Seven

The weekend had flown by in a blur of restless sleep and anxiety, and now it was Monday—the day the new leadership would be selected. To say I was nervous was an undersell.

I was figuratively shitting my pants.

Everything could change based on who Coach chose today, for better or much worse.

"What's up, Alvarez? You look shaken." Tom approached my locker with the rest of the guys.

"Just nervous," I shrugged, swapping books in and out of my bag repeatedly just to keep my hands busy.

My left wrist was still in a cast, a lingering reminder of Friday's chaos.

"Why? Any particular reason?" Michael leaned against the locker next to mine, his expression curious.

There were actually two reasons. One was the captaincy, and the other was Margaux.

After I'd dropped her off on Friday, I'd been on high alert. I found myself looking for her in the halls, scanning every ponytail and cheer jacket, which was the last thing I should have been doing.

"The captain spot," I told a half-truth. "I'm just worried about how the team will react to whoever gets it."

Michael threw an arm over my shoulder as we strode toward homeroom, with Tom, Franklin, and Peyton flanking us. "No reason to be nervous. You were great out there. Coach won't give the title to someone who doesn't deserve it."

"True that," Tom added. He lightly punched my arm, making me playfully wince. "I mean, it was dumb of me to treat you like shit before. I'm glad you forgave me."

I hummed and rubbed my arm. "It's no problem. You were just misinformed."

"Well, I hope you get to be Captain, Remi," Franklin said. His voice was rough and deep, a stark contrast to his soft features. "You deserve it."

I nervously chuckled. "I don't know about that. If I get it, there will be problems. You four are the only ones who tolerate me—the rest of the team won't exactly be thrilled to follow my lead."

"Don't sell yourself short," Michael said firmly as we walked into class. "You'd do fine."

The day dragged on like a slow-motion film. I barely paid attention to the lectures; my focus kept drifting to the middle of the room, specifically to the way Margaux's hair fell over her shoulders.

I caught myself staring once, tracing the line of her neck, only to have her suddenly snap her head around. She glared back with enough heat to make my cheeks burn.

I snapped my eyes away, staring at my notebook until the ink blurred, wondering why my brain was suddenly betraying me like this.

When practice finally rolled around, I packed my bags slowly. I was stalling, wanting to give the girls' locker room time to clear out so I could change in peace.

As I shoved my last book away, a presence appeared beside me. I turned to find Margaux's hard, unreadable stare.

"C-can I help you?" Dammit, why did I stutter?

"Why were you looking at me like that earlier?" She folded her arms tightly. I tried—and failed—not to look at her chest.

"Like what?" I played dumb, my heard hammering against my ribs.

"Don't play coy with me, Alvarez. I'm not in the mood for games." She raised a perfectly trimmed brow.

"I was just wondering where you got your shirt," I lied, trying to look unbothered. "I liked the design."

"Oh?" She tilted her head, challenging me.

Hot.

"Excuse me?" she asked.

Shit. I said that out loud. "S-sorry! I meant...the design on your chest—shirt! God, it's so hot in here. Sheesh." I fanned my face and practically sprinted toward the locker room before I could humiliate myself further.

I hit the empty locker room and released a breath that felt like it had been trapped for years. "You're so hopeless, Remi," I muttered to myself. I stripped off my shirt and pants, leaning against the cold metal.

"Just tell her she's pretty next time, you dummy. Wait—no. I don't like her. She's a bully. I hate her. She's just...easy on the eyes."

I nodded, satisfied with my own lie. But as I pulled my jersey over my head, the world went dark as the fabric covered my eyes, and I heard the heavy thud of the door clicking shut.

"Anyone there?" I called out, my head still stuck in the fabric.

No response.

I finally pulled the jersey down, reaching for my compression boxers, when I was suddenly slammed into a locker. My head bounced off the metal, and a sharp pain flared in my dislocated wrist.

"What are you doing?!" I hissed, the back of my head stinging.

"Shut your mouth, dyke," a voice spat. I opened my eyes to see Margaux's goons pinning me down.

"Why would I do that?" I asked with a forced, pained smile.

"Because we told you to," one of the guys said, flashing a set of crooked teeth.

"I personally don't think I'll be following your orders." I smirked, but it was quickly wiped off when the other guy drove a fist into my gut.

The air vanished from my lungs. I doubled over, my vision swimming.

"Next time, think before you speak," he growled.

"Alright, that's enough, boys. I'll take it from here."

Both guys let go, and I slumped against the locker, rubbing my bruised torso with my good hand.

I looked up to see Margaux standing there, watching me with a triumphant smirk that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"We'll see you at the bleachers," Stooge Two told her. She nodded, and they left, the door clicking shut behind them.

Silence fell over the locker room, thick and suffocating. I felt her eyes roaming over me, taking in my bare legs and the way I was trembling from the adrenaline.

That's when the panic set in—I hadn't put my shorts on yet. I reached for my compression boxers, but Margaux stepped in close, pinning me back against the locker again.

"What are you trying to do?" she asked, her hands flat against my shoulders.

"Preparing for practice?" I shot back, my voice shaky. "Aren't you supposed to be with the cheer team by now?"

"Why do you need compression boxers for playing on a court, Alvarez?" She asked, her eyes narrowing.

"Okay, uhm, is this some kind of police investigation? I have to leave, or Coach will have my head." I tried to pry her hands off, but she shifted them, her palms landing flat on my abdomen.

The heat of her skin through my thin boxers made me stop breathing entirely.

"Why are you answering my questions with questions?" She shot back.

"You're doing it too," I murmured, my voice losing its credibility.

"Because you started it."

"Did not."

"Did too."

"I have to leave, Margaux. What do you want from me?" I was growing impatient, I needed to be on the court in a few minutes or Coach would be pissed.

She didn't answer. Her gaze drifted from my eyes to my chest, then down to her hands on my stomach.

I saw a flash of something in her eyes—curiosity? Confusion? Then her hands trailed lower, past the waistband.

"What are you—oh fuck!" I hissed, my knees nearly buckling when I felt her grab me through the fabric.

She gasped, her fingers accidentally dragging along my shaft.

A shiver of pure terror and unwarranted pleasure shot up my spine. I fought back a groan, my face burning with a shame I couldn't describe.

"Oh my god," she whispered, her eyes wide as she looked up at me. I couldn't meet her gaze. I felt small. Exposed. Like a bug under a microscope.

"A-are you trans?" she asked after a deafening silence.

I shook my head violently, my eyes stinging. "No. I'm...intersex. Please, Margaux. Don't tell anyone. I'm begging you." I clasped my hands in front of me, my head hanging low.

"Intersex? What's that?"

"I can't explain right now—maybe later. Or look it up. But please, keep this between us. I don't know what would happen if people found out, but I know it won't be good." I didn't wait for her to agree.

I scrambled to pull on my compression boxers and shorts, my hands shaking so hard I could barely move.

I didn't spare her another look as I bolted for the gym doors.

The team was already gathered at center court. Coach gave me a stern look as I joined the line, breathless and disheveled.

Michael sent me a questioning glance, and I just shook my head, staring at the floor.

"Now that we're all here," Coach began, looking over his binder. "It's time to announce our leadership. I watched the film from Friday's scrimmage. A choice has been made."

He actually smiled. It was terrifying. "Please give a hand to Remington Alvarez—the first female captain in the history of Red Lodge High."

The air in the gym seemed to shift. Michael, Tom, Franklin, and Peyton erupted in cheers, their whistles echoing off the rafters.

The rest of the team stood in a stony, hateful silence. I felt like the world was about to swallow me whole.

My eyes flickered toward the bleachers and I saw Margaux. She wasn't doing anything. She was just staring.

"And our co-captain," Coach continued, "Thomas Keith!"

More cheering followed. Michael leaned over to me as the noise swelled. "You good?"

"I expected their reactions," I muttered. "Doesn't make it hurt any less. I'm just glad I have you guys."

Coach silenced the room with a sharp whistle. "I want to address what happened on Friday. Trevor, that push was uncalled for. I know of the plan you and your team discussed. If I see anything like that again, you're benched indefinitely. Remington is your captain. You will follow her lead."

Trevor glared at me, his jaw clenched. "I'm not following orders from the likes of her."

"Then you can watch the season from the bleachers," Coach snapped. "Alvarez led her team from start to finish. She listened to her teammates. That is a leader. Now, get to practicing."

As the team dispersed, Trevor shoved past me, his shoulder catching mine hard. "You think you're Coach's favorite now? Not a chance, monkey girl. Let's see if you last a week with everyone plotting your downfall."

"When are you going to grow up, Trevor?" I asked. My voice was calm, but there was a new edge to it. The secret Margaux now held made me feel vulnerable, but Trevor's hatred made me feel angrier about that fact. "The insults are getting old. I am your captain. Treat me with respect, or kiss your spot goodbye."

I didn't wait for his response. I walked over to my friends.

"That was badass!" Michael squealed, putting his palm up for a high-five.

"It was nothing," I said, though I felt a strange surge of power in my chest.

"No, it was something," Peyton said. "You put him in his place."

"Well, if they want to be losers, let 'em," I said. "I'm here to stay."

Michael clapped me on the shoulder—hard. I didn't even think; I just pushed him back twice as hard, sending him stumbling onto his ass.

"Oi! I knew you were strong, but damn," Michael groaned, rubbing his backside. "I won't be able to shit for a week because of you!"

"Don't dish it out if you can't take it," I laughed, my face turning in faux disgust, the tension finally breaking.

Tom started throwing balls at Michael, and soon we were all chasing each other across the court, acting like idiots.

"I've not even been gone for a minute!"

We all froze. Coach was back, and he didn't look amused.