Maya climbed the stairs two at a time, but she couldn't shake Ethan's final look—suspicious and curious and far too interested in answers she couldn't give. That expression followed her through a sleepless night, through breakfast where she picked at scrambled eggs while scanning for threats, through morning classes where she couldn't focus on anything but the growing list of people who were paying too much attention to Alex Rivera.
Team captains are used to getting answers. And I'm running out of lies that sound like truth.
The next day's practice ran under the merciless California sun, heat shimmering off the artificial turf in waves that made the air dance. Maya tried to keep her head down, to blend into the background of navy and white jerseys, to forget the library confrontation and Ethan's stare drilling into her like he already knew she was hiding something massive.
But forgetting was impossible when every warm-up jog brought her within earshot of whispered conversations that stopped when she got too close, when Mateo's eyes tracked her movement with the persistence of a heat-seeking missile, when Madison watched from the bleachers with her cheer squad like a queen surveying her kingdom for signs of rebellion.
Three different people, three different threats, and I'm in the middle of all of them.
Coach Martinez ran them through conditioning first—suicide sprints that left everyone gasping, agility ladders that tested footwork and endurance, the kind of brutal training that separated serious players from weekend warriors. Maya welcomed the physical exhaustion, the way it quieted her racing thoughts and reduced everything to the simple mechanics of breath and movement.
When he finally called for partner drills, Maya hoped she could pair up with someone safe—Jake from her chemistry class, maybe, or one of the quiet underclassmen who didn't ask personal questions. But Ethan didn't hesitate.
"Rivera. You're with me."
It wasn't a request. It was the kind of captain's command that expected immediate compliance, delivered with the easy authority that came from never being challenged. The words cut across the field like a blade, silencing conversations and drawing attention Maya desperately didn't want.
A ripple went through the team—some raised eyebrows, a few whispered comments that Maya couldn't quite catch. Partners were usually chosen by friendship or convenience, not by captains making deliberate selections that everyone would analyze later in the dorms.
He's making a statement. I just don't know what kind.
Maya forced her feet forward, every step sounding loud in her ears despite the noise of twenty other players organizing into pairs. Her cleats felt heavy against the turf, weighted with the knowledge that this was another test she couldn't afford to fail.
Ethan tossed her a ball with casual precision, that easy grin slipping back into place like a mask. "You ready?"
Maya nodded, not trusting her voice, palms already sweating inside her practice gloves.
The drill started simple—passing across orange cones arranged in geometric patterns, emphasis on quick touches and clean control. Standard stuff that every player had been doing since middle school. But Ethan brought intensity to everything, turning routine exercises into competitions, making each pass a small test of technique and decision-making.
He was sharp, focused, but there was something playful underneath the precision, like he was testing her limits and enjoying what he found. Every pass came with a little extra pace, every receiving angle demanded perfect first touches, every sequence pushed the boundaries of what the drill was supposed to accomplish.
He's not just practicing. He's studying me.
"Not bad," Ethan said after a particularly slick exchange where Maya had controlled a difficult pass and returned it through a narrow gap between cones, both of them breathing harder from the intensity.
"Not bad yourself." The words slipped out before Maya could stop them, too natural, too comfortable, carrying the kind of easy banter that came from genuine appreciation of skill.
Don't get comfortable. Don't let him see Maya enjoying this.
But it was too late. They were moving faster now, the drill evolving into something more complex and fluid. The ball felt alive between them, responding to subtle touches and split-second decisions. Every glance, every shift of Ethan's shoulders, Maya read without conscious thought. It was like they were synchronized to some invisible rhythm no one else could hear, connected by the pure language of the game.
Maya had experienced this before—the rare chemistry that happened when two players understood each other's movement patterns so completely that passes arrived exactly where they were supposed to be, when defensive pressure became a puzzle to solve together instead of an obstacle to overcome individually.
This is dangerous. This is exactly the kind of connection Alex can't afford to have.
But she couldn't stop. The joy was too pure, too reminiscent of what soccer used to be before it became part of her disguise. For twenty minutes, she wasn't Maya Castellanos pretending to be Alex Rivera—she was just a player doing what she loved most with someone who understood the beauty of it.
By the time Coach Martinez's whistle blew, ending the drill session, they were both grinning despite themselves. Chest heaving from exertion, sweat dripping in the afternoon heat, but energized by the kind of performance that made all the conditioning worthwhile.
Ethan clapped a hand on Maya's shoulder, the contact firm and solid and unexpectedly warm. His eyes caught hers, brighter than the California sun overhead, reflecting something that looked dangerously close to genuine friendship.
No. Don't do this to me. Don't make this real.
"You know," Ethan said, laughing a little as he caught his breath, "you're the first person on this team I can actually trust with the ball."
The words hit Maya like a physical blow. Trust. The one thing Alex Rivera was built on lies, the one thing Maya couldn't afford to deserve. But hearing it from Ethan—seeing the genuine appreciation in his expression, the way his smile reached his eyes—made something crack inside her chest.
He trusts me. And I'm lying to him about everything.
Maya managed to nod, managed to return his smile, managed to act like the compliment was just normal teammate encouragement instead of a knife sliding between her ribs. Because trust was a luxury she couldn't afford, connection was a risk she couldn't take, and friendship was a trap that could destroy everything she'd worked to build.
But as they walked back toward the rest of the team, Ethan's hand still warm on her shoulder, Maya couldn't shake the terrible realization that she was starting to care about more than just her cover story.
She was starting to care about him.