Chapter 3
Mireya
Three training jerseys, a sports bag, a welcome folder, a room key card, and a schedule that looks designed to kill anything that isn't a robot. That's everything I get when I arrive at my new club.
The training facilities, though, are from another planet. Three fields with perfect turf and a gym that looks like a spaceship packed with machines I don't even know the purpose of.
Back at Aura Valley, the gym had mostly barbells, dumbbells, and a couple of treadmills, one of which had been broken since last season.
Here they have a full-body cryotherapy chamber and an anti-gravity treadmill for injury rehab.
Hades says good morning and points me toward the locker room. Nothing else. No formal introductions, no welcome talk. Nothing. So I swallow, adjust the new bag on my shoulder, and push through the door.
Dead silence.
Every head turns toward me. Some smile politely. Others just stare with curiosity. And one player, at the back, next to the corner locker, fixes me with a pair of blue eyes at an intensity that could go straight through the wall.
Nika Wallace.
I know the name. Striker, twenty-four years old, signed last season as a backup forward in case Iris Vance goes down. She scored six goals in the league last year. And now I'm standing here, taking up exactly the space she's spent months waiting for.
Everyone seems to carry on with whatever they were doing. A couple of “hi”s, a “welcome,” and not much else. I don't know why, but I thought it would feel different.
Fine. At least I know where I stand.
“Oh wow, Guerrero! I thought you were never actually going to show up. And here you are. Nothing stops Hades,” I hear from behind me.
Iris Vance. We've crossed paths a few times with the national team and every single time she talked more than every other player combined. She looks like she's either been up since five in the morning or hasn't been to bed at all.
“Don't tell anyone, but I went out last night,” she whispers right next to me, like she's sharing classified information. “Now I go out with my girlfriend though,” she adds.
I open my mouth to say something, but she cuts me off instantly.
“You almost stole my top scorer title last season.
Look, we're either going to get along great or we're going to get along terribly, depends.
No, seriously, I think great, but if you take my spot I swear I'm throwing your cleats in the pool,” she fires off practically without breathing.
“Take her spot,” she adds, jerking her chin toward Nika Wallace.
“Just kidding. Half kidding, that's all.
Okay, sit here, they put your locker right next to mine.
Have you eaten? The coffee here is terrible but the orange juice is actually great, that's one of the upsides of being in Florida.
Do you know anyone? You probably do. If not, doesn't matter, I'll introduce you to everyone — it's what I'm best at besides scoring goals.”
She doesn't let me get a single word in. Iris Vance talks the same way she plays — in bursts, no warning, changing direction every three seconds.
“That's Zoe,” she says, pointing at a dark-haired woman with her hair pulled back and her arms folded, who waves at me from across the locker room.
“She's the captain. Best midfielder in the country.
Don't argue with her on day one, trust me.
But she's good people. The one in the back who looks like she's solving a math problem in her head is Jade Herrera.
Doesn't talk much. The short one with the cropped hair is Tina.”
“Iris, I think it would be better if—”
“Wait, wait, I saved the best for last. Come on, step outside with me for a second.”
I shrug and follow her out of the locker room. She stops and lets out a sharp whistle.
“Hey, Boss! Get over here!”
I hear footsteps. Fast ones. Way too fast for an adult.
A kid of about three comes tearing down the hallway at full speed, wearing a team jersey that swallows him whole, little shorts, and sneakers whose soles light up with every step.
He's got a piece of cookie in one hand and some kind of unidentifiable stuffed animal in the other, with a woman in glasses chasing behind him.
“Wesley Méndez,” Iris announces, beaming with pride. “Son of Zoe and Tessa, and the supreme boss of the Seattle Emeralds. Hades and Alexandra Drummond don't have half his authority. That's why he's the boss, obviously. Right, Boss?”
The kid stops in front of me and looks me up and down with enormous brown eyes. Then he shoves the cookie into his mouth and wipes his hand on his jersey.
“Who you?” he asks, mouth full.
“I'm Mireya. I'm going to play on the team,” I tell him.
Wesley tilts his head. Chews. Reaches into his shorts, pulls out another piece of cookie he'd been keeping in there, and plants it in the pocket of my shorts with sticky fingers.
“Oh wow, see that? You're family now,” Iris says, crossing her arms with total satisfaction. “The boss doesn't put cookies in just anybody's pocket. Welcome to the Seattle Emeralds. Official.”
The kid has already lost all interest in me and ducked back into the locker room, where nearly every player seems to stop whatever she's doing to say something to him.
“Thank you.”
“Oh, no problem. Okay, now the important stuff. That kid has magic. I'm dead serious. In his hair. You smell it and you have good luck for the entire rest of the day.”
“Excuse me?”
“I've been hooked for two years. I can't help it. It's beyond me,” she goes on.
“You're scaring the new girl,” Zoe Méndez says, pulling her son back out of the locker room.
“Welcome to the team. Don't take it personally that the coach didn't introduce you to everyone.
That's just how she is. She's got her ways, but she's a good person. And if Iris gets to be too much, just tell her to shut up. Though you already know her, so none of this should surprise you.”
**
Before the first training session, we have a tactical meeting.
The conference room has an oval table, a screen that covers the entire wall, and AC cranked down so low the hairs on my arms stand up the moment I walk in.
After the heat of the locker room, the shift hits hard.
I take the chair farthest from the coach; I'd rather not draw attention on day one, and I want a full view of the room.
Diana Creed walks in at exactly nine. Not a minute early.
She rolls her eyes when Iris Vance slips in a couple of minutes late, after everyone else is already seated.
“Sitting here with you, because this early Hades kind of terrifies me,” Iris whispers, pulling a chair up next to mine.
“It's the first day of the season, so we'll go over how things work here,” the coach begins, standing in front of the screen rather than sitting.
“The Seattle Emeralds' tactical system is built on possession, high press, and fast transitions.
Every player has a specific role within the structure.
Positions are not suggestions. They are obligations.
If the system asks you to move through a certain zone, that's where you go. Clear?” she asks, while each of us gets handed a GPS tracking vest to wear during training.
Everyone nods.
“Guerrero!” she says suddenly, locking onto me.
“Your starting position will be attacking midfielder.
You'll receive a folder with the main set pieces this afternoon.
It's completely confidential. Your job is to connect with Vance up front, but in an organized way, not the way the two of you improvise when you play together for the national team. I have a specific integration plan for you. Individual video sessions will be Tuesdays and Thursdays, late afternoon,” she adds.
“Individual video sessions?”
“All new players get two sessions per week. Everyone else gets one. I want to make sure you understand the system before you play in it.”
I nod. Diana Creed starts clicking through slides that show formations, passing lanes, and pressing zones. Everything is precise. Surgical. Every arrow has a purpose, every number carries meaning, every player is a working piece inside a perfectly calibrated machine.
I stare at the diagrams, and I don't see a place for what I do. There's no room for improvised dribbles, for the passes I invent on the fly. Every player on this team has enormous talent. Back at my old club we leaned harder on individual moments.
By the time the meeting ends, I'm close to crying from sheer desperation. I pull out my phone. Dial my mother's number.
“How is she?” she asks, skipping “hello” entirely.
“I'm not going to fit here,” I answer, my voice barely there.