Chapter 8: First Day of Practice
The borrowed uniform is a cruel joke. The crop top is two sizes too small, the fabric cutting into my ribs, and the skirt barely covers my ass. My breasts strain against the polyester, and I can feel every eye on the practice field tracing the outline of my body. The morning sun is already brutal, and sweat beads along my hairline as Bianca stands before me, arms crossed, her dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
"Arms up, Alex. Show me what you've got."
I lift the pom-poms, and the other girls snicker. There are five of them, all in matching uniforms that fit perfectly, all watching me with the same amused contempt.
I hate them. I hate this. I hate the way my hips sway when I try to stand still, the way my thighs press together, the way my new body feels like a cage I can't escape.
Bianca demonstrates a sequence. A high V, a low V, a jump, a turn, a toss of the pom-poms. It looks simple enough. I've memorized complex playbooks in my sleep. This should be nothing.
I start the motion, and everything goes wrong. My arms don't lift the way I expect. My center of gravity is off, shifted lower, my hips wider, my balance strange. I stumble through the low V, wobble on the jump, and when I try to catch the pom-pom, it slips through my fingers and lands in the grass.
More snickers. Bianca sighs, a theatrical sound.
"Cut it out, all of you." Bianca's voice cuts through the giggles like a blade. The other girls fall silent, but their smirks remain. "Alex earned her spot on this team. She's here because she's got what it takes. You'll give her the same respect you give each other."
I know what she really means. I earned this through my callousness, my arrogance, my complete disregard for anyone's feelings but my own. The irony burns like acid in my throat.
One of the girls, a brunette with a sharp chin and sharper eyes, rolls her head on her neck. "If you say so, Bee. But she's going to drag our routine down. We have a competition in two weeks."
"She won't," Bianca says, her eyes locking onto mine. "She learns fast. Don't you, Alex?"
I nod, my jaw tight. "I learn fast."
"Good. Then try the sequence again. From the top."
I reset my stance, pom-poms raised, my fingers slick with sweat. I take a breath, forcing myself to ignore the weight of my breasts, the way the crop top rides up when I lift my arms. I focus on Bianca's demonstration, replaying it in my mind. High V. Low V. Jump. Turn. Toss.
I begin.
The motion is smoother this time. I adjust my balance, widen my stance, use my hips to stabilize. The high V feels almost natural. The low V too. I jump, my thighs burning with the effort, and land with a wobble that I correct before it becomes a stumble. I turn, toss the pom-pom, and catch it. Not perfect, but not a disaster.
A few of the girls exchange glances. One raises an eyebrow.
"Better," Bianca says. "Again."
The distant rumble of footsteps on turf draws my attention. I glance toward the main field and see them: the football team, spilling out of the locker room in waves of shoulder pads and helmets. Practice is starting. My practice. My team.
My chest tightens.
Coach Dunn leads them, his whistle bouncing against his broad chest. He's in his usual polo and khakis, a clipboard tucked under his arm. His presence is magnetic, commanding, and my eyes track him before I can stop myself.
Then one of the offensive linemen spots me. A low wolf whistle cuts through the air, followed by a chorus of hoots and catcalls.
"Hey, fresh meat! Looking good!"
"Who's the new girl? She on the squad?"
"Damn, Bee, you finally found someone who can fill out a top!"
My face burns. I want to scream at them, tell them exactly who I am, watch their jaws drop when they realize they're whistling at their quarterback. But I can't. I'm trapped in this body, in this uniform, in this lie.
I look at Coach Dunn. He's stopped walking, his eyes fixed on me. That hunger is back, darker now, barely concealed behind the stoic mask of a coach surveying his domain. His gaze travels down my body, slow and deliberate, lingering on the curve of my hips, the swell of my breasts straining against the crop top.
My thighs clench.
And I know, with sickening certainty, that this is only the beginning.
"Fuck off!" Bianca's voice cuts through the catcalls like a whip. She steps forward, hands on her hips, her dark eyes blazing. "She's my new girl, and you assholes are going to show some goddamn respect, or I'll make sure Coach Dunn runs you until you puke."
The offensive lineman who whistled raises his hands in mock surrender, a grin splitting his face. "Just appreciating the scenery, Bee. No harm done."
"Appreciate it from a distance," she snaps. "And keep your mouth shut while you're at it."
The team chuckles, but they start moving again, their attention shifting as Coach Dunn turns and gives them a look that needs no words. That one look is enough to silence the lingering laughter. I watch his broad back as he leads them toward the far end of the field, his stride unhurried, controlled. He doesn't look back at me, but I feel his absence like a physical ache.
One of the cheerleaders, a redhead with freckles dusted across her nose, lets out a huff. "God, I hate when they do that. Like we're just decorations for them to drool over."
"Right?" The brunette with the sharp chin rolls her eyes. "They have no idea what we actually do. They think we just shake our pom-poms and look pretty. Meanwhile, we're doing tosses and pyramids and stunts that would break their spines if they tried."
"And they never even watch," another girl adds. "Not really. They're too busy trying to get in our skirts after the game."
I stand there, pom-poms hanging at my sides, listening to them vent. Every word lands like a punch to the gut. I was one of those guys. I did exactly what they're describing. I watched the cheerleaders the same way, treated them like warm-ups for the afterparty.
"I'll tell you who the worst was," the redhead says, her voice dropping. "Alex Renner. That quarterback who's suddenly 'sick.'" She air-quotes the word. "He was the biggest asshole of them all. Hooked up with half the squad and never called any of them back."
My stomach clenches. I keep my face neutral, my eyes fixed on the grass.
"He got what was coming," the brunette mutters. "Karma's a bitch."
Bianca's eyes flick to me, sharp and knowing. She doesn't say anything. She doesn't have to.
"Alright, enough gossiping," she says, clapping her hands together. "Let's run the sequence again. Alex, you're in the front row. Don't make me regret it."
I run the sequence again. And again. My muscles scream, my lungs burn, and sweat slicks my skin under the unforgiving sun. The pom-poms feel heavier with every repetition, the polyester crop top chafing against my ribs, the skirt riding up with each jump. But I keep going. I force my body to obey, to adjust, to learn the rhythm of these unfamiliar limbs.
By the time Bianca finally calls it, I'm bent over, hands on my knees, gasping for air. Trickles of sweat roll down my spine, pooling at the small of my back. The other girls are barely winded, laughing and chatting as they gather their bags.
"Good work, everyone," Bianca says, her voice brisk. "Hit the showers. We're back here at six tomorrow morning, sharp."
The redhead stretches her arms over her head. "God, I'm starving. Someone want to grab breakfast after?"
"I'm in," the brunette says, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "Just give me ten minutes to rinse off."
They head toward the locker room, their voices fading into easy banter. I push myself upright, my legs trembling, and start to follow.
Bianca's hand lands on my shoulder, stopping me cold.
"Not you."
I turn, confused. "What?"
"You're not showering with the squad." Her eyes are hard, unyielding. "I won't have you using your punishment as an excuse to ogle naked girls."
The accusation stings more than it should. I meet her gaze, letting her see the exhaustion, the frustration, the raw honesty in my voice. "It didn't even cross my mind, Bianca. I just want to wash off. I feel disgusting."
She studies me for a long moment, her jaw tight. Then she rolls her eyes. "Right. Like I'm supposed to believe the guy who once bragged about watching a girl undress through her dorm window."
My face heats. I did say that. Three years ago, drunk at a party. I remember the laughter, the slaps on the back. I remember how proud I felt.
"I'm not that person anymore," I say quietly. "I can't be. Not in this body."
Bianca's expression softens, just a fraction. She crosses her arms. "Fine. You can shower after everyone else is done. Wait here until I come get you. Don't go near that locker room until I say so."
I nod, too tired to argue. She turns and walks away, her hair swishing, and I sink onto the bleachers, alone in the empty field, my borrowed uniform clinging to my skin like a second curse.
I don't get much time to catch my breath.
Footsteps crunch on the turf, multiple sets, and I look up to see three of them approaching. Derek, the tight end I've shared beers with after a dozen wins. Marcus, our starting center, a guy I've broken down film with until midnight. And Tyler, the backup quarterback who's been nipping at my heels all season.
My friends. Or they were, before I became this.
"Hey there," Derek calls out, his voice slick with that easy charm I've seen him use on a hundred girls. "You're the new cheerleader, right? Bianca's project?"
I force a nod, keeping my mouth shut. My voice would give me away. I know it would.
Marcus steps closer, his eyes traveling down my body with a slowness that makes my skin crawl. "Tough practice, huh? Saw you running those drills. You've got potential, though. Good form."
The compliment sounds hollow, a prelude to what I know is coming.
Tyler moves to my side, close enough that I can smell his cheap deodorant. He's grinning, that cocky half-smile I've seen him practice in the mirror. "We were thinking, since you're new and all, maybe you'd want to grab a drink later. Show you around campus proper."
My chest tightens. These are the same lines I used. The same casual approach, the same easy charm deployed like a weapon.
"I'm tired," I manage, my voice coming out softer than I intended.
"That's okay." Derek's hand lands on my bare shoulder, fingers squeezing. "We can just hang out. No pressure."
His thumb strokes my skin, and I feel the heat of his palm, the casual ownership in the gesture. Marcus steps in front of me, blocking my view of the field. Of Frank.
"Come on, don't be shy." Tyler's hand lands on my other shoulder, and I feel his fingers drift toward my collarbone, tracing the edge of the crop top. "We're nice guys. Ask anyone."
I know that move. I've used that move. The gentle touch that escalates, the warmth that disarms, the fingers that find their way lower under the guise of comfort.
I can't move. I can't speak. I'm frozen, caught between the hands of my former friends, feeling exactly what every girl I'd cornered must have felt. The pressure of expectation. The weight of male attention. The terrifying knowledge that saying no might not stop them.
Derek's fingers slide from my shoulder, down my arm, coming to rest on my thigh. "Relax. We don't bite."
Tyler laughs, a low sound. "Well, not unless you ask nicely."
The distant shout of Coach Dunn's whistle cuts through the air, but it's too far away. He's still focused on the defensive line, his back to me.
I'm on my own.
"Maybe I should just hit the showers," I say, trying to keep my voice light, casual. "Bianca's waiting for me."
Derek's hand tightens on my thigh. "She can wait a few more minutes. We just want to get to know you."
"I really should—"
"Come on." Marcus's voice dips lower, that coaxing tone I've used a hundred times. "One drink. That's all we're asking. What's the harm?"
I glance toward the football field. Frank is still with the defensive line, his back to me. The distance feels like miles.
"I have a boyfriend," I blurt out. The lie tastes strange on my tongue.
Tyler laughs. "Sure you do. What's his name?"
My mind blanks. "You don't know him."
"Try us." Derek's thumb traces circles on my thigh, and I feel the heat of his touch like a brand. "We know everyone on this campus."
"He's... he's older. He wouldn't like me hanging out with other guys."
Marcus exchanges a glance with Tyler, and I watch the familiar smirk spread across both their faces. I've seen that look before. I've worn that look before. It's the look that says: *challenge accepted.*
"He doesn't have to know," Tyler says, his voice dropping. "What happens on the practice field stays on the practice field."
My chest tightens. These are my lines. My tactics. I'm hearing my own words echoed back at me, and I want to scream.
"I'm serious." My voice cracks. "He's—"
"You're new here." Derek's hand slides higher, fingers brushing the hem of my skirt. "You don't know how things work yet. We're the guys you want on your side."
I try to stand, but Marcus's hand on my shoulder pushes me back down. Gently, but firmly. Not threatening enough to be assault. Just enough to keep me in place.
"Relax," he says. "We're not going to hurt you."
But I can't relax. I'm trapped in my own body, surrounded by my own friends, watching them use the same playbook I wrote. And I know, with sick certainty, that if I fight back, if I scream, if I tell them exactly who I am, they'll think I'm crazy.
Then a shadow falls over us.
"Gentlemen." Coach Dunn's voice is ice. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
The three of them snap to attention, their hands dropping from my body like I've suddenly caught fire. Derek's face cycles through surprise, embarrassment, and something that looks almost like fear.
"Coach, we were just—" Marcus starts.
"I don't want to hear it." Frank's voice cuts through the excuse like a blade. He steps between me and them, his broad back blocking their view of me entirely. "You three. Laps. Now. You run until I tell you to stop, or until you puke. Whichever comes first."
"Coach, come on, we weren't doing anything—"
"Laps." The word is iron. "Move."
They groan, the sound of teenagers caught red-handed, but they move. I watch their backs retreat through the gap between Frank's arm and his side, hear their footsteps pound against the turf as they break into a jog.
The silence that follows is heavier than their hands were.
Frank turns to face me. His eyes scan my face, my shoulders, the way I'm gripping the metal bleacher beneath me. His jaw tightens.
"Alex."
It's not a question. It's an acknowledgement, a grounding, a lifeline thrown across the gulf between us.
And I break.
The tears come before I can stop them, hot and silent, streaming down my cheeks. I press my palms against my eyes, trying to push them back, but they keep coming. My shoulders shake. I can't breathe.
"Hey." His voice drops, the iron gone, replaced by something softer. His hand lands on my shoulder, warm and steady. "Hey. Look at me."
I shake my head, my palms still pressed against my eyes.
"Alex. Look at me."
I lower my hands. His face swims through the blur of tears, and I see it: not pity, not hunger. Concern.
"I used to do that," I whisper. "I was them. I was exactly them. And I never—" My voice cracks. "I never knew what it felt like on this side."
He doesn't say anything. He just pulls me to my feet, wraps his arms around me, and holds me against his chest while I cry into his polo shirt.
“Bianca didn’t want you in the showers with the rest of the squad.”
It was a statement of fact, not a question. Still I nod against him.
“Go to my office. I have a private bathroom in there that you can use to shower. I’ll tell Bianca that’s what you’ll be using until this bullshit curse of hers is over.”
He pulls away just enough to pull his office keys from his pocket and handed them to me.
“Lock the door when you get to the office and don’t let anyone in. Take your time.”
I nod and pull away, briefly noticing the wet patches my tears left on his polo.
“Go on. I’ll make sure those idiots pay but I don’t want to draw too much attention to you. Best it doesn’t look like I’m giving you too much special attention.”
“Yeah, makes sense,” I say taking a deep breath. “Thanks, coach.”
His jaw tightens before nodding and heading back to the team for practice. I watch him retreat before leaving for safety of his office.