"Where'd you learn to move like that?"
Ethan's grip on Maya's arm tightened just enough to remind her who held the power here, who wore the captain's armband, who could make her life at Riverside Academy heaven or hell with a single word to Coach Martinez. His blue-gray eyes bored into hers with laser intensity, unrelenting, searching for cracks in whatever story she was about to tell.
Maya's pulse spiked, hammering against her neck so hard she was sure he could see it. Truth pressed against her teeth like a caged animal trying to escape—Chicago streets slick with summer rain, pickup games in Humboldt Park, Diego laughing when she nutmegged him outside their house, her father teaching her to cut on a dime when defenders came too close.
Tell him about the years of club soccer. Tell him about the state championships. Tell him about the scout letters that came before everything went to hell.
But the truth wasn't hers anymore. Maya Castellanos had died in that living room, and Alex Rivera had never played anything more competitive than weekend pickup games.
So she swallowed it all, every memory that wanted to spill out, and forced her voice to stay steady.
"Denver," she said flatly, like the word tasted bad. "Local leagues. Nothing big."
The lie felt like swallowing glass, but it was the story in Alex's carefully constructed background. Military kid, moved around a lot, never stayed anywhere long enough for serious development. Talented but unpolished, good but not suspiciously good.
Ethan studied her face like he was replaying every step she'd taken on the field, every touch, every decision. His jaw flexed, a muscle jumping near his ear. He didn't believe her—not really. Maya could see the skepticism written across his features like graffiti on a wall.
He knows I'm lying. Maybe not about what, but he knows.
But after a long moment that stretched like pulled taffy, he let go of her arm. His lips twitched into something caught between a smirk and a challenge, the expression of someone filing away information for later use.
"Whatever you say, Rivera."
The words carried weight, implied consequences, suggested this conversation was far from over. Around them, the team was spilling toward the athletic building, voices echoing across the field as players rehashed the best moments from scrimmage. But Ethan hung back, falling into step beside Maya instead of leading the pack like captains usually did.
His presence felt heavy, commanding, like he was dragging her into his orbit whether she liked it or not. Maya had known guys like this before—the ones who expected the world to rearrange itself around their preferences, who collected followers and admirers like trading cards.
Stay friendly but not too friendly. Respectful but not submissive. Alpha enough to earn respect, beta enough not to threaten his position.
It was an exhausting calculation, but Maya was getting better at it.
"You keep playing like that," Ethan said, his voice carrying that casual authority that came with being untouchable, "the others will follow your lead."
Maya glanced at him sideways, wary of where this was heading. "Pretty sure you're the one they follow."
He shrugged with practiced ease, like the weight of leadership was just another accessory he wore. "Captains notice threats, Rivera. And assets." His grin sharpened, revealing teeth that had probably been straightened by the best orthodontists money could buy. "Not sure which you are yet."
Threat or asset. Great. Those are my options.
Before Maya could figure out how to respond to that particular minefield, shouts rose from the edge of the field. She turned, grateful for the distraction, and saw the cheer squad gathering near the bleachers like a flock of perfectly coordinated birds.
They moved in formation even when they weren't performing—a cluster of perfect hair caught by golden hour light, perfect smiles that probably took hours to achieve, perfect sharpness that could cut glass. Their uniforms were immaculate despite the California heat, their makeup unsmudged despite an afternoon of practice.
Riverside Academy royalty in their natural habitat.
One of them broke away from the group, moving toward Maya and Ethan with the kind of confidence that could silence a crowd, that expected every eye to follow her movement. Her ponytail swung like a weapon, catching sunlight with each step. Her smile was flawless ice—beautiful and cold and potentially deadly.
Oh no. No no no. This is the last thing I need.
Her eyes locked on Ethan first—familiar territory, comfortable ground—then shifted to Maya with curiosity that felt like being examined under a microscope. The kind of attention that dissected and categorized and filed away for future reference.
Maya's chest tightened. She'd spent two days worrying about Mateo's suspicion and Ethan's questions, but she'd forgotten about an entirely different kind of threat. The kind that wore lip gloss and knew exactly how to use a smile as a weapon.
Girls notice things boys miss. Girls ask different questions. Girls—
"Ethan," the cheerleader called out, her voice carrying across the space between them like music, perfectly pitched to draw attention without seeming to try. "Amazing practice today."
But her eyes never left Maya's face.