I wantthis.
A place where I could reinvent myself.
A place where the only thing people know about me is how hard I work and how much I want it.
A few athletes are on campus for break—some soccer girls, a couple runners—and they offer to show me around. They’re relaxed, friendly. Real. Exactly the kind of people I want on my team.
“So,” one of them asks, “you’re the girl from RI? The one everyone’s talking about?”
I tense.
She lifts her hands.
“No judgment. Honestly? Respect. You must be tough as nails.”
I swallow my surprise. “Something like that.”
They take me to the training rooms, the gym, the locker rooms. Everything smells like turf and laundry detergent and potential victories. I touch the BC crest painted on the floor and feel chills.
Not fear.
Hope.
The head coach meets me after.
Sharp eyes. Firm handshake. No nonsense.
“I’ve seen your reels,” she says. “You’ve got talent. Raw speed. Field vision. You don’t fold under pressure.”
“That’s one way to put it,” I mutter.
She studies me.
“I know about the… incidents,” she says carefully. “I know it wasn’t your fault. But universities get nervous when a player’s name is linked to controversy. So here’s the deal.”
My heart pounds.
“Keep your nose clean. Keep training. Get more tape. Join a travel team here. And we’ll talk in the spring. I had someone enter the portal, so I might have a spot.”
My mom squeezes my hand. My dad grins like I just won the World Cup.
The coach continues:
“Your job is simple: prove you’re exactly who your film says you are. A workhorse. A competitor. Grit over glamour.”
I breathe out. “That’s me, Coach. I wasn’t born with money or connections. Every single achievement I have is sweat and late nights and refusing to quit. I’d be honored to play here.”
Something softens in her eyes.
“We’ll be in touch.”
We stay one more night in Boston.
The hotel glows with Christmas lights.
We eat hot pretzels and cannoli from a food cart by the harbor.
For a little while, I forget:
