BEATRICE
The gym at Eastbrook High is pristine with glossy hardwood floors, freshly painted lines and sunlight filtering through tall windows. Everything smells like lemon polish and focus. Girls in matching gear are already stretching, chatting in tight little circles that I'm not part of.
I hover near the bleachers, hugging my water bottle like a shield. My new practice jersey feels too snug around my chest, my shorts exposing more than I'm used to. My legs itch with nerves, and I have to keep reminding myself not to fidget.
Coach Lila strides in. "Let’s warm up, girls," She calls out, clapping once as she enters, clipboard in hand and whistle swinging from her neck. She barely glances at the others before her eyes land on me. "Beatrice, you'll be training with us now. Let’s see what
