five                               sidelines

𐦍༘⋆

It had been two weeks since Neil arrived, and time had stretched out like summer itself had decided to melt, slow and thick, over everything. The heat clung to the days with a sticky persistence. It was the kind of summer where the world blurred at the edges, weighed down by the heavy press of the shimmering air and cicada song, their relentless hum like the soundtrack to hours that bled into one another, the minutes oozing forward like honey dripping too slow to catch. Even the tension simmering between everyone felt dulled, as though the heat had leached the energy out of the arguments before they could even spark. Those two weeks had passed in a way that felt both infinite and suspended, as if nothing could move fast enough to break the stillness of it all.

Ali had finally ditched Jonah for good once Abby cleared her for night practices, as if the permission slip came with an unspoken understanding to cut ties with anything dragging her down. She didn't need to keep distractions around in case she got bored. But even the night practices weren't doing much to make the days go by faster. Even under the stadium lights, with sweat running down her spine, nothing moved fast enough. Practice was slow, like the heavy heat of summer had crawled inside Ali's bones and slowed everything down. The start of the semester loomed on the horizon, a distant promise of change that still felt too far away. She wasn't seeing the progress she wanted, not in her tumbling, not in anything. Each failed pass was a reminder that her body wasn't responding the way it used to. Limbo had settled in, and every day felt like she was running in place, waiting for something to shake her out of the slow-motion trap of summer.

Ali had been marking the days with the same impatience that comes with watching a storm roll in—eager for the release, the break in the unbearable stillness. The semester's start wasn't just a date on the calendar; it was a lifeline, a promise that the silence in her chest would soon be drowned out by the pulse of her team. Without them, she was adrift—just her and the mat, the echo of her body's betrayal reverberating in the space between failed stunts. But with them? She could remember how to breathe. Her teammates were more than hands catching her mid-air; they were the gravity that kept her grounded, the rhythm that pulled her back into the flow. She needed them now more than ever, like a heartbeat she'd been trying to match her own to, hoping that maybe, just maybe, with them, she could stitch the pieces of herself back together.

Ali had always known that her body was more than just her own—it belonged not just to herself, but also to her teammates, like an extension of their collective force. As a child, she had learned the delicate balance of control and trust, how every twist of her limbs was mapped not just by her mind but by the watchful eyes of her teammates. They knew her body's story better than anyone. They saw the small cracks before the stunts, the flicker of nerves in her knuckles before she launched herself into the air. And when she flew, they were there, their hands waiting, like gravity didn't exist unless they said it did. The connection between them was fluid, a machine perfectly in tune with its parts, each move calculated, each muscle a cog in the relentless pursuit of grace. They all knew their roles and their partners' bodies as well as their own.

But after the injury, her body became something alien, something she couldn't trust or understand. It was like looking at a familiar landscape and realizing you'd forgotten the way home. Everything was unfamiliar, every movement a betrayal of what once felt natural. Muscles that once snapped to her will now faltered, uncertain. It was as if her body was communicating in a language she no longer understood, each flip, each leap, foreign to the sharp confidence she once owned. Gravity itself seemed to have shifted, pulling at her differently now, making her second-guess every landing. Muscles she once commanded with ease now hesitated, betraying her in small, infuriating ways. Her body, once a finely-tuned instrument of power, one that executed flips and stunts with flawless precision, had become foreign, uncooperative. Where there had been speed and grace, now there was awkwardness, fragility. Every move required thought, calculation. Cheerleaders were trained to fight through pain, to land even when their body screamed at them to fall.

And she resented it for that fragility—hated the weakness she couldn't shake, the break that had exposed just how vulnerable she really was.

Now there was only doubt. She no longer trusted the way her knees bent, the way her spine curved in midair. Even the mirror, reflecting back the same face, felt like a betrayal because it showed none of the chaos beneath. Her body felt like a cage she had to break out of, brick by painstaking brick. Physical therapy was its own kind of battle, each stretch and strain reminding her of all the ways she had failed—failed to hold on, failed to stay unbroken. And in the quiet moments between reps, that fear crept in. So she calculated every movement, acutely aware of the ground waiting beneath her.

Ali had heard the numbers so many times that they ran through her mind like lyrics to a song she'd never liked but couldn't stop humming. "Among all collegiate athletes in the U.S., only 42% are female, and a mere 3% of those are cheerleaders. But cheerleading accounts for over 50% of catastrophic injuries in women's sports." Concussions, broken bones, torn ligaments—the grim parade of injuries that they never talked about on the sidelines. She could recite it from memory, not because it was important to her, but because doctors always said it like they were handing her a forecast of something she was supposed to care about. And maybe she should've cared, but it never felt real.

Those numbers were for other girls. The ones who didn't push hard enough. Ali was not one of them—until suddenly, she was. Until she felt her body buckle and betray her, and the numbers that used to wash over her were now written in the sharp ache of every movement. This was what it meant to become part of the statistic, to be reduced to a percentage. But none of it prepared her for the real sting, the bitter truth behind the injury: no one outside the mat cared, not really.

Now the numbers floated in her mind, sterile and hollow, while her body kept racking up its own tally of bruises, sprains, and worse.

Cheerleading was a contradiction. It was polished smiles and tight choreography over a brutal reality, a sport that demanded perfection and offered none of the recognition given to "real" sports. It wasn't football or basketball, where injuries warranted attention, protocols, and concern. For cheerleaders, injuries were inevitable, an unspoken part of the game that no one bothered to track. There was no central system, no safety net, no acknowledgement. Maybe that's why no one blinked when cheerleaders kept going after they fell, why they were expected to bounce back as if nothing had happened. It was part of the unspoken pact: if you couldn't smile through the pain, you didn't belong, if you couldn't wear your bruises like a badge of honor, you didn't belong.

What no one had warned her about, though, was the silence that followed. How easy it was to disappear into the background, just another cheerleader sidelined by injury in a sport that asked too much and gave so little in return.

It wasn't until she was the one who broke, until her body finally gave in to the wear and tear, that she realized just how invisible it all was. Maybe it was the culture of cheerleading itself, this silent agreement they all made to keep performing no matter how much they hurt. Because that was the expectation—to make the impossible look effortless, to pretend like the bruises didn't exist. And maybe that was the cruelest part of it. The world never noticed when they broke, because they made sure no one could see the cracks.

To admit pain was to admit defeat, and defeat was the only sin in a sport built on resilience. That's what made it so hard to sit still now, sidelined, broken. Ali had thought herself invincible, unbreakable, until the moment she shattered.

But defeat was suddenly all she knew. The air shifted around her, wrong in a way that twisted her stomach. She threw herself into the tumbling pass, expecting everything to fall into place, but her body betrayed her with a hesitation so subtle it barely registered—except in the way the ground seemed to rush up too fast. Her landing was a mess of awkward limbs and breath knocked from her chest, the mat catching her like it was surprised she'd fallen. Failure echoed in her bones, a shadow that stretched long over every movement. There was no clean line of grace, no effortless momentum—just a misstep, and then the crash. She'd once been untouchable, flawless. Now all she had left was the taste of dirt and the memory of what it felt like to fly.

The pain roared through her body like a raging inferno, forcing her to stop, gathering her breath. She stared ahead of her, towards the court, hoping to find something that would hold her attention and pull her thoughts away from how much it hurt.

And she saw Kevin.

Kevin's focus was razor-sharp as he stood under the floodlights of the court. His grip on the racquet was firm, the ball cracking against it with a precision that came from years of drilling this exact shot. The sound of the ball hitting its target echoed through the still night, a perfect rhythm of control and consistency. He was honing his aim, sharpening himself with every hit. No room for error, no space for anything outside the lines of the court. He was annoyingly consistent, always in control, even when she wasn't.

On the sidelines, Ali sat on the mat, her legs sprawled out, leaning back on her hands. She watched him for a moment, then turned her eyes away with a frustrated sigh. The frustration burned through her, made worse by Kevin's relentless consistency. He always looked in control, like the court was the only place in the world he belonged. She hated that about him, how he made it all seem so easy while she was struggling.

The sound of footsteps startled her from her thoughts, and she looked up to see Neil approaching, his expression a little surprised to find them both here.

"What are you doing here?" Neil asked, his eyes shifting between Kevin and Ali.

Ali let out a shaky breath, brushing a strand of sweaty hair from her forehead. "We're just... here," she said, her voice tight, still. "What about you?"

"I wanted to practice," Neil replied, moving closer to stand beside her. His gaze lingered on Kevin's form, then flicked back to her. "Why don't you like him?"

Ali blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness of the question. She looked at Neil, then back at Kevin, her expression hardening. She let out a humorless laugh, and realized she didn't know exactly what to say. There were too many reasons, but maybe the easier one would suffice for now. "Why? Because he thinks he's too good for the Foxes."

Neil frowned, watching Kevin for a beat. "Then why do you think he stayed?"

Kevin, seemingly oblivious to their conversation, continued his practice, his focus unwavering—yet something about his intensity made it feel like he knew they were talking about him.

Ali laughed again, sharp and bitter. "Probably because he gets off on being a bitch to everyone." It was a deflection, easier than telling Neil the truth — that Kevin stayed because Riko broke his hand, that he stayed because he had no other choice, that he stayed because of Andrew, whose presence she could feel, quietly watching them from the bleachers. She had been there when Kevin told the Foxes about what really happened to his hand. Of course. Ali was always with her cousins, upon Andrew's insistence. She knew the truth, but she wasn't going to be the one to break it to Neil. That wasn't her place, and she didn't want to touch the rawness of that fact. Let Neil keep his idea of Kevin Day intact for a while longer. Still, she said: "I don't think he had a choice."

Neil was quiet, considering her words. He didn't seem like the type to accept things at face value, but he didn't press the issue either. Ali appreciated that about him.

Her eyes drifted back to Kevin, still hitting ball after ball with unyielding determination. She watched the way his muscles tensed, how his jaw set in concentration. For all his arrogance, his ego, and the way he grated on her nerves, she couldn't deny that about him — his drive was something else.

His devotion to the game was raw and fierce, like a heartbeat you could feel through the soles of your feet when you stood too close. Sure, he was good at it — better than good, the kind of player who made the crowd roar like they were part of something bigger than a match — but Ali knew they didn't see the whole of it. They saw the performance, the seamless movements that looked effortless. They loved the result, the glory. What they missed were the countless, brutal hours before everything else.

And that was what was really worth admiring: the way he lived for the parts no one else ever noticed. It wasn't just talent that had shaped him; it was the relentless late nights where his body was pushed past reason. In those private moments, when the world wasn't watching, Ali had seen it. It was in his eyes, in the way they burned with this quiet insistence on getting everything just right, perfect down to the last detail. No one else would ever understand how much of himself he poured into each pass, every swing of the racquet. They only saw the finish line, never the miles it took to get there.

But she thought she understood.

"See. I think that's the only thing about him I can respect," she admitted, her voice quieter now, more thoughtful. She didn't want to say it, but the truth slipped out anyway. "His focus. His..."

The word dancing at the tip of her tongue was passion, but that word felt inappropriate for the moment. Sexual, even. And she didn't want to think about Kevin that way.

Neil raised an eyebrow at her. "You should tell him that."

"God, no," Ali shot back quickly, a flicker of irritation returning to her voice. "Don't tell him that. His ego's already bigger than it needs to be."

Neil went silent, his eyes were still on Kevin. The quiet that followed was heavy, both of them watching Kevin push himself harder, further, as if he could outrun whatever demons followed him onto the court. Ali felt a strange knot tighten in her chest, but she ignored it. It was easier that way.

"Look, Neil..." Ali started. The silence had brought forth a sudden flash of guilt over what had happened to him on his second day there. "Kevin is a dickhead. Don't let him push you around."

"He's not pushing me around. He's teaching me."

Ali slowly turned her head to stare at him, suddenly overwhelmed by the eagerness in his voice, "Oh, boy... So you're okay with what he did to you... back then?"

"Yeah."

"What about Andrew?" She asked. The urgency of the question hammered at her. She didn't want him to put the blame on Andrew, to report him to Wymack or worse.

"What about Andrew?" He shot back. There was an edge to him that hadn't been so apparent before, something that clashed directly with the meek attitude he had on the first few days.

"Okay, good," she said. "Will you be fine out here? I'm going to get ready to leave."

"Yeah, I'm fine."

With that, Ali slipped away, leaving Neil by the sidelines, talking to Andrew, while the weight of her unease followed her to the locker room.

. . . 

note

okay, first of all this chapter is entirely dedicated to wulfhall because I COULD NOT HAVE DONE IT WITHOUT YOU BAE <333 

and then we have ali trying not to drive herself insane over certain things... but anyways, here's me setting things up so I can start drawing parallels between Ali and Kevin later on... hope u guys liked it <33 mwaaaah