The Illegible Goal
“You’re welcome,” she said. “I kept your GPA above water. Also, I’m taking your spot on the team. Coach’s orders.”
She peeled off the fake sideburns. They came away with a wet tear of spirit gum. “There is no Sebastian,” she said, loud enough for the bleachers to hear. “There’s only me. Viola. And I’m better than half your starting lineup. Ask your goalie.”
The first week was a masterpiece of chaos. She taped down her chest with athletic wrap until she couldn’t breathe properly, spoke in a gruff monotone, and perfected the art of never, ever changing in the locker room. Her roommate, Paul, was a sweet, anxious kid who talked to his cactus named Spike. He never noticed that “Sebastian” flinched at chest bumps and knew the difference between mauve and taupe.
That night, Duke kissed her—not Sebastian, not a disguise, but Viola, with her short hair and her skinned knees and her heart loud as a stadium.
