“Do you also know that in a unisex team, there will be an even six-six split between the genders? Most of you are going to spend the next season warming the bench. You may have been selected in try-outs, but you won’t be stepping foot into a match if you don’t perform well in practices. You’re being judged on your skill as much as willingness to be a team player, so I suggest you all leave your egos in your lockers. Pick an opponent and form two lines. I won’t repeat myself again.”
The defiance dies quickly after that. Sticks are adjusted, helmets tugged on with a little more force than necessary, and reluctantly, players start sorting themselves into lines. I catch more than a few sideways looks, but at least they’re curious instead of dismissive now. Everest doesn’t say a word. He just watches, arms crossed over his chest, his jaw set and green eyes tracking the field like he’s already running the math on who stays and who goes. As if that won’t be a joint decision this time around.
I take the first ball and roll it hard down the center lane. The sound of plastic on turf chases me from one end of the line to the other without being challenged. I turn back, a brow raised. Then, I go again. By the third run, confidence starts to grow. Possibly because I don’t let up and mention that the hour-long practice will run as long as it needs until we get our shit together. Finally, the men stop underestimating and the women stop hesitating. Bodies crash together, shoulders slamming, sticks clacking in both desperation and pride.
When the ball darts free, I rush forward, scooping cleanly and driving through the contact. A couple of surprised yells trail behind me as I reset the ball and do it again. Everyone finally starts fighting like their spot on the team depends on it, because it does. I bark corrections as I move, calling out foot placement and angles, my voice steady even as my muscles scream. At least when one of them manages to reclaim possession of the ball, they know it’s because they earned it.
Out of the corner of my eye, I clock Everest stepping in for his turn. He runs the ball fast and aggressive, testing reactions, and when it’s my turn to square off against him, I don’t yield an inch. We collide, hard enough that the impact rattles my teeth, and I still come up with the ball. There’s a beat where his brows lift subtly before his face reverts back into that stone-carved neutrality.
We all finish the drill sweaty, breathless, and quieter than we started. No one cracks jokes. No one rolls their eyes. When I call for the next rotation, they move without argument. Everest remains silent, but as he gives a short nod to signal the transition, his gaze flicks to me and lingers. I don’t question if he’s asking for my approval, I simply move on.
Eventually, I call it a day and send everyone off to the showers. There’s no praise offered, no softening of the edges the way the old version of me would have instinctively done tomake everyone feel seen and validated. This afternoon wasn’t a victory, just the first attempt in something that’s going to take weeks, possibly months, to bring together. Creating game plans, teaching them to trust one another, forcing cohesion where ego currently reigns, that will be the real struggle.
When the field finally clears, I drop onto the bleachers and let my head fall back, staring up at a sky streaked with late-afternoon gold. I roll my neck slowly, testing the tightness of my tendons as I wait for the locker room to empty before I follow. Ironically, after an entire afternoon of barking orders about teamwork and unity, I’ve grown too accustomed to my own space. Something Everest clearly hasn’t acknowledged, as he drops down beside me.
The metal creaks under his weight, the sound loud against the quiet that’s settled over the field. I don’t look at him right away. I simply feel him there, all controlled presence and coiled authority, his knees spread and forearms braced on his thighs. Like me, he smells like sweat, grass, and something expensive clinging underneath it. I’m irritated by my own awareness of that.
“Well,” I sigh, if only to fill the silence, “that was a shit show.” Everest nods. There’s no denying, despite how the players finally began to put in some effort, that we were a collective mess. Everyone was out for themselves. No rhythm. No awareness. Just individuals fighting to shine amongst the masses.
“It was only a practice,” Everest responds. I straighten slowly, twisting to meet his gaze head-on.
“Then practice not being useless.” Everest’s expression slackens for a moment, the tension pulling his shoulders tight loosening as he gapes at me.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard. You did nothing to help back there. I was floundering for their attention, and you just watched it happen.”I watch his jaw tighten, a muscle ticking near his temple. His response is fully formed before he opens his mouth.
“I let you take center stage. If I stepped in, you would have accused me of undermining you.” I scoff softly, the sound lacking humor.
“Good try painting yourself as the good guy. You didn’t step in because you were waiting for me to fail. Maybe you could tell daddy dearest that you tried, but I just couldn’t hack it.”
“My father won’t be pleased either way, but if this doesn’t work out,” he gestures towards the field stretching before us, and whatever the end of that sentence was becomes lost in his thoughts. I drag a hand through my hair, tugging the tie free as frustration buzzes under my skin. Everest seems to feel it too, as he leans back on the bleachers, gaze drifting out over the empty field like the answer might be written in the turf. “Fine. Next time, I’ll back you up.”
“But don’t condescend,” I rush to add. This causes him to smirk and huff a small laugh. I find myself grinning too, and that’s how I know the delirium of adrenaline has set in. I turn away before he can read anything else on my face, pushing to stand. There’s a pause where I don’t know if I should excuse myself, or say anything further, and then decide against it.
Heading towards the locker room, I sense the heat of his gaze tracking my every step, which only makes me walk faster. Grabbing my bag, I duck out of the stadium and make a beeline for my accommodation block. There’s no way I feel like showering in the stadium facilities with Everest looming nearby, even though I know he wouldn’t cross that line. It’s not worth jeopardizing his parents’ approval over.
The walk turns into a jog, then a full sprint once my building comes into view, my lungs still burning from practice but adrenaline carrying me the rest of the way. My thighs ache, my calves threaten mutiny, but the thought of hot water andsolitude keeps me moving. I shove through the front door, take the steps two at a time and skid slightly on the floor as I glance down the hall. The bathroom door is open, and inside is empty.
Relief hits so hard it almost knocks the air from my chest.Thank fuck. I don’t even slow as I rush toward my room, fumbling with my key. Bursting inside just long enough to dump my bag, I snatch a towel, clean clothes, shampoo, anything within arm’s reach. I don’t bother checking if they match or make sense. Future Meg can deal with that. Present Meg needs steam and silence before she combusts from the burden of the day.
I pivot back, stepping into the hallway, and that’s when I see Reid. Or rather, the blurred motion of Reid at the far end of the hallway, stepping into the bathroom. For half a second, my brain refuses to process it. Then the door starts to swing shut.
“Wait, no!” I launch forward, muscles screaming in protest as I sprint, bare feet slapping against the floor. “Don’t you dare!”
I reach the door just as it slams inches from my face. Jiggling the handle, the deadbolt cements the door in place. I struggle to stop myself from barreling straight through it, the breath ripping in and out of my chest with one hand braced against the wood. Heat floods my veins, eclipsing every other sensation. My fingers curl into the towel so tightly that my knuckles ache. Of all the days. Of all the times. I bang my forehead lightly against the door.
“Hey asshole,” I call through the wood. “Other people need to use the bathroom too.” As if to mock me – no, definitely to mock me – the spray of the shower sounds from within, and my heart sinks. Rage snaps through me like a live wire.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I hiss to myself. Backtracking, I stop in front of his room, glaring at the door as if it’s personally offended me. I don’t know what possesses meto try, but I reach out and try his handle. To my surprise and boundless interest, it opens.
Chapter Sixteen
I hesitate for exactly half a second before slipping inside and quietly closing the door behind me. The room is dim, curtains half drawn against the dying light, the air cool and faintly scented with something sharp, like graphite or ink. My irritation melts into a fizzing thrill, the kind that curls low in my stomach and makes me grin despite myself. Snooping is a bad habit, but right now it feels earned. Call it curiosity, or perhaps karma.
Reid’s room is cleaner than I expected, although unmistakably one of an art major. I drop my towel and clothes onto his unmade bed, the dark gray sheets crumpled in a central heap. His overalls and paint-stained hoodies hang from hooks on the back of the door, stiff with dried acrylic. A wide desksits beneath the window, scarred with knife marks and pigment stains, notebooks stacked with care beside jars of brushes soaking in cloudy water.
I wander slowly, fingers grazing spines of books on art theory, anatomy, psychology. Therapy worksheets peek out from beneath one pile, edges dog-eared and scribbled over, words circled, crossed out, rewritten. I pause, the edge of my irritation dulling slightly. Sometimes I fail to remember Reid was also in the rehab facility, and that must have been for a reason. His words from my last therapy session ring out.“You’re not special here, and you don’t get to dictate who is suffering more.”
