"This isn't over," Mateo had muttered, and those words followed Maya off the field that night like a shadow she couldn't shake. His glare burned into her back as she walked toward the tunnel, but she didn't look back. Couldn't afford to show weakness now.
I just painted a target on my back. Great job, Alex.
By the next practice, the team energy felt different—charged with the kind of tension that came after someone had been publicly humiliated. Maya could feel it in the way conversations stopped when she approached the huddle, in the sideways glances that followed her across the field, in Mateo's cold silence during warm-ups.
Coach Martinez seemed to sense it too. Instead of running drills, he split the squad into two sides for a full-field scrimmage—shirts versus skins, first team against second team, with a few strategic switches that put Maya squarely on the opposite side from Mateo.
"Gentlemen," Coach called out, whistle hanging from his neck like a medal, "stakes aren't official, but I want to see who wants it more. Play like your spot depends on it."
Because it probably does.
Maya kept her head down during the opening minutes, blending into the midfield rotation when she could, pushing forward only when the play demanded it. At first, the boys on her team didn't pass to her much. Not really. She was still the new kid, untested in game situations, potentially a liability when it mattered.
The ball moved in familiar patterns around her—safe passes, predictable combinations, the kind of conservative play that kept coaches happy but rarely won championships. Maya hung back, biding her time, waiting for the moment that would inevitably come.
It arrived in the twenty-third minute.
A sloppy clearance from the opposing defense left the ball rolling loose near the center circle, no one close enough to claim it cleanly. Maya didn't think—she moved.
This is what I do. This is who I am.
One quick cut to change direction, one sharp touch to settle the ball, then she was off. The first defender came at her too aggressively, overcommitted to the tackle. Maya darted around him like he was standing still, using his momentum against him. The second defender was smarter, more patient, but muscle memory took over—every step falling into the rhythm she'd lived since those early mornings in Chicago parks, every touch precise as a surgeon's cut.
She fed the ball clean to Ethan, who'd made a perfectly timed run down the right flank. The pass split two defenders and hit his foot in stride, and he buried it in the net before the keeper could even get his hands up.
Cheers erupted from the sideline where teammates and coaches watched. Maya's chest tightened—not with fear this time, but with something dangerously close to pride. The kind of feeling that made her forget, for just a moment, that she was supposed to be invisible.
Don't get caught up. Stay focused. Stay Alex.
But the game shifted after that moment, like a dam breaking. Passes started coming Maya's way—tentative at first, then with growing confidence as she proved she wouldn't waste them. Her teammates began to trust her, or at least trust her feet to do something productive with the ball.
The scrimmage took on a different quality. Instead of careful, conservative play, both sides started pushing harder, taking risks, playing with the kind of intensity that separated good teams from great ones. Maya found herself at the center of it, threading passes through impossibly tight windows, creating space where none existed, making the kind of plays that got highlight reels and scholarship offers.
By the time Coach Martinez blew the final whistle, Maya's side was up by two goals. A practice win, nothing that would show up in any record book, but it felt bigger than that. It felt like acceptance, like maybe Alex Rivera had earned his place on this team through something more substantial than just impressive tryout footage.
Sweat slicked Maya's skin, her lungs burned from the California heat and forty minutes of constant movement, and for a dangerous second, she almost forgot she was pretending. Almost let herself believe that this—the teamwork, the trust, the pure joy of playing beautiful soccer—could be real.
Don't. Don't get attached. This isn't your life.
As they jogged off the field, cleats squelching in grass made soft by afternoon sprinklers, Ethan fell into step beside her. His usual easy grin had disappeared, replaced with something sharper, more focused. The look of someone trying to solve a puzzle.
Maya's internal alarms started ringing. She'd gotten too comfortable, shown too much, drawn exactly the kind of attention Alex Rivera was supposed to avoid.
Play it cool. Be the transfer kid who got lucky.
When they reached the sideline where water bottles waited in neat rows, Ethan grabbed her arm—not rough, but firm enough to stop her momentum. His grip was stronger than she'd expected, all callused fingers and contained strength.
"Rivera." His voice dropped low, pitched just for her ears while other players celebrated around them. Those blue-gray eyes that had seemed so casual before now studied her face with uncomfortable intensity.
Maya's throat went dry. "Yeah?"
Ethan's gaze didn't waver, didn't blink, didn't give her anywhere to hide. When he spoke, each word carried weight.
"Where'd you learn to move like that?"
The question hung in the air between them like a blade. Not how long have you been playing or what position did you play at your old school—questions with safe, scripted answers. This was different. This was someone who knew elite-level talent when he saw it, and he'd just watched Maya display the kind of technical ability that took years to develop.
Shit. Shit shit shit.
Maya forced herself to shrug, to channel Alex's supposed nonchalance even as her heart hammered against her ribs. "Just pick-up games back home. Nothing special."
But she could see in Ethan's expression that he wasn't buying it. Team captains didn't get to their position by accepting easy answers, and Maya had just given him a performance that raised more questions than it answered.
Around them, the celebration continued—teammates comparing plays, coaches taking notes, the normal post-practice energy that came with a good scrimmage. But Maya felt isolated in this moment with Ethan, like they were having a conversation that could change everything.
"Pick-up games," Ethan repeated slowly, testing the words. "Right."
He released her arm but didn't step back, still studying her face like he was memorizing details for later reference. Maya had the uncomfortable feeling that this conversation wasn't over—that it was just beginning.