Come on, Heath. You can do this.

I look at the line of girls sitting on the sideline, adjusting their shin guards and lacing up their cleans. Some of them are stretching, their flexed thigh and calf muscles rivaling those of Greek gods. I take a deep breath before opening the gate and walking over to them, my heart racing.

I expect everyone to stare at me, to feel their eyes picking me apart like birds feasting on a carcass. But they don't even glance at me. I recognize the look in their eyes; they only care about one thing, and it's not the scrawny newcomer who just walked past them.

I set my belongings down on the grass and kneel down to fiddle with my laces just to appear busy.

"Are you a freshman?"

I look up and see a girl with freckles and pointed eyebrows standing over me.

"No," I say. "I'm a junior."

She tilts her head slightly. "I've never seen you before."

"I just moved her from New Jersey," I say, "with my mom."

She purses her lips to the side. "What position do you play?"

For some reason, I lie. "Defender."

She blinks at me. "Not right back, I hope."

I shake my head, slowly. "No."

"Good," she says, her eyes scanning me as though she is sizing me up. She smirks and begins to turn around. "Break a leg out there."

Once she's gone, I exhale and lean back on my elbows, wondering why the girl made me so nervous. Her eyebrows made her appear stern, but none of her physical features established her as threatening. Her musculature wasn't exceptionally impressive compared to my own, and she couldn't have been any taller than me.

"Alright, ladies! Line up!"

I look towards the center of the pitch and see a middle-aged women in a visor staring at us. I take a quick look around before standing and lining up alongside the other girls.

"I see a few newcomers, so I'll introduce myself before we start. I'm Coach Foudy. I've been coaching this team for the last ten years. When I first started, the program was - well, the program sucked, to be honest with you. But I've managed to mold it into one of the best in the country, and I didn't do it by cutting my players any slack. I want you guys to know what your signing up for; being on this team isn't always easy."

The sound of a gate opening draws everyone's attention to the sidelines. I turn and see Alex approaching the center of the pitch, her eyes directed at the grass in front of her. It's only when she reaches the end of the line that she finally raises her gaze and casts a timid glance at the rest of us.

"Alex," says Coach Foudy. "So nice of you to decide to join us."

I see Alex swallow before she answers. "Sorry, Coach."

Her voice is quiet. It almost sounds like she's . . . scared.

The girl standing next to me leans over to whisper something to the girl on the other side of her.

"I didn't think she would show up."

The other girl whispers back, "She had to. Foudy wouldn't put her on the roster if she missed a day."

I lean forward to take a closer look at Alex. Her eyes look slightly red, but that doesn't necessarily mean she was crying - I can't imagine her crying over anything.

Maybe she just has allergies.

" . . . so make sure you turn in your physical packets by the end of the week." The coach sighs and grabs the stopwatch dangling from around her neck. "Now, we're gonna start with a quick 5K. It should take you guys less than twenty minutes; if it takes you any longer than that, well, you should probably just head home. Would save everyone some time."

Twenty minutes for a 5K, I think to myself. I can do that. I've done that before.

Coach Foudy raises her whistle to her lips, and within seconds, everyone is rushing onto the red track that surrounds the field. I manage my pace for the first mile to make sure I have enough gas in the tank to finish strong. I keep my eye on Alex as I run; I know she's fast, so as long as I make sure she doesn't pull too far ahead of me, I should finish the run with at least a couple minutes to spare.

By the time I reach my second mile, I've settled into a pace beside the girl with freckles who talked to me before tryouts. I'm so focused on keeping an eye on Alex that I don't even look at her, and when she extends her leg in front of me, I don't realize what is happening until I'm already falling towards the ground. I manage to extend a hand out in front of me before making contact with the track, but doing so does little to mitigate the damage. My knee skids across the rubber surface, and when my chin connects with the ground, shockwaves are sent throughout my jaw and rattle my brain. I groan and roll onto my back, expecting to see someone leaning over me with their hand extended to help me up.

But there's nobody there. I use my arms to elevate myself and look around, confused. Everyone is on the other end of the track, continuing with the run as though nothing happened. Even Coach Foudy seems unbothered by - if not entirely unaware of - the incident; she isn't looking at me, but at her phone. She laughs as she scrolls past something funny.

I pull myself up and continue running. I can feel something warm streaking down my calf, but I don't allow myself to look down. Instead, I keep my eyes on Alex and do my best to regain the ground I lost when the girl with freckles tripped me. When I catch up with a large cluster of the other girls, I make sure I don't get too close to any of them.

With around a hundred meters left in the run, I pass the girl with the freckles. And I look her right in the eye as I do.

I finish in a little under nineteen minutes. Coach Foudy seems to notice my injury immediately after she tells me my time, at which point she mutters Jesus Christ and instructs a girl with short purple hair to retrieve the first-aid kit from the locker room. While I wait for her to return, I retreat to the sideline and grab my water bottle like everyone else. Except instead of immediately chugging the water, I sit down on the turf and pour it over my leg. I wince when the cold liquid makes contact with the abrasion, causing a sharp stinging sensation to spread throughout my knee.

"Hey," I look up and see the girl with purple hair standing over me with a white first-aid kit in tow. She tosses it on the ground - the consequent rattling noise causes me to wince again - and motions towards my knee. "Make sure you cover that up; it looks pretty gross."

I nod and say, "Thank you," but she is already walking away.

I pour some rubbing alcohol on my knee - which feels about as amazing as you think it does - and slap on the biggest band-aid I can find before hurrying to the center of the pitch, where the rest of the girls are gathering around Foudy. I force myself to jog as though my knee doesn't hurt at all; the last thing I want is the other girls to perceive me as weak - assuming they don't already.

I stand next to the girl with the freckles, who looks down at my knee and smirks.

"Have a nice trip?"

I meet her hostile green eyes and think that's not very original. But my mouth remains shut.

"Alright, ladies, listen up, because there's nothing I hate more than repeating myself - well, except losing." The coach shakes her head and refocuses. "Anyway, we're going to do a drill that will allow you to showcase your technical skills. You'll form a line here and dribble the ball between the cones I've set up until you reach the edge of the penalty box; then, you'll take a shot. Alyssa and Jane will be alternating in and out of goal, but there won't be any defenders; I suggest you use that to your advantage and really focus on ball control."

I lean to the side as I wait in line to watch the girls in front of me perform the drill. Their footwork is clean - but I know that mine is too. As long as I relax, I can move with the ball just as well as they can.

When I reach the front of the line, I look down at the ball at my feet before charging forward. I've always thought of dribbling as a creative exercise; you can do whatever you want with the ball, as long as you keep it close.

Once I reach the edge of the penalty box, I release the ball without hesitation. It sails over the outstretched hands of the goalkeeper and into the upper ninety.

I struggle to contain a grin as I retrieve my ball and get back in line. It's not scoring itself that excites me, but the possibility that I've shown the other girls that I'm actually good. If they see that I can help them win, maybe they'll go a little easier on me.

"Did you see the video?"

I can overhear the conversation of the girls in front of me. I lean to the side just to get a better look at them, unable to refrain from being nosy. One of them has thick dark hair and tan skin. I recognize the other as the girl who brought me the first aid kit - the purple hair is very hard to forget.

"The whole school has seen the video," says the purple-haired girl, rolling her eyes. "Never thought I'd see that side of Morgan."

Yikes, I think to myself. Whoever Morgan is must be having a rough week.

We run through the drill a few more times before Coach Foudy instructs us to pair up and pass to one another. I watch in fear as the girls around me shout out mating calls and begin to spread across the field in sets of two. I look around in search of anyone else in desperate need of a partner and am surprised to see Alex staring back at me from the edge of the penalty box.

I know that she would rather die than be my passing partner. But there isn't a weapon within reach that she can use to accomplish the former, leaving her with only one option. She can't even bring herself to look at me and instead keeps her eyes glued to the turf as she walks towards me, her steps rushed. Once she's close enough, she throws the ball she's holding directly at my chest. I clumsily raise my arms to catch it, but not before it makes contact with my sternum.

"Come on," she says, already turning away from me. "Let's go to the other end of the field."

I bite my tongue and I follow her, my chest still aching. I debate tossing the ball at the back of her head to get back at her, but I have a feeling that she would sock me in the mouth if I did. She seems like she's already having a bad day; even a small act of retaliation might be the straw that breaks the camel's back.

We pass for about fifteen minutes. All of her passes are unreasonably forceful; you would think that I pissed in her Cheerios or something.

"Do you think you could relax a bit? You're passing like you're taking a shot."

She scoffs, the corner of her mouth tilting slightly upwards. It's the first time her stern frown has disappeared since practice started. "If you can't handle some strong passes, there's no way you'll make the team."

Suddenly, someone shouts "Heads up!", and just as Alex turns to make sure she isn't in the line of fire, a ball nails her right on her forehead.

"Shit!" I say, already rushing towards her to make sure she's alright.

The force of the impact sends her reeling backwards, and she is unable to regain her footing and falls awkwardly onto the turf. I grab her arm to help her up, but she immediately pushes my hand away.

"Hey, I'm just trying to - "

"Save it," she snaps, back on her feet. She turns her head in the direction the ball came from, her eyes zeroing in on something - or someone - before she begins storming towards them. I follow her gaze and see a girl with dark, wild hair mouth an obscenity when she realizes that Alex is approaching.

"Hey, hey, wait," I say, scurrying behind Alex. "I'm sure it was an accident. You don't have to - "

"Hey!" shouts Alex, still laser-focused on the girl with dark hair, as though I never said anything. "Do you have something you want to say to me? Because you can say it to my face instead of launching a ball at me from across the field."

The dark-haired girl looks Alex up and down, and to my surprise, she doesn't seem very intimidating by what she sees. Other girls have gathered around her, their chuckles seeming to give her even more confidence. She steps forward to meet Alex, unfazed.

"Actually, I do have something that I want to ask you. Were you wearing kneepads or something? Because it looked like you were on carpet. Is that how you avoided getting your knees all scraped up?"

The girl's entourage releases a collective oooo. I see Alex clench her jaw, and her slack hands turn into closed fists.

"Like you have any room to be calling me out? Who knows how many people you've hooked up with in the team room."

The purple-haired girl who tossed me the first-aid kit earlier suddenly steps forward and puts a hand on Alex's shoulder.

"Alright, Morgan, calm down." A crooked smile cuts across her face. She says, quietly, "I think you should just walk away from this one."

Morgan. I feel goosebumps form on my arms as I remember the purple-haired girl's words from earlier.

"Alex," I say, reaching out to touch her arm. "Come on. Let's get back to passing."

She stares at the purple-haired girl for a long time, her expression alarmingly stoic. Then, she casts a harsh glance at the dark-haired girl before turning around and hurrying back to the other side of the field. I attempt to walk beside her, but she maintains a swift pace to stay just a few steps ahead of me.

"Alex," I say. "What were they - "

She suddenly whirls around and grabs the collar of my shirt, pulling me towards her so our faces are just inches apart. I feel the breath leave my lungs as I register the minimal distance between us; I can see the shallow pores on her cheeks, and my own dumbfounded expression in her piercing blue eyes. They narrow as she leans forward, obscuring my view of myself.

"Don't pretend you don't know, alright?" Her voice is low and gravelly, but there's a breathiness to it that hints at a kind of desperation. "It doesn't do me any favors for you to play dumb."

I shake my head. She corkscrews her grip, causing my shirt collar to dig into the back of my neck. "I - I don't know what your talking about - "

"You're lying," she says through gritted teeth. "Everybody knows. The video's all over Instagram."

My shock is finally starting to wear off, allowing me to grab at her shoulders and push her away from me. She's stumbles backwards, surprised by my strength. I rub at my chest to smooth out the fabric of my shirt.

"I don't have an Instagram," I say, making no effort to conceal my bitterness. My mom bought me this shirt from the Nike store over the weekend, and now it's all stretched-out. I push past her to grab a spare ball resting on the sidelines. "Let's just get back to passing."

She remains silent as we continue, and I do my best to avoid catching her eye. Foudy eventually blows her whistle and redirects us to the other side of the pitch to perform some more conditioning drills, at which point I turn and quickly trudge away from my passing partner.

I manage to get through the rest of the tryout without puking. When its time to go home, Foudy opens up the locker room so we can change before heading out. I set my stuff down on a bench towards the back of the building and start changing, hoping to avoid interacting with the other girls for at least a few minutes. I hear some of them laughing and yelling in a different aisle, and I begin to rummage through my duffel bag in search of my earbuds.

I head outside after changing, the slow beat of Beach House's "Girl of the Year" soothing my anxiety as I breathe in the crisp, cool twilight air. The sun is setting over a distant mountain, casting pink and orange streaks across the darkening sky.

I find Alex sitting on the curb in the school's parking lot, still dressed in her practice attire. I'm not upset about her stretching out my shirt collar anymore - my frustration disappeared somewhere between the tenth and twentieth suicide that Foudy made us do. I lower myself down beside her and motion towards the other girls, who are huddled together in small groups at the other end of the parking lot. One of them is already staring at us, her mouth curled into a sneer, but she quickly wipes the devilish expression off her face and turns away when she catches my eye.

"You don't want to join your friends over there?"

Her arms are wrapped around her knees. She raises her head and looks over at her teammates.

"No."

I want to ask her why, but the dark look in her eyes makes me hesitate. Could my suspicions really be correct? Could something so horrible really have happened to her at such an inopportune time? I open my mouth to say something along the lines of I'm sorry it's been a rough day, but she cuts me off before I can.

"I'm - "

"Are you gonna need a ride home every day?" Her voice is harsh and her eyes piercing like a stake.

I blink, surprised. "Um, I don't - I don't think so. My mom usually works the day shift."

"Good," she says, then scoffs. "This fucking blows. I already feel like enough of a loser, and now I have to be seen leaving with your sorry ass."

To say I'm annoyed with her would be an understatement. Everyone in the school is treating her like shit, and when I go out on a limb to be nice to her, she lashes out at me for . . . what, exactly? For needing a ride home?

A large, red Buick Encore pulls up in front of us, and I realize this must be our ride home when Alex stands up. I climb into the backseat behind Alex and hold my duffel bag against my chest as the car begins to move.

"Thank you for the ride, Mrs. Morgan."

The woman in the driver's seat looks just like Alex. Same blue eyes, dirty blonde hair, thin eyebrows - even the same cleft on her septum. I see her blaring white smile in the rearview mirror.

"It's no problem, hon. You don't live far - our house is actually just past South Pointe, by the golf course."

That really isn't far at all; just a little bit down the road from my neighborhood.

"How was school, Al? First day of tryouts go alright?" she asks, still smiling.

I expect Alex to be short with her, given how awful her day was. But she isn't. She perks up at the question, plasters a grin on her face that looks so real it startles me, and leans over to put her hands on her mother's shoulders, as though she is unable to contain her excitement.

"It went great! Foudy is for sure giving me a starting spot this season, now that Abby's gone. She seemed really impressed with how much I've improved since last year."

"That's awesome!" exclaims Mrs. Morgan. "I can't wait to see you and Kelly tearing up the field together. Does it look like she'll be getting a starting spot, too?"

"Oh, yeah," says Alex, nodding. I briefly wonder who Kelly is - obviously a "friend" of Alex's that failed to stand by her side today. "She was on fire today; I had to tell her to calm down because she was making the rest of us look bad."

Her mother laughs, then sighs in contentment. "Well, I'm happy to hear that. Looks like you guys will be leading the team together this year, then."

"The dream," says Alex, leaning back in her seat. She looks out the window, and only then does her smile fall away. She sucks in a breath, as though her performance has left her tired.

There is suddenly a heaviness in my chest. The weight of sympathy.