Kyla George

The locker room reeked of sweat and chlorine. The academy only had one professional-grade locker room — Blue and White shared it, whether they liked it or not. The tiled floor was slick with the detritus of a losing game. Kyla George, jersey clinging to her back, slumped onto the bench nearest her locker, eyes on the warped linoleum. She could still feel the sting in her shoulder from the last check, a phantom echo. The rest of the White House team trickled in, helmets under arms, faces sour. She waited until the showers started running before she pulled her shirt over her head.

"Yo, George," a voice called from the next row. Justin leaned against the metal lockers, his grin all sharp angles and lazy confidence. He played for the Red House, which meant he always had something to say. "You ever gonna shower with the rest of us, or you just like smelling like defeat?"

Kyla didn't look up. "I prefer not to make a spectacle of myself."

He laughed, loud enough for the sound to bounce off the tile. "Suit yourself."

She could feel his gaze even with her back turned. It was easier to ignore when she focused on the sweat-stained laces of her skates. She tucked her gear into the duffel and tried to time her shower for when the room was emptiest.

But Justin was still there, naked under a towel, when she stepped into the showers. The open stalls offered zero privacy. He was spitting into the drain, idly scratching at his ribs.

He blocked her path, still grinning. "You White House boys ever win anything, or is losing your family tradition?"

"We win more than you think."

"Sure," he said, rolling his eyes. He looked her up and down. "You ever think about switching teams? Red could use a little fresh meat. Though, honestly, they might not take you. You're kinda… fragile-looking. Like you'd snap if someone breathed on you."

“You play like you’re holding back,” he said, quieter now.

“Like you’re scared to hit properly.”

Kyla frowned.

He tilted his head. “That kind of hesitation? Gets people benched.”

Kyla scowled and tried to push past him, he reached for her towel—

then stopped.

A beat.

His smirk returned, lighter this time. but he just laughed and grabbed the hand shower, spraying himself theatrically. "Relax, George. I'm just messing."

He leaned closer, dropping his voice. "Hey, you ever jerk it in here? Like, with everyone around?"

She froze.

Not at the words.

At how easily he said them.

Like this space, belonged to him in a way it never could to her.

Her grip tightened on the edge of the tile.

Her hands were shaking anyway.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

He shrugged, still smiling. "Nothing. It's just what guys do. You act like you're above it, but we're all the same under the towel."

She turned away. "You're disgusting."

"Whatever, man." He started to laugh again, the sound echoing in the tiled room. "Just don't act like you're better than the rest of us."

Kyla forced a scoff. “You that obsessed with me?”

Justin smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes this time. but his gaze didn’t move.

Not from her hands.

“You tape your fingers wrong,” he said suddenly.

Kyla stilled.

“What?”

He shrugged. “Nothing. Just… weird.”

She finished her shower in silence, eyes fixed on the drain. She could still hear Justin's laughter as she dressed, each peal a reminder of what she'd given up to be here, and how long she had left to survive.

Her ringtone was an old Bollywood jingle that always made her think of her mother. This morning it sounded like a war cry.

She blinked awake, phone vibrating off the nightstand, and squinted at the screen: 7:30. She was late. She screamed an undignified, primal sound and launched herself out of bed. The room spun. She bounced off the edge of the desk, caught herself with one hand, and sprinted for the bathroom.

The shower was a cold slap. She scrubbed her face, teeth, arms, and legs in a frantic choreography, water pooling around her toes. Her toothbrush fell into the drain, but she fished it out, spat, and kept going. She had precisely twelve minutes to make it to first period, and she needed every second.

She threw on her uniform—navy blazer, black trouser, white shirt (half-buttoned)—and stuffed her books into the battered canvas bag. Her phone vibrated again. “Mama” flashed on the screen. She answered, mouth full of toothpaste foam.

“Hello, Mama?”

“Why are you not answering me? Are you still sleeping?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m awake, Mama. I’m getting ready for class.”

Her mother’s voice softened. “You are eating, yes? Not skipping meals?”

She flicked her tongue against her teeth, checked her reflection, and decided she looked passable. “I’m eating, Mama. I’m fine.”

“And my twin brother?”

She paused. “He’s okay. Still… you know. But he’s okay.”

A sigh through the phone, barely audible. “People are asking about you,” her mother said. “I told them you are with my sister, helping with the shop.”

She grinned. “Very good, Mama. Keep it up. I will call you later, okay?”

Her mother hesitated. “Your father is still angry.”

She wedged the phone between her shoulder and ear, tying her shoes. “Don’t worry about him. I’ll make you proud, Mama.”

A pause. “We cannot pay the doctors again this week.”

The words sat there. Heavy.

Not new—but worse, somehow.

Because this time, she didn’t have a plan. “It’s okay. I get allowance on Friday. I’ll send what I can.”

She hung up before her mother could protest further. For a moment, she stared at the phone, then at the ceiling. The room was tiny, but at least she had it to herself. If her brother hadn’t gotten the scholarship, they would have had to share with two other students, maybe more. She exhaled, feeling both relieved and guilty.

She checked the time: 7:42. She slung her bag over her shoulder and bolted down the hall, nearly colliding with a custodian mopping the floor. She muttered an apology and kept running.

The campus was a maze of glass and half-finished concrete. She took the shortcut behind the science building, ducked under some caution tape, and found Justin leaning against a wall, cigarette dangling from his lips.

He watched her approach, eyes hooded. “You’re late.”

She grabbed the cigarette and crushed it beneath her boots.

“Find something better to do.”

Justin watched her.

Not smiling this time.

“You run like you’re being chased,” he said.

She didn’t slow.

But she felt it—his eyes still on her back.

Not amused.

Just… watching.

She didn’t bother with a reply. She kept running.

At the stairwell, a knot of older boys—her brother’s tormentors—blocked the landing. Six of them, all muscle and bluster. One whistled. “Hey, fresh meat”

She ignored them. Another stepped in her path. “What, too good to talk to us now?”

She kept moving, trying to sidestep, but he shoved her shoulder.

She stumbled—just enough.

Not weak.

But enough for them to see it.

That was the mistake.

She swung before they could think about it.

Bone met bone—too hard, too loud.

Someone grabbed for her sleeve,

she twisted free and ran.

She could hear their shouts echoing after her, but she didn’t slow down. She made it to her classroom just as the bell rang, chest heaving, heart pounding.

“I can’t get caught.”

She grinned, wiped the sweat from her brow, and took her seat.

First period was math. She hated math.

But she’d made it.

And today, that was enough.