a pair of strappy rose-gold heels with impossibly thin four-inch spikes. "These are going to be perfect."

Logan slipped his feet into the heels, fastened delicate crystal drop earrings to his ears, and clasped a thin gold necklace around his neck. The final accessory was a small crystal-encrusted clutch purse, barely large enough to hold his phone and lipstick.

"You look incredible," Madison said as Logan turned around. "That color with your hair? Absolute perfection."

"Do you really think so?" Logan asked, his voice rising with a subtle vocal fry. "I can't even with how low-cut this dress is. Seriously freaking out right now."

Each girl took her turn in front of the mirror, adjusting final details of their outfits and taking countless photos of each other. Logan participated in the ritual, helping Madison secure a loose strand of hair and assisting Tiffany with a stubborn necklace clasp.

"Group pic!" Alexis declared, pulling the other cheerleaders close as she held out her phone for a selfie. "Elite Squad homecoming queens!"

As they gathered their small purses and headed for the door, Logan took a final selfie of himself in the mirror. The transformation was disorienting—a tiny figure in an even tinier dress, copper hair cascading in soft waves over bare shoulders, jade eyes accentuated to impossible brilliance, body sculpted to feminine perfection for others to admire. He was no longer someone admired for his strength or abilities. He was a delicate jewel box, crafted with precision, an exquisite visual feast for the eyes.

"Everyone ready?" Alexis asked, holding open the door to their shared room.

"Let's do this," Logan replied, stepping carefully in his heels as he followed his teammates out of the dorm.

The short walk across campus was a parade of formal wear. Students in suits and dresses traveled in clusters toward the gymnasium, their excited voices carrying through the cool evening air. Logan concentrated on navigating the brick pathways in his precarious heels, grateful for Alexis's steadying hand at his elbow whenever they encountered an uneven section.

The Westridge Academy gymnasium had been transformed into what the dance committee called "Midnight Garden"—twinkling lights strung across the ceiling, floral arches creating photo opportunities around the perimeter, and strategically placed greenery converting the normally utilitarian space into something approaching magical.

The cheerleaders entered as a group, their arrival drawing immediate attention from students already gathered on the dance floor. Music pulsed through the room, colored lights swept across the dancers, and the familiar awkwardness of high school social dynamics was immediately apparent—girls clustered together, boys hovering nearby, everyone pretending not to watch everyone else.

"Let's get something to drink," Alexis suggested, leading their group toward the refreshment table. "I want to scope out who's here before committing to the dance floor."

Logan followed, acutely aware of his precarious balance in the heels. Each step required concentration, the thin spikes forcing his weight forward onto the balls of his feet, transforming his walk into a delicate balancing act. The dress barely reached mid-thigh, forcing him to move with small, careful steps to avoid exposing more than the already substantial amount of leg on display.

Popular songs pulsed through the speakers, the DJ skillfully blending tracks that kept the dance floor packed. Logan sipped punch from a plastic cup. His eyes swept across the room automatically. Who danced with whom? Which social groups clustered together? Where had the teachers positioned themselves as chaperones? He cataloged the social landscape with unexpected precision.

"Come on!" Madison said, grabbing Logan's arm as a popular song started playing. "Let's dance!"

Before he could protest, Logan was pulled onto the dance floor with the squad. The girls formed their own circle, moving with the easy coordination that came from months of performing together. At first, Logan hesitated, but as the music continued, he began to dance. The feminine movements came naturally to him now—his hands rising above his head, hips swaying to the rhythm.

For several songs, the cheerleaders remained in their protective circle, occasionally drawing other girls into their orbit. Logan enjoyed the physical expression of movement, the rhythm, and the camaraderie of the squad.

But then, the music shifted to a slower tempo. Couples formed across the dance floor. Madison drifted away with a baseball player. Tiffany disappeared with her boyfriend. Within moments, Logan stood alone as the crowd rearranged around him.

A wave of vulnerability washed over him as he realized his protective buffer of cheerleaders had dissolved. Without the squad surrounding him, he felt exposed and visible in a way that made his heart race. The realization that any boy might approach and ask him to dance now that he was alone sent a wave of anxiety through him.

"I need some air," he muttered to no one in particular, grabbing his clutch and heading toward the exit before anyone could approach him.

The cool night air was a relief after the humid warmth of the packed gymnasium. Logan took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing pulse. The courtyard was dimly lit with solar garden lights along the pathways, creating small pools of illumination in the darkness. A few other students had escaped the dance as well, couples sitting close on benches or groups talking quietly near the entrance.

Near the concrete planters at the edge of the courtyard, Logan spotted two football players passing what appeared to be a concealed flask. Without thinking, he approached them just as he would have in his previous life, drawn by the familiar relaxation of two bros chilling.

"You guys were amazing tonight," Logan said, falling naturally into conversation. "That play in the second quarter where you totally faked out the defense was, like, so awesome?"

The players turned, momentarily surprised to find a cheerleader joining their conversation. The quarterback, Tyler Marshall, recovered quickly, his expression shifting from surprise to interest.

"Thanks," he agreed, his eyes traveling over Logan's dress with undisguised appreciation. "I didn't know cheerleaders paid that much attention to the actual game."

"Are you kidding? I literally love football," Logan replied enthusiastically.

The boys exchanged looks of surprise. "So you know about football?" Mike Donovan, one of the defensive tackles, commented with an unmistakable note of condescension. "Then you must have seen when our safety blitz caught their left tackle cheating inside in the second quarter."

The answer should have been automatic—Logan had played football his entire life—but to his horror, the specific terminology refused to materialize in his mind. He knew there was some technical meaning to "cheating inside," something about positioning that he should recognize instantly, but the precise understanding remained frustratingly out of reach.

"I... Uh…" Logan struggled, the football knowledge that should have been second nature feeling distant and inaccessible. All he could muster was an embarrassing, "Yeah, totally! That was, like, so unfair of them to cheat like that!"

The players laughed good-naturedly. "We're just messing with you," Tyler said, still smiling. "Most guys don't even know that stuff."

As they returned to discussing the game in detail, Logan's attention drifted. His eyes wandered back to the dance happening inside. Where had Tiffany purchased her emerald dress that complemented her skin tone so perfectly? Madison's silver earrings competed with the gold accents on her dress. He categorized the social hierarchies visible through the windows—which football players danced with which cheerleaders, how the student council members clustered near the refreshment table—behavioral patterns that his former self would have completely ignored.

By the time the players moved on to analyzing play calls and defensive schemes, Logan realized he was profoundly bored by the very subject that had once been his greatest passion. The revelation was deeply unsettling.

"I should probably get back inside," Logan said abruptly, but couldn't bring himself to go back to the dance just yet. Still disturbed by his waning interest in football, he needed to take a walk to clear his head.

As he wandered farther from the gymnasium, the pathway curved around a garden area where the lighting grew dimmer, the sounds of the dance fading behind him.

"Well, look who's hiding out here."

Logan tensed at the voice. Ethan Ryan, the lacrosse captain who had helped with his luggage on move-in day, was standing at the edge of the pathway, his suit jacket unbuttoned and tie loosened.

"I'm not hiding," Logan replied cautiously. "Just, like, getting some air?"

Ethan approached, his confident stride suggesting he'd had a few drinks from whatever flask was being passed around outside the teachers' supervision. "Damn, your body looks hot in that dress," he said, moving closer until Logan found himself backed against the stone wall of the gym. "Been thinking about you since move-in day."

Logan shifted uncomfortably, suddenly aware of how isolated this corner of the courtyard was. The football players had moved on, their conversation fading into the distance, and the other scattered groups were too far away to notice any interaction.

"Thanks," Logan said, instinctively reaching for his phone. "I should probably get back inside. My friends will be looking for me."

"Not yet," Ethan said, placing his hand on the wall beside Logan's head, effectively trapping him. "We've barely had a chance to get to know each other. How about that tour of the campus? I know all the best spots."

The looming presence felt overwhelming, intrusive, the casual dominance of Ethan's posture sending alarm signals through Logan's system. In his former body, such an approach would have been inconceivable—his physical size and strength had provided an automatic buffer of respect. But in Elle's petite frame, with delicate shoulders and narrow waist, he suddenly understood the vulnerability women navigated daily.

"I need to get back to my friends," Logan said firmly, turning to the side and attempting to step away from Ethan's intimidating presence. "They're waiting for me inside."

Ethan moved to intercept Logan's attempt to leave, his arm swinging down to block the path. His hand brushed dangerously close to Logan's chest in a movement that seemed less accidental than deliberate. "Come on, don't be such a tease," Ethan said, his voice dropping lower. "Just one walk around the gardens. We'll be back before anyone notices you're gone."

Logan's heart raced as he assessed the situation with growing unease. His male instincts urged him to shove past Ethan or even throw a punch if necessary, but Elle's body lacked the strength and reach to make such an approach viable. For the first time, Logan truly understood what it meant to be physically overmatched—to need to calculate exits and strategies rather than simply asserting himself directly.

"Everything okay here?" A deep voice echoed from down the pathway. Logan looked up to see Chase Montgomery, Westridge's star wide receiver, walking toward them.

"We're fine," Ethan replied, though his body language shifted subtly. "Just chatting."

"Alexis is looking for you," Chase said to Logan, deliberately ignoring Ethan. "Something about a squad picture they need to take."

Logan recognized the offered escape route with profound relief. "I totally forgot about that. Thanks for reminding me."

As he moved to return to the gym, Ethan's hand briefly caught Logan's arm. "We'll continue this later," he said quietly.

Chase stepped closer, his athletic frame suddenly seeming protective rather than threatening. "I think she made it clear she's not interested. Back off, Ryan."

For a tense moment, Logan thought Ethan might escalate the situation, but the lacrosse player finally shrugged with forced casualness. "Whatever. Plenty of other girls who aren't such a tease."

As Ethan stalked off, Logan exhaled slowly, his pulse still racing. "Thanks," he said sincerely, his voice barely above a whisper. "That was seriously awkward."

"No problem," Chase replied, his expression softening now that Ethan was gone. "Guys like that give all of us a bad name. You okay?"

Logan nodded, blinking at the unexpected warmth in Chase's voice. His hands still trembled slightly as he smoothed his dress. "Yeah, I'll be okay."

"I lied, by the way," Chase admitted with a small smile. "There's actually no squad picture."

The confession surprised a laugh from Logan. "Oh, there's always squad pictures. Like, literally every five minutes."

"We should probably head back inside," Chase suggested, laughing. "I wouldn't put it past Ethan to come back with reinforcements."

As they reentered the gymnasium together, Logan immediately noticed the stares and whispers their joint arrival prompted. Madison's eyes widened dramatically from across the room, and Tiffany actually stopped mid-dance to gape at them. Several other students nudged each other, pointing discreetly in their direction.

"Your friends are staring," Chase noted with amusement. "I think we just launched at least three different rumors."

"Great," Logan muttered, suddenly self-conscious. "That's all I need."

"I'll let you get back to your squad," Chase said. "But if you need a rescue from any more lacrosse players, just signal. I'll be around."

As Chase walked away, Logan was immediately surrounded by his cheerleader friends, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and excitement.

"Where have you been?" Alexis demanded. "We've been looking everywhere! And was that Chase Montgomery you came in with?"

"Just needed to breathe," Logan replied, not mentioning the encounter with Ethan. "The heat in there is straight-up suffocating."

"With Chase?" Tiffany pressed, her eyes wide with excitement. "You two looked... friendly."

Logan shrugged, trying to seem casual. "He just happened to be outside too. It's not a big deal."

"Not a big deal?" Madison echoed, grabbing Logan's arm. "Are you kidding me? He's literally the hottest guy in senior class! And the way he was looking at you..."

The girls pulled Logan back into their social circle, the moment with Chase becoming the subject of intense speculation and excitement. For the next hour, Logan moved through the familiar social routines—smiling, dancing with the squad, posing for photos—his body performing its role perfectly while his mind continued processing the strange series of events outside.

Throughout the evening, Logan occasionally caught Chase glancing in his direction from across the room. Unlike Ethan's predatory stare, Chase's gaze seemed curious, almost appreciative, but without the uncomfortable objectification. Once, when their eyes met briefly, Chase offered a small smile before turning back to his conversation with teammates. The subtle interaction sent an unexpected flutter through Logan's chest that he wasn't prepared to examine.

Back in his dorm room, Logan peeled away the evening's artifice—the dress, makeup, constricting shapewear, and push-up bra—with exhausted relief. Changed into his silk nightie, he sat at the edge of his bed and stared at his reflection in the vanity mirror.

The beautiful young woman staring back taunted him. Her diminutive body, sculpted into perfect feminine proportions, was created for others to admire. Yet what disturbed him most wasn't his doll-like smallness but the internal shifts—how naturally he'd participated in the feminine preparation rituals, how quickly he'd grown bored with football talk, how oddly attentive he'd been to fashion details and social dynamics.

It began to dawn on him that he'd been fighting the wrong battle inside his mind—desperately trying to keep "Logan" from being replaced by "Elle." But his fundamental self wasn't being replaced; it was simply changing, shifting beneath him, adapting to his new reality in ways he hadn't anticipated and couldn't seem to prevent.

As he finally lay down to sleep, his mind kept wandering back to one moment: tonight, at the height of the basket toss during the game, he had experienced a genuine moment of athletic joy and fulfillment. The line between performance and genuine experience was blurring, and Logan wasn't sure how much longer he would be able to tell the difference.