Chapter 2

Mia POV

The bus to LA smelled like old coffee and fast-food wrappers, and the AC was blasting so cold my knees were shaking under my duffel. I sat in the back row, my bag on my lap, hoodie pulled up, trying to make myself as small as possible. My chest hurt. The binder was so tight I could only take shallow breaths, and every time the bus hit a bump on the freeway, the side zipper dug into my ribs. I had to bite my lip so I wouldn't make a sound.

I never wore this binder more than an hour for running at home. Now I had to wear it all day. Maybe all week.

The guy next to me was asleep with his mouth open, snoring a little. Freeway lights flashed across the window — white, then yellow, then white again. I kept checking my phone. 4:12 a.m. 4:33. 5:01. Time was moving so slowly it felt stuck.

I went to the tiny bus bathroom twice just to practice my voice. The first time I looked into the dirty, cracked mirror and said, "I'm Mason Carter," and it came out high. Like a girl trying to do a boy impression. I wanted to cry right there in that smelly bathroom.

The second time I forced it lower, from my chest, not my throat. "I'm Mason. Texas. Striker, twenty." It was better. Still soft, but better. I pulled my hoodie lower over my choppy hair. In that mirror I looked like a fifteen-year-old boy who hadn't slept in two days.

Mason texted at 5:40 a.m.

You good?

I typed fast. On bus. Almost there.

He replied instantly: Remember, walk like me. Shoulders wide, slow. Don't smile too much. Boys at Elite don't smile, they scowl. And don't run weird. And Mia? Don't let them touch you. If anyone grabs your shirt for a medical check, you pull away and say knee still hurts. Friday is full physical. We need to figure that out before Friday.

Don't let them touch you.

The bus pulled into downtown LA at 6:30. The sky was grey-pink, still sleepy and cold. Elite Academy wasn't a school at all. It was a mansion in the hills above Venice — big black iron gates, palm trees everywhere, and that private stadium behind it you could see from the road. The twenty-million-dollar mansion they show on I*******m reels with slow-motion goals.

I used my last twenty dollars for a shared shuttle up the hill. When the gate opened for another player's black Range Rover, I walked in fast like I belonged.

I didn't belong.

There were boys everywhere. Two hundred, maybe more. All in Elite training gear — black shirts, gold trim — all tall, all muscle, all shouting and stretching and juggling balls. Most looked six feet or taller, with loud laughs and tattoos on their calves. They looked like grown men, not twenty-year-old college players. I felt five inches tall.

I held my duffel tighter and tried to walk like Mason taught me. Shoulders wide, chin up, slow steps, scowl.

A folding table near the turf had a sign that said CHECK-IN - INJURY REPLACEMENT TRYOUTS. A tired assistant with a clipboard and an Elite cap didn't even look up.

"Name?"

"Mason Carter," I said, as low as I could make it. "Texas, twenty."

He flipped pages, found it, checked a box with a pen. Then he frowned at his sheet.

"You were supposed to clear your locker yesterday, Carter. You're late. File says five-ten, one-sixty-five, last full medical two weeks ago. You look one-forty now. Where is your orthopedic clearance? We need hospital release papers before you step on turf. You know the rules after an ACL."

My stomach dropped to the floor. My hands were sweating so badly I almost dropped my brother's ID.

"I was at the hospital yesterday," I said quickly. It wasn't a full lie. Mason's release papers were real, just not for my body. "Papers are coming tomorrow by email from my surgeon. My mom has them."

He stared at me, eyes narrowing. "Listen, Carter. If you lie about an injury at Elite, you are banned for life and we notify your university and we call your emergency contact. You understand? Friday we do full-body check, weigh-in, ID verification, and functional movement screen for all trial players. No papers, no stay. No exception."

"Yes, sir," I whispered.

He threw me a white training shirt and black shorts. Number 10. My number. My real number.

"Ten minutes on Field Two. J. Cole is watching. Don't waste his time."

Field Two was the smaller turf on the side of the mansion, used for reserves. Ten other boys were already waiting, pacing nervously, stretching, bouncing balls. And J. Cole was there — mid-forties, sunglasses even though it was cloudy, silver whistle around his neck. The same man who emailed me at 2:17 a.m. saying girls lack aggression and can't play with boys. He didn't recognize me. Why would he? In my application video I had long hair in a ponytail.

"Carter, Texas," he called, not looking up from his list. "You look smaller than I remember. File says ACL, eight months post-op? Knee holding?"

"Better, sir," I said, keeping my voice low and even.

He blew the whistle hard. "Ten minutes. Show me you're not a waste of insurance money."

The first ball came fast from the winger.

The second my foot touched it, everything went quiet in my head. This is the only time I don't think about the binder, or my hair, or my voice. When I have a ball, I just move. It's the only thing I'm actually good at.

I took it down the line, cut inside. The defender was big, six-one, and came in hard at my ankles. I faked left, went right, he stumbled and nearly fell into me. I was already past him.

The second defender came fast to double. I let the ball run through my own legs, used my back to shield, then spun — a move I learned watching MLS clips at one a.m. in my tiny room, pausing and rewinding a hundred times. The keeper came out big and wide. I went low with my left foot.

Goal. Top left corner, hard.

J. Cole raised his eyebrows a little over his sunglasses. He wrote something down but didn't say a word.

The second ball came even faster. Two guys came at me together this time. I let it roll across my body, dragged it back, then flicked it over the second defender's foot and ran around him. My legs were burning, my chest was screaming because I couldn't breathe deeply enough to get oxygen, but I didn't stop.

I shot low. Left foot. Goal. Two goals in three minutes.

The other boys on the sideline stopped talking. They were watching now, whispering to each other.

The third ball came. Long pass, high in the air. I jumped, took it on my chest — panic shot through me because the binder shifted — trapped it perfectly, landed, and went. The last defender grabbed my shirt and pulled hard. I felt the binder slide half an inch to the left. My blood went ice cold, but I didn't stop. I was angry now.

Because they said I lack aggression. Because they said girls can't. Because I cut my hair with kitchen scissors in a bathroom at 2:30 a.m.

I shot from outside the box, hard and angry. It went in. Top corner. It hit the net so hard it bounced back out.

Hat trick. Three goals in ten minutes.

Silence on Field Two. Then loud whispers.

J. Cole took off his sunglasses slowly and stared at me like he was seeing a ghost.

"What the hell," he muttered under his breath. He walked up to me, close, looking me up and down from my sweaty head to my shoes. "You were benched last season for being too slow, Carter. You couldn't beat a cone. Now you run like this? You lost twenty pounds overnight? You look like a different kid entirely. Your movement pattern is different."

"I trained during rehab, sir," I said, breathing shallow so the binder wouldn't show through my wet shirt. "Upper body, footwork, in the pool. I couldn't run, so I studied."

He didn't buy it fully, but he couldn't prove anything yet. He made a note.

"You are not First Team. Not yet. You are reserve bench for now. You train with Third Team for three days, we monitor your knee load and your weight. If you survive without swelling, we talk about Second Team. Friday is full-body check, weigh-in, and ID verification at the performance lab. You miss it, you go home. That's the deal."

Three days trial, not instant promotion. That was what made it real and terrifying. I had three days to figure out how to survive a full medical.

Then a shadow fell over me, tall and blocking the sun.

I felt him before I saw him.

I turned around.

He was twenty-four, six-three, black training shirt tight over his chest, veins standing out on his forearms, tattoos running up his left arm — a compass, a dagger, Roman numbers. Captain armband, gold, with a black C stitched in. Hair dark and messy from sweat, jaw sharp, eyes a cold, angry grey. Liam Cross. Twenty-four, captain of Elite, billionaire heir who owns the whole academy trust, already signed to LAFC for next year, face of the academy on every billboard.

I knew him from I*******m. In person he was bigger.

He stared down at my sweaty short hair, at my Number 10 shirt sticking to my binder because I was sweating so much.

"What's your name, Pretty Boy?" His voice was low and rough, like he'd just woken up.

My throat went completely dry.

"Mason. Mason Carter, twenty."

He stepped closer. Too close. I could smell sweat and expensive cologne and grass.

"You just made Third Team look like high school kids, Mason Carter from Texas," he said, not smiling, his tone annoyed rather than impressed. "You think three goals on a small side field makes you First Team? My strikers will eat you alive in a real eleven-v-eleven. You slow my transition down in a real match, I will cut you myself. I don't care whose spot you took."

He turned to J. Cole. "He can't stay in the First Team hall. He's not ready and he smells like rehab. Put him in Room Three. With Ethan and Luis. Let them break him first."

J. Cole nodded. "Room Three. Bed C. Be on the main pitch at six a.m. tomorrow for activation. Don't be late."

Ethan was standing at the side, staring at me hard. Ethan Miller, twenty, winger from San Diego, blond, fast, freckles. He used to be Mason's friend from Texas ODP camp when we were sixteen. He looked confused, his head tilted, like I wasn't the Mason he remembered. "Yo, you good, man? You look sick. You lost weight?"

Luis was next to him, twenty-one, midfielder from East LA, loud laugh that everyone could hear, gold chain outside his shirt. "Yo, Texas back from the dead? You look like little brother of Mason, bro! You sick or what? You look smaller! You on a diet?"

Liam looked at me one last time, his eyes dropping to my taped ankle, then back up. "You won't last a week in Room Three, Texas. Ethan talks in his sleep and Luis never stops eating. If you survive that, maybe you can survive my hall. Maybe."

He walked away toward the mansion, every boy stepping out of his path automatically.

Luis grabbed my sleeve, friendly but heavy. "Come on, Texas. Let's see if you can even find Room Three before dinner. And yo, you shower with us, right? No hiding in Elite showers. Coach hates weird stuff, he thinks it's drugs."

My blood went cold.

Shower with them. I can't.

I followed them toward the big mansion, my duffel banging against my back, the binder digging into my ribs with every step, and I knew Room Three was going to be hell — and Friday's full-body check was going to be the end of me if I didn't figure out a plan tonight.