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It started with an email.
A very harmless, well-meaning, probably-too-long email from Principal Martin reminding the Beacon Hills High School faculty that June was Pride Month. Attached was a colorful flyer, a guide to inclusive language, and a suggested list of classroom door signs with options like “All Are Welcome Here,” “Ask Me About My Pronouns,” and “This Classroom Is a Safe Space.”
Coach Bobby Finstock opened the email, stared at it, then squinted like it personally offended him. The only reason he even noticed the attachment was because Isaac Lahey read it out loud beside him.
"You’re not required to do anything," Isaac said helpfully, leaning over the coach’s cluttered desk in the locker room office. “But it might be nice. Small stuff makes people feel seen.”
Finstock waved a hand. “Lahey, I’m all for the gays. You know that.”
Isaac pinched the bridge of his nose. “Right. But maybe don’t refer to it like it’s a football team.”
Finstock ignored that. “I coached two years with a gay goalie. Only thing that mattered to me was whether he could stop a ball. Which he couldn’t, but that was because he had the hand-eye coordination of a drunk panda, not because he was into dudes.”
“Right, and that’s… fine,” Isaac muttered.
Scott McCall walked in, sweat still clinging to his neck from coaching practice. “What’s fine?”
“Apparently me being aggressively tolerant,” Finstock said, proudly puffing out his chest.
“Go Gays!” he declared, slamming his fist on the desk like it was some kind of locker room chant.
Isaac winced. “You realize that’s not a catch-all phrase, right?”
“Oh, come on,” Finstock scoffed. “I’m being supportive! You want me to say 'Go... LGBTQIA+?' That doesn’t even roll off the tongue!”
“I mean… not everything has to be a chant.”
River Ronan chose that exact moment to stroll in, holding a reusable coffee cup and wearing a shirt with a rainbow koi fish pattern that was definitely not standard staff attire. Their shoulder-length hair was swept back with pins, and they had a permanent glint of mischief in their sea-glass eyes.
“I heard cheering from halfway down the hallway,” they said, raising a brow. “Did we win something? A prize? A gay?”
Isaac half-sighed, half-smiled. “Coach Finstock just declared ‘Go Gays’ like he’s rallying the troops.”
River lit up. “Ah. Perfect. I love being a mascot.”
Finstock looked them over. “I don’t know what the hell you are, Ronan, but you wear more rings than Liberace and you’ve painted the art room ceiling like a bisexual fever dream, so—yeah. Go Gays.”
River’s lips curled into a smirk. “Technically, I’m half gay. Maybe a third. On a good day. Regardless, it’s a little more nuanced than the cheerleader chant you just tried to pass off as activism.”
Scott blinked. “Wait, how can someone be half gay?”
Isaac turned to him with an amused smile. “River’s bisexual. And asexual.”
Finstock looked between the two of them - River serene, Isaac all awkward warmth and stolen glances—and narrowed his eyes like a detective in a noir film. “You two are…?”
Isaac choked on his coffee.
“We’re what?” River asked innocently.
Finstock waved his hands like he was trying to manually fan away discomfort. “I don’t need details! I just need to know if this is a thing, because the last time a coach dated someone on staff, it ended with a decapitated mascot costume and a lawsuit.”
Isaac muttered, “It’s not... really a thing. Yet. Maybe. We're talking. Hanging out.”
“Jesus Christ,” Finstock muttered, then turned to River. “No offense.”
“None taken,” River said easily. “He wasn’t a Christian, and neither am I.”
Scott’s brain tried to catch up as he looked at River. “So… like… you’re into men and women, but you don’t want to have sex with them?”
River gave a thumbs up. “More or less. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I just want to cuddle and watch a documentary about tragic 19th-century poets. It’s all about vibe and trust.”
Finstock opened his mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again. “You know what? I support that. I don’t understand a lick of it, but I support it.”
“Aw, Coach,” River cooed, mock-sentimental. “You’re such an ally.”
“Damn right I am. I’ve seen Rent twice. The movie and the stage version. I’ve got credentials.”
Isaac groaned, but he was smiling.
Scott looked a little overwhelmed but nodded earnestly. “So what do we do? Like… to be better? More inclusive, I mean.”
River shrugged, taking a sip from their cup. “Well, it helps to not treat someone’s identity like it’s a riddle you have to solve. You don’t need to understand every piece of it to respect it.”
“Right,” Isaac added. “Start with basics. Pronouns. Use the ones people give you.”
“Exactly,” River said. “Mine are they/them. Which is also what I call all spiders in my apartment. So it should be easy.”
Finstock squinted. “But you’re a guy.”
“I’m biologically male, yes,” River agreed cheerfully. “But gender identity and expression? Fluid. Like my wardrobe. And your defense strategy last season.”
Scott made a choking noise.
Isaac snorted and leaned back on the filing cabinet. “I mean… they’re not wrong.”
Finstock pointed at them. “Hey now, I try. I learn. I put in the work!”
“You do,” River admitted. “Mostly by panicking during a student mural unveiling because you think the pronoun badges were 'some new cult thing.’”
“That was one time,” Finstock mumbled. “And the badges had a triangle symbol, which is historically suspicious.”
“Because of the Illuminati?” Scott guessed.
“Because geometry, McCall.” Finstock held up his hands. “Look, I don’t care if you’re a he, she, they, or one of those neo-pronouns like xe or ze—”
River gasped dramatically. “You know about neopronouns?! Coach, you have been studying.”
“I saw a TikTok,” Finstock grumbled.
River stepped forward and patted his shoulder like a proud parent. “You’re doing amazing, sweetie.”
“I hate everything about this interaction,” Finstock muttered, but there was no heat in it.
Scott, trying to be helpful, offered, “I mean, we could put up the safe space signs. Maybe encourage the team to add pronouns to their name tags at the beginning of the season?”
Finstock rubbed the back of his head. “Listen, I know I’m not your target audience. I’m a fifty-something dude who uses ranch dressing like it’s holy water. But I love you weirdos. You’re my people. My staff. My team. And if that means watching another documentary with bad saxophone music, then by God, I will do it. But I’m not learning forty new gender identities. I’ve already have trouble remembering who’s allergic to Gatorade.”
River arched a brow. “You don’t need to memorize every identity. Just listen to people."
Scott nodded, "You manage to remember Stiles’s endless monologues about Star Wars and Isabelle’s alcohol-based conspiracy theories.”
“That’s different,” Finstock grunted. “That’s self-defense. One starts quoting Jedi code, the other’s mapping government mind control through moonshine brands—I either keep up or go insane.”
Isaac laughed softly, eyes flicking toward River with fondness. “You really don’t have to be perfect, Coach. Just willing. And maybe try not to call the entire LGBTQIA+ spectrum ‘the gays’ like we’re an indie rock band.”
Scott tilted his head. “That would be a pretty great band name, though.”
“Oh my gods, yes!” River said, beaming. “Now I want to make band shirts. ‘The Gays – Live at the Intersection of Identity and Existential Dread.’”
Finstock pointed a pen at them. “If I see one kid walking into school with that on a shirt, I’m blaming you.”
River winked. “As you should.”
The bell rang in the distance, and the sound of stomping cleats echoed down the hall. Practice was over. The locker room would be chaos soon, loud and messy and sweaty.
Finstock sighed. “Alright. I’ll put the damn sign on the door. I’ll even throw in one of those rainbow pins if you have extras.”
River handed him one from their bag without missing a beat.
Finstock stared at it like it might bite him. “Do I put this on my whistle? Or my jacket?”
River leaned closer and whispered, “Wherever it hurts the patriarchy the most.”
Isaac was laughing as they left the office, and Scott followed with a smile that was still half-bemused, half-proud. Finstock stayed behind, holding the pin in one hand, muttering under his breath.
“Go Gays,” he said again, but softer this time. Not as a chant. Not as a joke.
Just a promise.