1-39
“I think you’re going to like it here, Lily,” Coach Mary Shahii said, zipping up her school windbreaker. It was decked with bright red and silver running along the edges. On the back was a dark, predatory wolf with crimson irises. She gave me one, but I elected not to wear it.
With autumn approaching, I couldn’t live without my turtlenecks, and this baby blue one was my favorite. I was always cold, and the chill was only getting worse. The turtlenecks also paired well with my curly brown hair.
I met Mary after school, and she’s been the varsity wrestling coach at Westbridge High School for over a decade. She showed me around campus on my first day yesterday, and of course, it had to be a Monday.
I didn’t have the heart to ask her why she accepted me onto the team. My wrestling record spoke for itself. It wasn’t good, but I loved the sport and wanted to keep going with the support and encouragement of my three older brothers.
All of them wrestled, in case that wasn’t obvious. I hated to admit it, but I think my brothers pulled some strings to get me on the varsity team. They would never admit it to my face if I confronted them.
“Here’s the locker room,” Mary said, finally spinning around to face me. She glanced up at the lockers and then wrote something on the clipboard in her hand. A whistle hung from around her neck, and her track pants rocked the Westbridge Wolves logo.
This locker room was posh compared to my old high school. Thirty lockers lined the room, fifteen on each side. To my left were the showers, and to my right, the bathrooms. It was well lit, with beautiful hardwood flooring and warm, amber lighting. The walls were painted a light silver, with random, furious wolf heads in any open wall space.
It almost looked like kids had come in and drawn them. That was honestly cool if that’s how the graphics got onto the walls.
“So the varsity wrestling team has its own building?” I asked, examining the names on the lockers. One stood out—Sasha Voss. My locker was right next to hers, at the very end.
Mary looked up from her clipboard and slipped her pencil behind her ear. “Yes, the varsity, JV, and practice squads use this facility.”
“I see,” I said, now walking over to my locker. It was in the left row, the very last one next to an office window—probably Mary’s office, because through the window, a paper labeled Wrestling Schedules sat on the desk.
Mary walked over. “Sasha helped clean that locker out. It was being used for storage. She even put in a new locker combination for you.” She reached into her pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and handed it to me.
Huh, that was nice of her.
I unfolded the paper and flipped it around the right way to read the numbers. All I could do was stare. “Uh... this is my locker combination?”
Mary disappeared through her open office door and put her clipboard down on the desk. Then walked back out. “Yes.”
I glanced at the numbers again.
1-39-0.
I let out a deep sigh, crumpled the paper, and tossed it across the room into the large trash can in the opposite corner. Mary’s eyes followed it the whole way until it disappeared into the black bag. “Problem?” she asked, now looking at me again.
“Nope. No problem.”
I used my official win-loss record to open my locker. To my surprise, it was empty, and I half-expected more jokes or insults waiting for me. It was clean, and even smelled like pine and other natural cleaning products.
The locker had a smaller shelf near the top, then a long vertical space below with hooks on either side. I heaved my gym bag from over my shoulder and onto the floor inside the locker.
I squatted down and unzipped it, pulling out items reserved for the top shelf—deodorant, body powder for singlet chafing, hair clips and ties, my period kit, and other hygiene essentials. Everything else I needed for wrestling stayed inside my bag at the bottom of my locker.
I spun around to see Mary had disappeared into her office, and through the window, she typed on a computer with a pencil between her lips. Since my locker was right next to it, I took a few steps and lingered in the doorway. Mary kept typing, glancing at something on her desk, then back at the screen. I knocked on the door. “Should I change into my singlet? Is there practice today?”
Mary shook her head, pulling the pencil away from her lips. “Not today.” She pushed off the desk and wheeled her desk chair backward. “But some of the team is practicing anyway.” She got up and grabbed her clipboard. “Come on.”
I nodded and followed Mary through a set of double doors right next to her office door.
A vast, open gymnasium stood before me. The air carried the sharp rubber smell of the mats, mixed with a faint, lingering tang of sweat. Rows of bleachers lined the right wall. Opposite them were floor-to-ceiling windows, with two sets of double doors and a neon exit sign above each one.
The floor was covered with wrestling mats, all the same, but alternating colors of blue and red to help wrestlers orient to the space. There was enough space between each mat for people to walk between them so any practice match wouldn’t be interrupted.
I craned my head up and saw multiple banners hanging from the rafters. Almost all of them had a year listed on the bottom, with some trophy or listed accomplishment. The years dated back nearly a century, and I recalled being told Westbridge High School was almost one hundred years old.
One had a picture of Sasha, a referee raising her hand. It was dated earlier this year—2026.
I recognized it. It circulated online for a long time when she won nationals, earning her the SSS ranking. Even the major sports networks covered it. Sasha gave many interviews during that time.
A loud whistle filled the air at the mat in the middle of the room. “Lauren,” a man with a mustache and ball cap said, and pointed at a blonde girl on the ground with her hair up in a bun. Then he pointed to the center of the mat they all stood on. “Par terre.” He snapped his fingers. “Sasha, behind. Let’s go. Let’s go.” His loud golf claps echoed through the room.
It wasn’t the whistle that snapped my gaze away from the ceiling banners, but a name.
Sasha. She was here.
My eyes automatically fell on her. Sasha rose to one knee and then pushed herself up gracefully. She wore a red singlet and matching headgear. Her autumn hair was only in a ponytail, but it wasn’t like this was an official match.
I ran my finger through my curly brown hair, glancing down at the split ends. Sasha’s straight hair shined under the bright fluorescent lighting.
Mine didn’t. She reached up and fluffed her pony. My own hair stayed flat against my scalp, last night’s cheap wash still sitting on it.
Lauren flipped over onto her hands and knees, her sneakers pressing into her butt and purple singlet. She adjusted her headgear. “Would you stop it with the Latin, Matt?”
Matt just shook his head and bent down, hands resting on his knees. Mary nodded in his direction. “That’s our assistant coach. Matt Keene.”
“Ah,” I said.
“Why should he?” Sasha asked, dropping to a knee directly behind Lauren. Sasha placed her left hand on Lauren’s left side, and her other on Lauren’s right biceps. “Too stupid to figure it out?”
Lauren grinned and shook her head, waiting for the whistle. “I have a better GPA than you.”
“Wait a second,” Sasha said, now standing back up and looking in this direction.
My eyes widened, but I swear they only widened a little bit.
Sasha marched over here, to Matt's dismay, and he blew his whistle. Her posture was perfection—her back straight, her feet straight and aligned, and her shoulders broad and parallel to the ground. Her glistening ponytail bounced left and right with every step. She threw her hand up in clear defiance at Matt, then stopped a few feet in front of me.
My right hand snapped up and grabbed my left biceps. I shifted and lowered my eyes to the ground, though she had no problem staring directly into my soul.
“1-39? You actually showed up?” Sasha asked.
Warmth bloomed across my face, and I summoned the courage to stare into her harsh hazel eyes. My hand tightened around my biceps. “Please don’t call me 1-39.”
Sasha scoffed and looked at Mary, then shook her head in disgust and threw her arms wide. “I thought you were joking when you told me 1-39 was joining our team.”
Mary moved her hands behind her back, clipboard in them. “And when have I ever told a joke, Sasha?”
Sasha’s face loosened. “Never, ma’am.”
Lauren stood up in the background. “Am I going to wrestle someone?”
Sasha looked at her, and then back at me. A smirk slid up one side of her face. “No, Lauren.”
