Chapter 3

Mia POV

Room Three smelled like Axe body spray, dirty socks, and protein powder that someone had spilled and never cleaned up.

It was tiny for three people. Three metal beds crammed against the walls, one window that looked out at the stadium lights, a bathroom with no lock that had mold in the corner of the shower. Bed C was the bottom bunk by the door, mattress thin and dipped in the middle where a hundred other boys had slept before.

Luis threw his duffel on the top bunk and immediately ripped open a protein bar.

"House rules, Texas," he said, talking with his mouth full. "One, Ethan snores like a lawnmower, so wear headphones. Two, I eat every two hours because I'm bulking to one-eighty, don't touch my fridge stash. Three, we shower at ten p.m. after last training, no exceptions, Coach checks water usage. If you skip, he thinks you're on drugs or hiding a tattoo infection."

He said it like a joke, but he was watching me.

Ethan hadn't said anything since we walked in. He sat on his bed, which was Bed A by the window, and just stared at me. Not mean. Confused. Like he was trying to solve a math problem.

"You cut your hair," he said finally.

My hand flew up to my choppy head automatically. "Yeah. Got tired of it."

"You had long hair at Christmas. You said you'd never cut it because it was your good luck charm for finals." He frowned. "And your voice — did you get sick? You sound different. Higher, then low."

Luis looked between us. "Wait, you two know each other know each other? Like real know?"

"We did ODP together in Dallas," Ethan said slowly, not taking his eyes off me. "Mason was my roommate for two weeks. He snored louder than me and he talked about his twin sister the whole time. Mia. Said she was a better striker than all of us but no one would let her try out."

My blood turned to ice water.

Ethan tilted his head. "You ever bring her to LA? Your sister?"

"No," I said too fast. My voice cracked. I forced it lower. "No. She's in Texas. With our mom."

Luis laughed. "Yo, Ethan, you got a crush on his sister? That's why you remember her hair? That's weird, bro."

Ethan didn't laugh. He kept looking at me. At my neck, my jaw, my hands. Mason bites his nails. I don't. I realized that too late and shoved my hands into my hoodie pocket.

"I'm going to take a walk," I said. "Find ice for my knee."

"Performance Lab has ice," Luis said. "And you don't need ice if you just scored a hat trick. Your knee is magically healed, remember? Miracle of Texas."

I left before he could ask more. The hallway of the Third Team building was loud — boys shouting, doors slamming, someone playing music too loud with bass. It smelled like sweat and laundry detergent.

The real First Team mansion was across the courtyard, separated by a glass walkway. I could see it through the window. It was quiet over there. Dark wood, clean. Liam's building.

I needed a plan before Friday. Friday was forty-eight hours away. Full-body check at the Performance Lab — that meant height, weight, blood pressure, heart rate, functional movement screen where you have to squat in shorts, and ID verification with a wristband scan. They would measure me. They would see I'm five-nine, not five-ten. They would weigh me and see I'm one-forty, not one-sixty-five. And they would ask me to take off my hoodie.

I went to the Performance Lab to look. It was locked at night, but through the glass I could see the room — scales, a stadiometer for height, treadmills, a table for physicals with a privacy curtain that didn't go all the way to the floor. A clipboard on the wall said TRIAL PLAYERS - FRIDAY 7 AM - NO EXCEPTIONS - BRING CLEARANCE.

I had no clearance. I had no plan. My binder was already digging so deep into my ribs I had red welts when I scratched.

My phone buzzed. Mason: Did you make it in? Are you okay?

I typed: In Room Three. With Ethan. He remembers you. He remembers MIA. Friday medical will kill me.

He replied: Ethan Miller? Shit. He was always smart. Listen, for Friday, say you have a skin infection on chest from binder friction, ask for private screening. They have to give you one, it's HIPAA. And for weight, drink 2 liters of water before weigh-in, wear heaviest sweats. I did that once.

It was actually smart. For a boy on crutches, Mason was being strategic when I was just panicking.

I went back to Room Three. It was 9:55 p.m. Luis was already in a towel, heading to the bathroom.

"Shower time, Texas! Let's go, you stink like Greyhound bus. Ethan's already in."

The bathroom door was open. Steam was pouring out. I could hear two showers running.

I froze in the doorway, duffel clutched to my chest like armor.

"I — I shower later. Knee hurts. I need to ice."

Luis frowned. "Bro, Coach literally checks. If you don't shower with team first week, he writes you up for not bonding. You want to get cut on day one for being weird? Come on, it's just a shower, not a date."

Ethan came out of the bathroom in a towel around his waist, water dripping down his chest. He looked at me, then at my hoodie, which I still hadn't taken off even though the room was hot.

"You good, Mason? You acting weird. You never acted weird before. You used to be the first one in the shower talking trash."

That was the opening. I used it.

I made myself look annoyed, like a boy would. I dropped my voice and scowled like Mason taught me.

"I'm not showering with you guys because my chest is messed up, alright?" I said, loud enough to sound angry, not scared. "I got a friction burn from the brace and tape from last week. It's infected, it looks gross, I don't want you guys seeing it. And I got athlete's foot from the hospital socks. You want that?"

It was gross. Boys understand gross.

Luis made a face. "Ew, bro, why didn't you say? Yeah, stay over there then. Don't want your infected chest juice in our shower."

Ethan looked relieved too, but also concerned. "You should get that checked at the Performance Lab before Friday. Infections spread fast here. My friend got staph last year and missed a month."

"I will," I said. "Private check. I'm asking Coach tomorrow."

Strategic. Not reactive. I solved a problem instead of just hiding from it.

That night, I waited until both of them were asleep. Luis snored immediately, loud. Ethan tossed for an hour muttering about a girl named Sarah, then went quiet.

At 1:12 a.m., I went into the bathroom and locked the door — the lock was broken, so I jammed my duffel against it.

I peeled off my hoodie, then my t-shirt. My binder was soaked with sweat and had left deep red lines across my ribs and under my chest. My skin was raw where the zipper had rubbed. I had to breathe through my mouth to get it off.

I stood in front of the cracked mirror in just the binder, chest flat, ribs showing, and looked at myself. I looked exhausted. My short hair stuck up weird. I had dark circles.

For the first time, I looked like a boy who was trying too hard.

I took off the binder slowly, inch by inch, because it hurt. The second it was off, I gasped — real, deep air filling my lungs for the first time in eighteen hours. I looked down. My chest was red, marked, sore. I touched it and winced.

I quickly put on an oversized black t-shirt and washed my face. In the mirror, without the binder, without the hoodie, I was Mia again. Just for two minutes.

Then I heard footsteps outside.

The main door to our room opened.

I froze, water running.

"Who's in the bathroom?" It was Liam's voice.

Low, annoyed, wide awake.

Luis mumbled half-asleep, "Texas. He has infection."

Liam walked to the bathroom door and knocked once, hard.

"Carter."

I panicked. My binder was on the floor, visible. My chest was not flat. I grabbed it and shoved it into my duffel, zipped it.

"One minute!" I shouted, voice high. I cleared my throat. "One minute, Captain."

I threw my big hoodie on, no binder, just hoodie hiding everything because it was big. My chest was obviously not flat now, but in a big hoodie maybe he wouldn't see.

I opened the door a crack.

Liam was standing there in black sweatpants and no shirt, captain armband still on his wrist even at night, tattoos shining with sweat like he'd just come from the gym. He was holding a small white medical kit.

"Ethan said you have a chest infection and you're hiding it before medical," he said, his grey eyes dropping to my hoodie, to my face, to my hands which were shaking. "If you have staph, you infect my whole Third Team. Let me see it. I'm first-aid certified."

My heart stopped. Literally stopped.

"No," I said too quickly. "It's — it's gross. It's private. I'm going to Performance Lab tomorrow, private screening, HIPAA."

He stared at me. He has this stare that makes you feel like he's scanning you for lies.

"You're a terrible liar, Texas," he said quietly. "You shake when you lie. And you have had your hoodie on for fourteen hours in seventy-degree weather. You haven't eaten. You flinch when anyone touches you."

He stepped closer. Too close. I could see the sweat on his collarbone, the Roman numerals on his wrist — XIV, his mom's death date, Ethan told me once.

"Take off your hoodie," he said. Not angry. Quiet. An order.

I’m scared and I knew if I took it off right now, with no binder, in a thin t-shirt, he would know. He would know I was a girl.