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Coach Finstock stood at the edge of the field, whistle dangling around his neck, clipboard in hand, and a scowl that could curdle milk. Typical Tuesday. Except today, there was a new kid on the team.
“Alright, listen up, degenerates!” he barked. “We’ve got a new player trying out. This is Jay. He plays midfield, and unless you plan on doing better, you can all consider your spots on notice.”
Jay—lean, sharp-eyed, confident but clearly bracing himself—stepped forward. He was wearing his number already, 17. There was a moment of awkward silence. A few muttered whispers.
Finstock noticed. Of course he did.
Someone near the back—probably Matthews, the benchwarmer with more ego than talent—mumbled, “Thought this was the guys' team.”
The whistle was in Finstock’s mouth before the kid finished the sentence. The shrill screech stopped everyone.
“What was that, Matthews? Speak up so the whole field can hear your ignorant mouth flapping!”
Matthews blinked, clearly not expecting to be called out.
Coach stepped closer, every bit the chaos incarnate he was known for. “Let me be perfectly clear for the slower members of the herd: This team doesn’t care what’s in your pants. This team cares if you can run a mile without crying, dodge a flying stick, and score a goal without tripping over your shoelaces. If you can do that, you're on the team. You got a problem with that, you can try out for the bench-warming squad. I hear they’re looking for someone with your exact skillset: standing still and talking nonsense.”
Jay stood taller, his mouth twitching into a faint smile.
Another boy, Lopez—third-year, decent player, decent person—nodded toward Jay. “You any good?”
Jay shrugged. “Wanna find out?”
Coach grinned like a wolf smelling meat. “Now that’s the spirit! Get on the field. Show ‘em.”
Jay jogged out, clearly nervous but hiding it well. Finstock turned back to the rest of the team.
“One more thing, in case it wasn’t clear: If I catch any of you treating Jay—or anyone—like crap over something that has nothing to do with lacrosse, I will run your asses until you vomit Gatorade in three flavors. Then I’ll bench you so hard your grandchildren will inherit splinters. Got it?”
Silence. Nods. One or two nervous gulps.
Finstock blew the whistle again. “Now get moving! And someone please tell Matthews which end of the stick to hold. I’m tired of watching that boy duel like a confused walrus.”
The players scrambled. Jay took his place in the drill. Threw a pass. Dodged a fake. Scored.
Lopez slapped his shoulder. “Nice shot.”
Finstock watched from the sideline, arms crossed, grinning to himself.
The drills continued. Jay kept his head down, focus razor-sharp. He didn’t need to prove anything, not really—but it felt damn good to show off a clean pivot and a fast break that left even Lopez blinking.
Finstock, arms crossed, muttered to no one in particular, “Kid’s got legs. And a spine. That’s rare around here.”
From the far side of the field, Matthews lagged during a sprint, muttering under his breath again. Something about “special treatment” and “woke bullshit.” Jay didn’t hear it. But Finstock did.
The whistle cut through the air again.
“MATTHEWS!” Coach screamed, voice carrying over the hills like the roar of an angry god. “You wanna keep mouthing off? Or are you just sore because the new guy’s faster, stronger, and has better hair than you?”
Laughter rippled through the team.
Matthews flushed, red from neck to ears. “I’m just saying—”
“No,” Coach snapped, stomping toward him. “I’m saying. You're not just saying. You're being a jackass. You think it makes you look tough? It doesn’t. It makes you look weak. You wanna talk about fair? What’s not fair is judging someone for having the guts to live their truth while you can’t even run a clean lap.”
There was dead silence now. Matthews stared at the ground.
“Now,” Coach growled, “if you’ve got a real problem, we can talk about it after practice. Behind the gym. Where I keep the cones. And my sledgehammer of emotional accountability.” He leaned in, voice low. “Spoiler: it's just a heavy-ass sledgehammer.”
Matthews nodded, eyes wide. “No, Coach. I’m good.”
“Good!” Coach boomed, clapping him hard on the shoulder. “Glad we’re all good. You’re gonna run suicides until I forget this conversation happened. And I’ve got a terrible memory when I’m mad.”
As Matthews trudged toward the baseline, Lopez jogged up beside Jay and offered a fist bump. “So… you play street rules, or official league?”
Jay bumped fists. “Both. Depends who’s watching.”
Lopez grinned. “You’re gonna fit in fine.”
Jay didn’t smile right away, but his shoulders relaxed just a little. “Thanks.”
The scrimmage started, fast and messy. Finstock kept barking from the sideline, occasionally scribbling nonsense on the clipboard.
After a particularly clean pass from Jay to Lopez that ended in a goal, Finstock cupped his hands and yelled, “Somebody call ESPN! Jay’s out here playing chess while the rest of you mouth-breathers are trying to eat the board!”
Jay actually laughed. The sound surprised him as much as anyone else.
Later, as practice wound down and players staggered off the field, Coach gathered them all.
“I don’t do big speeches. I hate ‘em. But I’ll say this once.” He looked each of them dead in the eye. “You don’t have to like each other. But you will respect each other. That’s what makes a team.”
Lopez nodded. Jay stood straighter.
Matthews was still breathing hard from suicides, but he mumbled, “Got it.”
“Good,” Finstock said, clapping his hands. “Now go hydrate, stretch, and maybe take a long hard look at your life choices. Practice again Thursday. Jay—good hustle. You’re on the team.”
Jay blinked. “Just like that?”
Finstock arched a brow. “Just like that. What, you want a cake or something? I’m not a celebration coach. I’m a yell-at-you-until-you’re-great coach.”
Jay grinned. “Yelling’s fine.”
“Damn right it is. Welcome to Beacon Hills.”
He turned on his heel, blowing the whistle as he walked away. “GO GAYS!”
Lopez cracked up laughing. Jay just shook his head, still smiling, "I'm Trans, not gay."
Lopez slapped his hand on Jay's back, "Just go with it. It's Coaches way."
Jay grinned again and for the first time in a long while, he actually believed he belonged.