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15. Fallon

Afist against our front door has me jumping and then stumbling to my feet. I swing the door open to find my two oldest brothers, Mason and Charlie.

“Hey, sis.” Mason rubs a hand over my hair, mussing it.

It’s moving day.

Initially, I planned to move into the dorms a few weeks ago to allow more time to get settled before practices began, but the idea of leaving Lexie earlier than necessary had me continuously pushing the date back. Now, I no longer have a choice. Practices begin tomorrow, and though they’re not mandatory for another couple of weeks, they’re equally essential.

“Where’s Gunnar?” I ask.

“He’s coming,” Charlie tells me with a roll of his eyes. The two often throw words at each other with practiced and timely precision, aiming at each other’s pride.

I glance at Mason, but he merely shrugs and slips past me into mine and Lexie’s apartment.

“Is this everything?” he asks, glancing at the small heap of boxes and garbage bags.

Lexie and Aunt Janice picked out and purchased everything for our living room and kitchen when we moved in, so my belongings are minimal. “Yeah. I figured I’d leave my bed here so I have a place to stay. The dorm comes with a mattress.”

Charlie quirks a brow and looks at Mason as he huffs out a laugh. “You want to tell her?” Charlie is just four years older than me and breathes mischief and shenanigans into all situations that he tries to mask with charisma. As his sister, I see straight through that shit.

“Tell me what?”

Mason scoffs. “Hell no.” He moves to grab a box.

Charlie grins as he turns to me. “You don’t want to sleep on a dorm’s mattress unless you plan on buying a couple sets of waterproof sheets and ignore how many bodily fluids you’re sleeping on.”

“It’s new, perv.”

“It will be a thin, lumpy piece of shit,” Mason says. “You’ll want to pack your bed.”

Disappointment spears me. Keeping my bed here made it feel like I could still call this place home.

Mason looks toward Lexie’s door. “Where’s your shadow?” It sounds like a dig, but my oldest brother, who is eight years older than me, says the term with affection. He’s been calling Lexie and I each other’s shadows for as long as I can remember.

“Getting fitted for her bridesmaid dress.”

“Shouldn’t you be there?” he asks.

“Hers came in first.”

Charlie grabs two large bags. “Let’s go. I’ve got shit to do.” He heads out the front door without another word. Mason and I share a conspiring look of confusion at his sudden mood swing before following him.

It takes us just over an hour to pack my belongings into three vehicles and only nineteen minutes to reach campus.

The student dormitory is only a few years old. It’s a stately, gray brick structure, built to blend in with the hundred-year-old buildings that make Camden so picturesque, and one of the benefits the college likes to flex to athletes like myself because each athlete is issued their own room that is the size of a one-bedroom apartment, complete with a private bathroom, kitchen, and a washer and dryer.

The lobby is empty as we head inside. The ceilings are high, making each of our footsteps echo as we approach the elevator and take it to the third floor.

Nerves prickle down my spine as the doors open. My new team lives on this floor. I try not to hold my breath as we pass several doors, expecting one of them to open.

My key is sticky when I slide it into the keyhole, but I manage to open the door. The air smells different inside, unlike my apartment or my parents’ house. It’s a new, foreign scent that twists my nerves.

“Damn,” Charlie says, then whistles as he steps past me and takes in my new living space. “Now I see why you transferred to Camden. Do you remember how small my dorm was?” He looks at Gunnar, who showed up just as we were loading the final boxes.

“I’d rather stay in my apartment,” I remind him, begrudgingly.

“This place is just as nice as your apartment.” Charlie turns toward the sparsely furnished living room and sets his box down. “All right. Let’s do this.”

We spend the next hour moving everything into my new dorm, and I’m relieved to discover the air conditioning works well. It’s only May, but it’s already edging toward ninety.

“You got that number to get rid of the mattress they left here?” Mason asks.

I nod.

“You should see if they’ll remove this couch, too,” Charlie says. It looks like it’s about...” He thrusts his hips forward in a provocative manner several times, making me roll my eyes. “This height.”

I throw the bag of coats I’m carrying at him, nearly knocking him off balance.

He chuckles.

“Wait. There are guys staying here?” Mason asks, glancing out the single window.

Gunnar and I move to join him. The view from my dorm looks out onto the side of the building where a group of guys are approaching. “All the athletes at Camden stay here,” I explain.

“But dudes?” Mason turns to look at Charlie. “Does Dad know?”

I elbow him in the gut. “I’m twenty-one, assmunch, and it’s all women on this floor.”

Gunnar snickers, but I note when his gaze flicks to the door as though assessing my safety.

“And only my team in this section.”

“You should still keep the door locked when you’re here.” Gunnar shrugs in an attempt to make the words sound like a suggestion, but he pins me with his dark blue gaze to ensure it’s not. With only two years between us, we’ve been close for most of our lives, sharing a love for books and learning, our dry sense of humor, and our introverted tendencies.

“We’ll kill anyone who tries anything,” Charlie says, voice even, eyes shrewd. My brothers rarely play the overprotective card, but it’s always an ace when they do.

“Or we can take turns sleeping in the living room.” Mason peers around the space as though imagining where he’d put the mass amounts of camping gear my brother owns.

I roll my eyes but don’t prod them, recognizing they’re seconds away from creating a schedule for who sleeps over first. “I’ll lock my door,” I relent.

At that, Mason heads for the door, but rather than leave, he examines the deadbolt.

I turn to Gunnar, looking for help, but he dutifully ignores me and moves into the kitchen, opening the mostly barren cabinets. I have exactly four of everything. Four plates, bowls, forks, spoons, knives, and cups. There are no mugs. There’s also a single pot and pan. “Damn. They really outdid themselves.”

I snicker. “It’s like they know I hate cooking.”

His grin matches mine. “You know where your supplies are?”

I point at the two boxes marked kitchen to stick out from all the others. Inside are my prescriptions and medical equipment for my diabetes. The thought has me recalling the dark-haired stranger noticing my continuous glucose monitor and believing I wore it to track my blood sugar as some recent athletes, pre-diabetics, and even diet fads have begun doing. I don’t typically shy away from telling people that I’m diabetic as I did when growing up and received callous questions about whether I was going to die, contagious, or had caused the disease by eating too much sugar. But that night, I didn’t want to see whether his reaction would make me regret asking him to join me in the hotel room or compare me to another diabetic he’s likely met—which, in some cases, is a family cat or dog.

Gunnar thrums his fingers over the boxes and nods. “Need anything else?”

I shake my head, shocked by how similar this moment feels to when I’d initially moved out and had a lump in my throat over the fact that he’d no longer be two doors away. Both Charlie and Gunnar still live at home, something our parents don’t disparage. Mom often jokes that she hopes to win the lottery so she can buy a giant plot of land and allot each of us a couple of acres so we can build our own mini-community. If I didn’t love my family so much, it would probably be weird and borderline disturbing, but instead, I think we all imagine it one day being a reality.

“I just need to find my cleats.”

He nods and rounds on me, slinging an arm around my shoulders and walking us toward where Charlie and Mason are still conferring about the door.

“Leave my door alone,” I warn them.

“You need a chain,” Mason says. “Someone could kick this in.”

“I have a hundred neighbors,” I explain, pointing down the endless hallway.

Gunnar squeezes me a little closer. “She’ll be good.”

“We’ll see you Wednesday for Dad’s birthday?” Charlie asks, taking a picture of the doorjamb and the wall.

“I’m serious. You two leave my door alone.”

“Gunnar’s making homemade ravioli,” Charlie adds, pocketing his phone.

“I’ll be there, but I’m serious about my door.”

“If you need help moving the mattress, call Gunnar,” Mason says, heading into the hall.

Charlie laughs.

“Don’t hit on anyone on your way out.” My warning is directed at my middle brother, and he confirms he knows this when flashing a cocky grin.

“Tell them not to hit on me,” Charlie returns.

They leave too soon. I was hoping they’d linger and want to check obnoxious things like my smoke alarm and what channels I get.

Instead, I reach for my phone, as I’ve been doing far more lately, and discover a text that eases the hollowness in my chest.

Dark-Haired Stranger: How was the big move? I still wish I could’ve helped.

Me: It was pretty easy work with my brothers helping. How was your day?

A picture of a cart of lumber comes through.

Dark-Haired Stranger: My buddy Nolan tricked us into helping him finish his basement while his girlfriend’s out of town.

Dark-Haired Stranger: It’s probably for the best. It will keep me busy so I don’t come across as desperate and text you too many times.

Me: Truth bomb: it feels good to know you’re thinking of me.

Dark-Haired Stranger: I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, Fallon.

My heart beats as fast as a hummingbird’s wings as I stare at his confession, trying to think of how to reply while clutching the reasons I initially wanted us to slow down and ensure we weren’t chasing a feeling. We only have six days left, and a part of me wants to say to hell with those final days.

Dark-Haired Stranger: Good luck at practice tomorrow. I look forward to hearing how it goes.

My nerves are wrapped so tight around my lungs it’s difficult to breathe as I step into the women’s soccer facility. I toured this place twice before signing the stack of papers that made my transfer to Camden a reality.

The decision wasn’t easy, nor was it guilt-free. When Coach Mackenzie, Camden’s head soccer coach, approached me, I nearly turned her down on the spot. I loved my Westfield team, the coaching staff, and the university. I was in a promising position to become our next team captain and was able to live with Lexie, but then Coach Mackenzie offered me something I couldn’t ignore: an academic scholarship. After my brother Charlie was injured while playing soccer during his sophomore year of college, he lost his scholarship and was forced to drop out of college, something I’ve been eternally terrified of.

The fact that Lexie already attends Camden was the icing on the cake.

I try to focus on these reasons as twenty-odd girls turn to stare at me, the volume of the room muting like a TV commercial when I visit my grandparents.

Becca Cabot, Camden’s captain, makes eye contact with me. We’ve been adversaries for the past two years, competing in games that pushed both of us to our limits. She’s fast, aggressive, and known for her vicious contacts. I loathed playing against her.

Her glare tells me she isn’t a fan of mine, either.

“Fallon Hale?” Aiko Yamada, a senior defensive midfielder, asks. “So it’s true?” She glances at Becca.

I swallow and grip my duffle bag a bit tighter. No one is more surprised to learn I was a rumor than me. Last year, our coaching staff provided us with tape of every new player, so we knew their playing style before they stepped foot in the training center.

“We’ll see,” Zoe Thompson, another senior, says with a leveling stare that flicks away as quickly as it had descended on me.

Her words nearly knock me sideways.

“But she’s a forward,” someone in the back says.

“We’re doing speed and skill workouts today,” Becca says. “Stretch and do a fifteen-minute jog. Then I want to see everyone on the sideline.” She turns to me. “If you wear purple in my house again, you’ll run in your underwear.”

This time, I’m the first to look away. Purple and silver are Westfield’s colors. An unintentional, albeit stupid, mistake.

I don’t ask for a locker or worry about putting my things away. That would only draw attention to how unwelcome and woefully underprepared I am. Thankfully, I don’t need to change. I glance at my insulin pump to check my blood sugar. One thing that people who don’t have a chronic disease or illness often forget or entirely fail to grasp is how the condition never stops or waits.

Diabetes doesn’t give a single fuck that this is my first day, and I need to impress these women. It doesn’t care that running will likely make me feel better and wear off some of the stress all this newness presents. And it won’t care if I’m tired, full, starving, exhausted, or in the middle of a huge game. There is never a timeout.

I hit a short series of buttons to decrease my insulin because, between the exercise and the heat, I know I’ll be downing Gatorade and juice by our first water break to ensure I have enough sugar in my bloodstream if Becca’s stare of retribution holds any weight.

We gather in the center circle on the field and begin stretching. Jokes and conversations are shared. Someone talks about a date that went bad, another discusses plans for a beach vacation, and the two behind me whisper about a guy one of them likes. When I glance at the two girls behind me, they look startled.

“Three minutes left,” Becca announces, monotone, eyes pinned on me. “You’re stiff, Hale. How have you not already snapped a hamstring?”

I don’t know if she’s goading me to say something that might induce a verbal sparring match or testing me to see if I’ll push harder.

The others fall silent and watch me.

My discomfort and instinct to avoid conflict have me avoiding both options as I move to stretch my right quad muscles rather than respond.

I don’t know if they think I’m being subservient or defiant. I force myself not to care—or try not to—by focusing on the slight breeze and buzz of cicadas coming from the tangle of trees and vines at the far end of the field.

Lexie would be in hell. Her allergies have her detesting the outdoors most of the year.

We transition from stretching to jogging, and it only takes a few minutes for me to realize that Becca doesn’t want me near the front, so I remain in the middle of the pack—alone.

I’ve played soccer for as long as I can remember. My parents signed us all up as soon as we could walk.

When I was five, Gunnar’s team didn’t have enough kids to run a scrimmaging drill at practice, so Mom volunteered me to join them. I remember the coach looking hesitant, but Mom assured him I had three older brothers and could hold my own. They were still short the next week, and the week after, it was the same broken record.

The coach sought permission from the league for a couple of other younger siblings and me to join the team full-time. That year, soccer became my life and a defining part of my personality. I was no longer just Fallon. I was Fallon, the girl who was really good at soccer.

I begged my brothers to play every afternoon when we got home from school and kids at recess—everywhere. When I was thirteen, I was recruited to join a competitive club team that had me practicing daily and traveling the Eastern Seaboard for tournaments each weekend.

Then high school came, and the conversations about what was next seemed limitless—and infinitely expensive. I had my sights set on a school that had promised opportunities and connections, and I was prepared to forgo birthday and Christmas gifts for if I could go, but guilt stopped me. My parents couldn’t afford the school, and I knew it. They’d been in debt since I was diagnosed with diabetes at the age of ten. Despite having medical insurance, they couldn’t afford the hundreds of thousands of dollars in hospital bills owed from my stay. In addition, they had to face the costs of my monthly prescriptions and medical equipment, which were a constant stress point they tried to shield from me. Still, I noticed how the bags under their eyes darkened near the holidays and how they canceled streaming services and pizza Fridays.

Instead of focusing on the loss of that opportunity, I poured myself into soccer, knowing my only chance to continue playing would be college, and I’d need to earn a scholarship to secure that opportunity. I dedicated myself to school and practice, making varsity my freshman year and facing the same looks of disdain and objections that I did this morning when walking into the training facility.

I dig down, calling on my alter ego, determined to prove I belong here, but it’s buried under the rubble of self-doubt and indecision that was born in my decision to leave Westfield and feels amplified this morning. I expected my team at Westfield to be upset about my decision to transfer, but I never expected it here.

I consider what I’ll be telling the dark-haired stranger this afternoon as I remain in the middle of the group. A part of me wants to tell him how unwelcoming they are, how their dismissal feels personal, and how that makes me want to pack my bags and beg my previous advisor to undo all the changes that have already been finalized. I want to tell him how badly this reaction makes me miss my old team, coach, and apartment.

But I won’t. I won’t let myself think that because I’ve been in this role before with other teams, and I only have two years left to play. I refuse to allow Becca or anyone else to steal that from me.

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