Ethan Morrison's grin was the last thing Maya saw before sleep dragged her under, his presence lingering in her room like smoke. By morning, the weight of his scrutiny still pressed against her chest, like his blue eyes had seeped into the walls and were watching her even now.
Tryout day.
Maya stared at herself in the bathroom mirror, Alex Rivera staring back with hollow eyes that knew too much. She dressed with military precision—compression shirt first, the kind that flattened everything that needed flattening. Then a loose practice jersey in Riverside's navy and white, shorts that hung just low enough to hide what they needed to hide. She tugged the drawstring tight enough to cut off circulation and double-knotted her cleats like her life depended on it.
Because it did.
Every move felt like putting on armor, piece by piece, until Maya Castellanos was buried so deep that only Alex could surface.
The walk across campus to the athletic complex buzzed with nervous energy. Boys clustered in groups along the pathways, already in their practice gear, tossing balls back and forth like this was just another Tuesday. Their laughter carried on the morning air, easy and confident. For them, this was probably fun—a chance to show off, maybe make varsity, impress some girls watching from the stands.
For Maya, it was survival.
If Alex Rivera can't play soccer, he doesn't exist. And if Alex doesn't exist...
She didn't let herself finish that thought.
The main field stretched out like an ocean of perfect green, the kind of manicured grass that probably cost more to maintain than most people's salaries. Goalposts gleamed white in the morning sun. Bleachers rose on both sides, mostly empty except for a few curious onlookers and what looked like scouts with clipboards.
The coach stood at midfield like a general surveying his troops. Stocky and weathered, with the kind of tan that came from decades under the sun, he had a whistle that looked like it had been welded to his hand sometime in the 1990s. His voice boomed across the field when he spoke, carrying the authority of someone who'd built champions.
"Listen up, gentlemen. Today's simple—you want a spot on this team, you earn it. No shortcuts, no daddy's donations, no sob stories. Just talent and heart."
Maya's stomach clenched. Heart. If only he knew how much of hers was buried with her family.
"I'm Coach Martinez," he continued, "and this is my field. You play by my rules, you respect the game, and maybe—maybe—you'll get to wear this jersey in competition."
The drills started immediately. No warm-up period, no gentle introduction. Martinez threw them into passing sequences that demanded precision, footwork patterns that separated the gifted from the merely adequate. Maya kept her head down and her mouth shut, focusing on the familiar rhythm of ball meeting foot.
One touch. Control. Pass. Move.
But even as she tried to stay invisible, the ball felt like coming home. Her body remembered what her mind desperately wanted to forget—Chicago streets slick with rain, pickup games in Humboldt Park, Diego's delighted laughter when she nutmegged him outside their house.
Don't think about Diego. Don't think about home. Think about Alex.
The field began to narrow in her perception until it was just her and the ball and the simple geometry of the game. One touch led to another, spin to control, control to the perfect pass that split two defenders like they were standing still.
She heard it then—the shift in atmosphere.
The casual laughter from other groups began to quiet. Footsteps slowed as players completed their drills and lingered to watch instead of moving to the next station. Heads turned in her direction with the kind of focus that meant something unexpected was happening.
They were watching her.
Maya felt the attention like heat on her skin, but forced herself to keep playing, to lose herself in the only thing that had ever made sense. A defender came at her during a small-sided game, eager to make an impression on Coach Martinez. Maya flicked the ball past him with her left foot like he wasn't even there, his momentum carrying him three yards in the wrong direction.
Another player approached—bigger, faster, probably a starter from last year based on the way he carried himself. Maya read his movement before he made it, cutting inside just as he committed to the tackle, leaving him sliding across grass while she accelerated past.
The goal opened up in front of her like a doorway.
Maya planted her right foot and struck with her left, putting everything she had behind it—all her grief, all her rage, all her desperate need to be someone else. The ball rocketed off her foot and slammed into the upper corner of the net with a sound like a gunshot, the mesh bulging before snapping back into place.
Complete silence fell over the field.
Then erupted into shouts of disbelief mixed with something sharper—maybe respect, maybe intimidation. Players who'd been going through the motions suddenly looked alert, competitive. A few of the older guys exchanged glances that Maya couldn't quite read.
From the sideline, she felt Ethan Morrison's eyes burning into her like lasers. When she glanced his way, his cocky grin had disappeared entirely. He stood with his arms crossed, jaw tight, watching her with the intensity of someone trying to solve a puzzle.
As Maya jogged back toward midfield, sweat sticking her compression shirt to her skin despite the cool morning air, she caught his voice—low but unmistakable, directed at one of his teammates.
"Who the hell is this guy?"
The question hung in the air like a challenge, and Maya realized that impressing Coach Martinez might be the least of her problems. She'd just painted a target on her back in front of every player who thought they deserved a starting spot.
Great job, Alex. Way to stay under the radar.
But as she lined up for the next drill, Maya caught something else in the shifting dynamics around her—opportunity. If Alex Rivera was good enough to make these players nervous, maybe he was good enough to earn the one thing Maya needed most.
A place to belong, even if it was built on lies.
Coach Martinez blew his whistle, and the scrimmage continued, but Maya could feel the change in the air. Every pass would be contested harder now. Every challenge would carry extra weight. Every mistake would be magnified.
She'd announced herself whether she meant to or not.
Now she just had to survive what came next.