He pauses—for dramatic effect, I’m guessing—and lets the tension settle over the group like a heavy fog. A ripple of confusion spreads through the players, brows furrowing, a few side-eyes darting in my direction. One guy in the back mutters, “Dylan’s a... female?” like he’s still trying to make sense of it.
“Yes,” Coach says, snapping his head toward the player who spoke up. “Dylan Murphy is ashe. And let me tell you something—she was the most sought-after recruit this season. We got lucky. She’s fast, aggressive, and one of the best damn players I’ve ever scouted. So get used to it.”
I lift my chin, locking my expression into something cool and collected. I can feel their judgment pressing down on me, like invisible weights stacked on my shoulders. I’ve dealt with this before. I’ll deal with it again. But it’s different this time—this time, I need them to take me seriously.
“You don’t have to like it,” Coach continues, crossing his arms over his chest. “But youwillrespect it. Anyone got a problem with that?”
The silence that follows is thick and uncomfortable. No one’s brave—or stupid—enough to speak up. Not on day one.
“That’s what I thought.” Coach shifts his gaze across the group, daring anyone to step out of line. “All right. Let’s get to work. And in case anyone here still thinks this is some kind of joke... meet my assistant coach.”
A door to the field house creaks open, and thereheis.
Matthew steps onto the field, clipboard in hand, wearing a black whistle around his neck. His brown hair is a little tousled from the wind, and the corner of his mouth curves up in a knowing smirk when our eyes meet.
“Some of you know me already,” he says smoothly. “For those who don’t, I’m Matthew, and I’ll be working with Coach this season. You can call me Coach Dawson.”
The others don’t notice, but I can feel the flicker of heat between us from twenty feet away. Matthew’s gaze lingers on me just a second too long before he redirects his focus back to the group. It’s subtle—barely noticeable—but I catch it. And I know some of the others catch it, too.
We break off into drills after Woosley blows his whistle. I throw myself into the practice with everything I’ve got—sprinting, cutting, passing, working my stick like my life depends on it. Ford and Jacob are right there with me, and we move in sync, reading each other’s movements like we’ve been playing together for years.
But the other guys? They’re not so quick to warm up.
I catch snippets of conversation between them as we run through passing drills.
“Can’t believe she’s really on the team...”
“What if she gets hurt?”
“Shouldn’t she be playing field hockey or something?”
I grit my teeth and push harder, my cleats digging into the turf. They’ll see soon enough.I’m not here to play nice. I’m here to win.
We run a scrimmage toward the end of practice, and I take every opportunity to prove myself. I intercept passes, make quick cuts, and land a perfect shot into the top corner of the net, sending the goalie scrambling. My chest burns from the exertion, but it’s worth it when I see some of the guys exchange surprised glances.
“Damn,” one of them mutters. “She’s actually good.”
Actually?I roll my eyes but keep my focus on the game. Better than good. I’ve worked my ass off to be here.
When practice finally wraps up, sweat drips down the back of my neck, and my muscles ache in the best way. I pull my helmet off, shaking out my ponytail, and catch sight of Matthew standing near the sidelines, arms crossed, watching me with that same look he always gets when I do something he likes.
As the players start to wander off, a couple of them shoot curious glances in Matthew’s direction. I overhear one whisper to another.
“Think she’s sleeping with the assistant coach?”
“Nah... but they’re definitely close.”
My stomach tightens. Damn it. This is exactly what I was worried about. If people start talking, it could be bad—for both of us.
Matthew catches the look on my face as I watch the team head to the locker room. He walks over, his expression calm, like he’s already anticipated my concerns. I know Coach Woosley knows and everything is good on his end. But the other players still have to listen to Matthew. They have towantto play with me.
“Don’t worry about them,” he says, voice low so only I can hear.
“But if they—”
“They won’t,” he interrupts gently. “Let them talk. They’ll get bored eventually.”
I sigh, biting my bottom lip. He makes it sound so easy, like none of this bothers him. But I know better. I don’t want to be the reason he’s not taken seriously or respected as an assistant coach.
