1- Qualifying
Elena’s POV
The stadium shakes with noise, a living heartbeat vibrating through the concrete, through me, through all of us as we step onto the field. Tonight isn’t just another game, it’s the qualifier. Win, and the Strikers move into the semi-finals. Lose, and the season dies right there, and everything we’ve worked for is for nothing.
No State Championship.
Taking it all in, my excitement already high, I tug at the end of my hair that’s gathered together in a single ponytail at the middle, but more to the top of my head. I rake my fingers through it, gather it up again, and part it in two and pull it tighter, like somehow tightening it will steady the nerves buzzing through me.
Adrenaline surges through my veins, and I see us out in the field on the massive screen- red V-neck tees, sharp and bold, with black stripes running down the shoulders and wrapping the collar and sleeve hems. Black sleek shorts, and like the shoulder strips- three on the sides. Our numbers blaze on the back in white, clean and unmissable, outlined in black so even from the nosebleeds they know who we are. Maya’s #8 and #9 for our Vice Captain are on display on the J. My skin prickles, muscles tight, but I live for this feeling- the edge of everything. I roll my shoulders back, stretching against the tension. Cameras flash, the chants swell, and I force my lungs steady.
Ninety minutes. No pressure.
“Ready, Ramirez?” Coach calls from the sideline, his voice slicing through the chaos.
“Always.” I grin, wide and sure, even as my pulse rattles like a drumline.
A tall figure of a man catches my attention, and my eyes widen for two seconds. Near the media box, sunglasses tucked into the V of his T-shirt, posture relaxed, his wired headset tucked into his ear. The clear coil runs down behind his collar, disappearing into his white polo. His gaze sweeps the field, detached until it lands on me. My stomach flips before I wrench my eyes away.
Noah?
The whistle blows. No time to think. Back in the game.
Renee Torres, our captain, takes her place at the circle, armband snug against her sleeve, a pillar of composure. Renee doesn’t shout; she doesn’t have to. One look from her straightens every back on the team. She’s everything I want to be in this field: calm, commanding, untouchable. I burn to prove I belong beside her.
The ball swings my way, and I trap it clean, grass tearing under my cleats. Tunnel vision. Pass. Run. Dodge. The Titans press hard, defense snapping tight, but I’ve lived for this since I could walk.
I dart forward, slip past their left back, lungs already burning as the crowd erupts. “Go, Elena!” someone screams, though it’s all one crashing wave of sound. Hearing my name still spikes me with fire, every damn time.
The Titans, our neighboring rivals, don’t let up. Their captain, Lauren Shaw, shadows me, bigger, stronger, daring me to break. I cut left, sprint, half a step clear, goal in sight, then her foot clips my heel, and my balance falters. The ref’s whistle shrieks. Free kick.
“Shake it off, Ramirez,” Maya Bush, my best friend, mutters, cool as ice, as she sets the ball. I feed off her calm, rising to my feet.
The shrilling whistle. Maya strikes. The ball curves beautifully- perfect until it slams the crossbar with a brutal clang. Gasps and groans crash through the stands. My stomach knots, but I shove it down. No sulking. Not now.
Reset. Sweat burns down my spine, my jersey sticking, cleats gripping turf as the Titans counter hard. Their striker, Halliday, my brother’s ex, barrels forward, ball glued to her foot, eyes alight with hunger.
I sprint back, lungs stabbing, panic and fire surging together. She cuts inside, fires clean, a shot that could rip us open, passing us in a blur. HasleyPerry, our goalkeeper, dives, fingers outstretched, and tips it wide.
The stadium detonates. Relief and rage collide in equal measure. My chest heaves, teammates screaming in my ears, as we all jump on Perry for her save. This isn’t just a game to us or anyone out here on the field and in the stadium. It’s war.
__
I don’t even remember the last pass, the last kick, just the blur of Renee’s shot finding the back of the net and the stadium exploding. Now my teammates are on me, arms tangled, sweat-soaked jerseys pressed close, our screams blending into one. For a moment, nothing else exists, only victory, only this high that nothing in the world can replicate.
Strikers 2, Titans 1.
By the time we burst into the locker room, the place is chaos. Cleats clatter against the tiles, jerseys are yanked over heads, someone’s blasting music from a phone speaker already. The air is thick with laughter, shouts, the sound of water bottles popping open and spraying like champagne.
“Ramirez, that cut past Lauren? Filthy!” Maya yells, pointing at me with one sock halfway off, the other being thrown at me.
I laugh, still breathless, sweat dripping down my temples, my hand catching it, but the whiff from it causes me to cringe, and Maya almost falls over laughing. “Had to make her work for it.”
“You made her look like a traffic cone,” Uma chimes in, throwing her shin guards into the ground. We all howl, and Renee just shakes her head with that small, knowing smile of hers, like she’s seen it all before. But even she can’t hide the flicker of pride in her eyes.
I collapse from the bench to the rubber-tiled floor, my drained body thanking me, as I let the excited noise wash over me. My heart is still hammering, my legs buzzing like live wires. This right here, with them, this is what makes every brutal practice, every injury, every sacrifice worth it.
As my teammates and I keep trading shouts and laughter, the locker room buzz finally dips when our media officer pokes her head in. “Ladies, press is waiting. Renee, Maya, Elena, you’re up.”
Groans echo around the room, and Uma actually throws her towel at me. “Smile pretty, Beauty.”
Beauty on the field. This is what the commentators and headlines usually say about me, and I roll my eyes, but my pulse kicks up. I can score in front of thousands, no problem, but stick me under fluorescent lights with microphones jammed in my face? That’s the real torture.
We file out, hair damp, jerseys clinging, adrenaline still high, and slippers on our feet. The mixed zone is its usual chaos, cameras flashing, reporters calling names, the smell of too much cologne and stale coffee. I force my game face on.
Noah Carter. I’d forgotten all about him just now. Now my heart races as he is nodding at something the cameraman is saying to him, his head bent. He stands a little apart, recorder in hand, the same easy posture, though older now, sharper around the edges. His gaze lifts and collides with mine.
For a second, I’m fifteen again. In my parents’ living room, textbooks spread out between us, my crush simmering too hot to contain. I, leaning in, reckless and stupid, and he catching my wrist and pulling his head back as if I had the plague, before my lips could touch his. The quiet, “Behave yourself,” that burned worse than any missed goal.
I blink, forcing the memory away.
“Ramirez,” he says, voice steady, like this is just business. “Walk us through that first half, your cut past Shaw, the free kick setup. What was going through your head?”
My teammates glance at me, waiting with monkeyish grins and funny eyebrows- they're poking fun because I was dubbed the ‘pretty one,’ which, by the way, only made the captain harder on me. Her anthem to me was, 'good looks don’t matter in the game,' or 'pretty fades,' or some other crap along those lines. And not once have I ever taken my 'good looks' to further my g- how can I when they're all females?
They don’t know pretty was rejected by this guy here...
