Kicking Fire - A Story of Mulan

IX.

-Raya-

The bell rang, echoing through the art room like a cue for freedom. Brushes clattered, sketchbooks zipped away, and chairs screeched as students rushed to leave.

I wiped the last streak of charcoal from my fingers, slung my bag over my shoulder, and quietly stepped into the hallway, where the end-of-day chaos swirled around me like a current. But I wasn’t going with the flow.

I already had a destination in mind.

Instead of heading to the parking lot or the gate, I made my way across campus toward the football field. The late afternoon sun painted long golden shadows across the grass, and the scent of freshly cut turf hit me the moment I stepped past the bleachers.

The boys were already out there—helmeted, padded, and larger-than-life as they collided and sprinted across the field like warriors in some rhythmic battle. I stayed at a distance, settling into the bleachers with my backpack in my lap, eyes fixed on the drills. I told myself I was just here to watch. To learn. To understand this sport that felt like another language but called to me with its rawness and energy.

"Still not giving up, huh?"

I blinked and looked down just as Alec jogged up from the field, his helmet tucked under his arm, dark hair messy with sweat, cheeks flushed from practice.

His voice wasn’t harsh this time—just tired. Curious. A little amused.

“You’re really something,” he said, breathing hard. “You just keep showing up.”

I shrugged, but my lips curled into a smile. “You told me I wouldn’t go anywhere with football. I took that personally.”

Alec shook his head, looking like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or scold me again. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

“I know,” I replied. “But maybe it’s exactly what I needed.”

He looked at me for a moment—really looked. Like he was trying to see what I was made of under all the quiet. I didn’t flinch this time.

“I don’t get you,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “But... I guess I can respect the persistence.”

“Thanks,” I said, my voice light.

He pointed behind him with a jerk of his thumb. “I gotta get back. Coach hates it when we slack between drills.”

“Go,” I nodded. “I’ll just be here. Watching. Learning.”

He hesitated for half a second, then gave a small, almost invisible nod before jogging back toward the huddle of players.

I sat there in silence, the sun dipping lower in the sky. The rhythm of the game unfolded before me like a living pulse—shouts, whistles, the thud of shoulder pads, the spinning spiral of the ball as it sailed through the air.

And though I wasn’t on that field yet, something deep inside me surged every time a play was made. Like my heart was already running with them. Like I knew—without a shadow of a doubt—that I belonged here.

I pulled my notebook from my bag and started sketching the movement of the players, mapping out positions, scribbling terms I remembered from Felix’s notes.

I wasn’t just watching.

I was studying.

Preparing.

One day, I wouldn’t just be in the bleachers.

I’d be part of the game.

I didn’t even realize I had been sitting on the bleachers for almost an hour until the coach blew the whistle and the boys began slowing down, dropping to their knees, or gulping water like they were parched survivors of battle.

The sun was beginning to dip lower, casting everything in gold. I thought that was it for the day—until I heard the coach shout across the field.

“Alright, ladies! You’re up. Let’s move.”

The girls began jogging out—helmets under their arms, ponytails swaying, cleats biting into the turf like they’d done this a thousand times. I sat up straighter, heart suddenly thudding louder.

Then the coach turned. Her eyes scanned the bleachers.

Then locked on me.

“You,” she called, pointing. “Raya, right? You said you wanted in. Well, we’re short today. You wanna just sit there or get on the grass?”

I froze.

Every nerve in my body screamed yes. Every rational fear in my head shouted no. I looked down at myself—jeans, sneakers, my backpack beside me. Definitely not football attire. My palms were sweaty. My knees? Weak. My heart? About to fall out of my chest.

Before I could answer, a familiar voice cut through the air.

“She’s not even dressed right,” Alec called out as he approached. “Still got time to back out, you know.”

He stood tall, helmet tucked under his arm again, arms crossed—classic Alec. No smirk this time, just a calm, unreadable face.

My throat tightened, but I stood. “I’m not backing out.”

A few of the guys nearby chuckled. “She serious?”

“Is this a joke?”

“Did she get lost on the way to the cheer team?”

I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste metal.

“Yo, that’s enough,” Felix’s voice rang out sharp. “She’s here. She wants to try. Let her.”

That shut them up. Even Alec didn’t reply.

Coach raised an eyebrow. “Well? You gonna stand there or gear up?”

She tilted her head toward the locker room.

I grabbed my bag and walked—okay, power-walked—toward the shed where they kept the spare uniforms and gear. My fingers fumbled with the pads, the jersey, the cleats. Everything felt twice as heavy as it looked. My brain was racing. My limbs were already tired—and I hadn’t even started yet.

By the time I stepped onto the field again, suited up in a slightly oversized jersey and helmet, I felt like I was walking into an arena.

The girls on the team gave me quick glances. None of them looked thrilled.

One snickered. “Didn’t know we were letting tourists try out.”

Another muttered, “Coach must be desperate.”

I tried not to let it get to me. But their words stung like ice water down my back.

“Alright,” Coach barked. “Basic drills. Let’s see what this newbie can do.”

The next thirty minutes were chaos. I tripped over cones. Missed passes. Got the directions backward. My helmet shifted too much. My arms ached. I even got knocked down once during a blocking drill—and I hit the ground so hard, I thought I might actually throw up.

But something changed when we started sprint drills.

Coach blew the whistle—and I ran.

Fast.

I didn’t think, I didn’t panic, I just ran. My legs remembered Taekwondo. My lungs remembered every street I chased jeepneys in. My feet hit the turf like firecrackers, and I flew.

When I stopped, I noticed everyone watching.

Coach’s eyes were narrow. Studying.

“You’ve got speed,” she said. “That’s something.”

One of the girls scoffed. “One sprint doesn’t make a player.”

“Neither does doubt,” the coach replied flatly.

I didn’t smile. I didn’t gloat. I just nodded and stepped back into line, catching my breath, sweat rolling down the side of my face.

Practice ended shortly after. The sun was almost gone, and the breeze was cooler now. The coach clapped once, loud and final.

“Tomorrow,” she said. “You better show up in full gear and ready. You’ve got one chance to prove this wasn’t a fluke.”

I nodded again. “Yes, Coach.”

As the others walked off, I stood on the edge of the field a little longer, heart pounding with exhaustion and pride.

This wasn’t just about trying.

It was the beginning.

The locker room was mostly empty now—just the distant echo of cleats against concrete and muffled laughter from the far hallway. I stood alone in front of the mirror, peeling off the gear piece by piece.

My jersey clung to me like second skin, drenched and grass-stained. My arms were sore. My legs ached. There was a reddish mark blooming across my forearm where I hit the ground earlier, and I could already feel the bruises forming under my knees.

I looked like a mess.

But I felt… incredible.

I set the helmet down on the bench gently, like it was something sacred. Then the shoulder pads. One by one, I folded each piece—clumsy, unfamiliar, but mine.

This gear didn’t fit me yet. But someday, it will.

As I pulled on my hoodie and glanced at the mirror again, I caught something in my reflection that wasn’t there this morning.

A spark.

No, not just a spark.

Fire.

I smiled to myself—soft, tired, satisfied.

Because today, I got knocked down. I made mistakes. I probably looked ridiculous.

But I didn’t quit.

And that… that felt like winning.