Chapter 1 — Victory on the Field

Lia

The lacrosse field hums with adrenaline, the energy from the crowd coursing through my veins. The crisp November air burns my lungs as I sprint across the field, my cleats skidding slightly over the frost-dusted grass. The worn leather grip of my stick bites into my palms, grounding me even as chaos swirls around me.

“Lia! To your left!”

Lilly’s voice cuts through the noise, sharp and clear. I pivot instinctively, the movement smooth despite the burn in my legs. The ball lands in the cradle of my stick with a satisfying thud, the weight familiar and steady. My heart pounds harder, a mix of focus and determination surging through me.

I glance up, and there it is—the goal, clear and perfect, just within reach.

This is it.

The defenders rush toward me, their sticks slicing through the cold air, closing in on all sides. My muscles scream as I sidestep the closest challenge, light on my feet despite the ache in every joint. One step, then another. I pull my stick back and release.

The ball arcs through the air, spinning like it’s defying gravity itself. For a moment, everything stills. When the net ripples and the referee’s whistle pierces the quiet, the crowd erupts, a tidal wave of cheers crashing over me.

We’ve won.

The scoreboard reads 12-11—the narrowest of wins, but a win all the same. Relief washes over me in a brief, fleeting wave, loosened by the jubilant cries of my teammates. Their voices blend into a rising cacophony as they swarm me. Lilly is the first, throwing her arms around me, her neon headband slipping down her forehead as she laughs and nearly pulls us both to the ground.

“You did it, Lia!” she squeals, practically bouncing in place.

“We did it,” I correct, though the words feel strange in my throat, almost hollow. Somewhere inside me, a knot refuses to loosen, coiled tight and unrelenting.

Lilly doesn’t seem to notice; she beams at me, her joy as bright as her headband, then jogs off to celebrate with the others. Around me, my teammates are shouting, hugging, clapping each other on the back. The air is electric with their shared joy, but somehow, it doesn’t reach me. My gaze drifts, almost unwillingly, to the edge of the bleachers.

There, standing apart from the other parents, is my father.

His arms are crossed over his chest, his sharp jawline rigid, and his eyes fixed on me. He isn’t clapping. He isn’t smiling.

I know that look.

The brief flicker of pride I felt evaporates, replaced by the familiar, gnawing twist in my stomach. It’s as if the icy air has seeped into my skin, making each breath sharp and shallow.

“Lia, you okay?” Lilly’s voice pulls me back. She’s still at my side, her dark eyes narrowing slightly as she follows my gaze. When she sees him, her smile falters. “You know I’m here, right? Whatever happens.”

I nod quickly, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. My fingers tighten around the worn grip of my stick, its familiar weight anchoring me. “I’m fine. I’ll catch up with you in the locker room.”

She hesitates, worry flickering across her face, but I nod again, more firmly this time, and she finally jogs off with the rest of the team.

The cheers from the crowd grow distant as I make my way toward my father, each step crunching against the gravel path. The noise seems to fade further with every step, like I’m sinking underwater. By the time I reach him, his presence looms large, heavy as the cold air.

“Good game,” he says, his voice clipped and flat. It doesn’t sound like much of a compliment.

“Thanks,” I reply, though the tightness in my throat makes the word sound small. My grip on the stick tightens.

“You almost missed that last shot.”

There it is.

The words sting more than I want them to, a sharp jab to the fragile pride I’d barely let myself feel. “But I didn’t,” I say quietly, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “We won.”

“Barely.” His eyes narrow slightly, and I feel the weight of his scrutiny pressing down on me. “You let number 23 get past you twice in the second half. If this had been a college game—do you think a coach would overlook that?”

The cold feels sharper now, biting deeper, cutting through my layers. I drop my gaze, scuffing at the frosted dirt with the toe of my cleat. “I’ll do better next time,” I murmur.

“Lia, this isn’t just about ‘next time.’ You need to stay consistent. You’re not just playing for high school trophies anymore. If you want that scholarship—”

“I know,” I cut in, my voice sharper than I intended. “I know, Dad. I hear you.”

His jaw tightens. He exhales heavily, shaking his head slightly, like the conversation has drained him. “We’ll talk more at home,” he says finally before turning abruptly toward the parking lot.

I stay rooted in place, my chest aching as I watch him walk away. Around me, the cheers continue, but they feel distant, like they belong to someone else—someone who deserves them.

“Hey, superstar!”

Blake’s voice breaks through the haze, and I turn to see him jogging toward me, his varsity jacket slung lazily over one shoulder, his ever-present smirk firmly in place. He wraps an arm around my shoulders before I can step back, his cologne sharp and overwhelming against the crisp air.

“That last shot? Pure magic,” he says, his voice smooth, practiced.

“Thanks,” I murmur, though my stomach twists uneasily at the touch of his arm, heavy and possessive against my shoulders.

His grip tightens slightly as he glances over at the parking lot. “Your dad didn’t look too thrilled. What’s his deal?”

“It’s nothing,” I reply quickly, slipping out of his hold in one smooth motion. The movement feels instinctive, like a reflex I can’t suppress. “I’m fine.”

Blake raises an eyebrow, his smirk faltering for just a second before slipping back into place. “Don’t let him get to you,” he says, his tone light, almost dismissive. “You’re the best player on that field, and anyone who doesn’t see that is an idiot.”

The words should comfort me. For a moment, they almost do. But then he reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from my face, his fingers lingering longer than they need to. My breath catches, my pulse quickening—not in a good way.

“Let me drive you home,” he says, his hand already reaching for my bag.

“I’ve got my car,” I say quickly, stepping back again. “Thanks, though.”

His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “Suit yourself,” he says lightly, but there’s an edge to his tone, so faint I almost convince myself I imagined it. He leans in, brushing a quick, possessive kiss against my cheek before turning and striding toward the parking lot.

I exhale slowly, my shoulders still tense long after he’s gone. The field, once buzzing with energy, now feels quiet and empty, the frost-covered grass glinting faintly under the floodlights.

As I walk back toward the locker room, my hand brushes the worn grip of my lacrosse stick. The leather feels rough, tired, like it’s holding the weight of every game, every expectation, every disappointment.

We won, I remind myself, but the words ring hollow.

We won.

So why doesn’t it feel like enough?