Chapter Text
Lynn Loud Jr. didn’t like being interrupted.
She stood at midfield with her hands on her hips, cleats digging into the grass, eyes scanning her team like she always did. Practice was running late, the sun was still high, and everything was exactly how she liked it—fast, loud, and under control.
Then the whistle blew.
Lynn turned, already annoyed, just in time to see an unfamiliar woman step onto the field. She moved with the kind of confidence that didn’t ask permission, clipboard tucked under one arm, posture straight, expression unreadable.
“I’ll be running practice from now on,” the woman said.
The field went quiet.
Lynn blinked. Once. Slowly.
Coach Ramirez had never blown a whistle like that. In fact, Coach Ramirez wasn’t even there. Lynn opened her mouth, ready to question it—ready to challenge it—when the woman continued.
“My name is Jane Burton. From this point forward, we’re doing things differently.”
Lynn didn’t miss the way the team shifted. Some of the girls straightened up. Others exchanged looks. Lynn crossed her arms.
“Different how?” she asked, not bothering to soften her tone.
Jane Burton’s eyes flicked to her immediately. Sharp. Assessing.
“You must be the captain,” she said.
“I am.”
“Good,” Jane replied. “Then you’ll set the example.”
Lynn bristled, jaw tightening. She wasn’t used to being spoken to like that—not on her field.
Jane blew the whistle again. “Line up. Conditioning first.”
Groans erupted, but Lynn didn’t move right away. She held Jane’s gaze for a second longer, something unspoken passing between them—a challenge, maybe.
Then Lynn turned and shouted, “You heard her! Let’s go!”
The team scrambled into position.
That’s when Lynn noticed someone else.
Near the bleachers, half in the shade, a girl sat with her legs stretched out in front of her. No uniform. No clipboard. Just watching. Calm. Still. Like she didn’t feel the need to look busy to belong there.
Lynn frowned.
The girl’s eyes met hers.
No smile. No embarrassment. No apology for staring.
Just curiosity.
And something else—something that made Lynn look away first.
Jane Burton’s whistle cut through the air again, sharp and impatient.
“Warm-up lap. Now.”
Lynn broke into a jog with the rest of the team, but her focus had already slipped. Her eyes kept drifting—unwillingly—back toward the bleachers.
The girl was still there.
Up close, Lynn could see her better. She leaned back on her hands now, one knee bent, the other stretched out, like she had nowhere else she needed to be. Her hair caught the light first—red, but not flat or polished. Ginger, messy and voluminous, like it refused to be tamed. Parts of it were lighter, almost blond: a chunk of fringe near her forehead, a few uneven strands framing her face, as if someone had taken bleach to it without caring about symmetry.
Lynn hated how much she noticed that.
The girl’s hair fell in loose, unruly waves around her shoulders, some strands slipping free every time she moved. Freckles dotted her nose and cheeks, scattered like they hadn’t bothered to stop in neat lines. Her eyes—gray, Lynn realized—weren’t sharp or cold. Just observant. Calm. Too calm.
She looked athletic in a way Lynn recognized immediately. Not bulky, not showy. Strong legs. Solid shoulders. The kind of body built from repetition and discipline, not performance. She couldn’t be taller than five-five, maybe five-six at most—shorter than Lynn—but she didn’t feel small.
Lynn forced herself to look away and focus on running.
She failed.
Every time she rounded the field, her gaze flicked back. She told herself it was just habit, just awareness. As captain, she was supposed to know who was around the field. Who belonged there. Who didn’t.
Except the girl didn’t look like she didn’t belong.
Halfway through the second lap, Lynn glanced over again—and froze.
The girl was already looking at her.
Directly.
No hesitation. No awkward glance-away. Just steady eye contact, like she’d been waiting for it.
Lynn’s stomach tightened.
She didn’t slow down. Didn’t react. Didn’t give anything away. But something about the girl’s stare felt deliberate, like she knew exactly what she was doing. Like she’d noticed Lynn watching and decided not to let her get away with it.
The girl tilted her head slightly, lips twitching—not a smile. Not quite. More like amusement.
Lynn looked away first.
“Pick it up!” Jane Burton barked. “This isn’t a jog in the park.”
Annoyance flared, sharp and familiar. Lynn surged ahead, using the burn in her legs to ground herself. She was not letting some random girl on the bleachers get under her skin. That was ridiculous.
When the warm-up ended, Jane gathered them at midfield, launching into drills with military efficiency. No wasted words. No small talk. Lynn respected that—grudgingly.
Still, she could feel it.
The eyes on her.
During water break, Lynn grabbed her bottle and took a long drink, sweat dripping down her neck. She leaned forward, hands on her knees, and glanced up without thinking.
The girl had stood up.
She was closer now, near the fence separating the field from the stands. Even standing still, she carried herself like she was used to being watched—and didn’t care. Up close, Lynn could see the freckles better, the faint scar near her knuckle, the way her hair refused to stay tucked behind her ear.
They locked eyes again.
This time, Lynn didn’t look away.
Neither did the girl.
Jane’s voice broke the moment. “Reese.”
The girl finally turned her head.
“Mom?” she answered, casual.
Jane jerked her chin toward the field. “You’re blocking the sideline, sweetie.”
Reese stepped back without complaint, hands sliding into the pockets of her hoodie. But before she did, she glanced at Lynn one last time—slow, unapologetic.
Lynn straightened.
“Captain,” Jane said, turning back to her. “Your formation’s too loose. Fix it.”
Lynn nodded. “Yes, Coach.”
As she moved to reposition her team, something clicked—sharp and unwelcome.
Reese.
Jane Burton.
Reese Burton?
The resemblance wasn’t obvious at first glance, but it was there. In the posture. The eyes. The quiet confidence.
Lynn’s jaw tightened.
Great.
The girl watching her from the sidelines wasn’t just some random distraction.
She was the coach’s daughter.
Fuck.
The final whistle blew as the sun dipped lower in the sky, the heat finally easing off Lynn’s shoulders.
“Bring it in!” Jane called.
The team gathered at midfield, breathing hard, jerseys darkened with sweat. Lynn rested her hands on her hips, chest rising and falling fast. Her legs burned, her muscles screamed—and despite herself, she felt good. Tired, but sharp. Focused.
Jane nodded once, like she’d been waiting for that exact level of exhaustion.
“That’s it for today,” she said. “Hit the locker room.”
Relief rippled through the group as the girls broke apart, laughter and complaints mixing as they headed off the field. Lynn jogged after them, grabbing her bag on the way. She didn’t look toward the bleachers this time.
She didn’t need to.
The locker room buzzed with noise—metal lockers slamming, sneakers thudding to the floor, voices overlapping as everyone peeled off shin guards and jerseys. The air smelled like sweat and deodorant, familiar and grounding.
Lynn sat on the bench, tugging her socks off, zoning out as her body slowly cooled down.
Jane’s presence at the door cut through the chatter.
“Alright,” she said, loud enough to be heard. “Listen up for a second.”
The room quieted. Not completely—but enough.
Jane stepped inside, arms crossed, expression firm but not harsh. “I know I was hard on you today,” she continued. “That was intentional. First practices matter. I needed everyone’s attention, start to finish.”
No one interrupted her. Lynn watched closely, surprised by how steady Jane’s voice was. No yelling now. No sharp edges.
“But,” Jane went on, “it was a really good practice. You pushed through. You listened. And you showed me something I care about more than talent—discipline.”
A few girls exchanged looks. Someone smiled.
“I like this team already,” Jane added simply.
That landed harder than Lynn expected.
Jane nodded once, satisfied. “Get some rest. We’ll talk goals next practice.” She paused at the door. “Good work today.”
Then she was gone.
The locker room erupted again almost instantly.
“Okay but she’s intense,” someone said.
“Yeah but did you hear that? She likes us.”
Lynn finished changing in silence, slipping on her hoodie and tying her hair back. Her thoughts felt oddly settled.
“Earth to Lynn,” a voice said beside her.
She glanced up to see Zia dropping onto the bench next to her. Zia’s long, straight black hair hanging down her back like a curtain. She was grinning.
“So?” Zia asked. “Thoughts on the new coach?”
Lynn shrugged, then reconsidered. “She’s strict,” she said. “But… not in a bad way.”
Zia hummed. “Yeah. I feel like I’ve heard her name before. Jane Burton.” She pulled her phone out, already typing. “Hold on.”
Lynn leaned back against her locker, watching Zia scroll. Her muscles ached in that satisfying, earned way.
Zia’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh. Okay.”
“What?” Lynn asked.
“Yeah, no, she was a big deal,” Zia said, turning the screen toward her. “Pro soccer player. Like—really pro. Played internationally. Won a bunch of stuff.”
Lynn’s eyes skimmed the article, the photos. Jane Burton in a uniform. Jane Burton holding trophies. Jane Burton on magazine covers.
Zia kept reading. “And now she’s a physical therapist. Sports specialization. Rehab, performance, injury prevention. Which explains a lot.”
Lynn let out a quiet breath. “Huh.”
Suddenly, the drills made more sense. The pacing. The conditioning. The way Jane watched their form like she was memorizing it.
“That’s actually…” Lynn started, then stopped herself. “…kind of awesome.”
Zia smirked. “You’re glad, aren’t you?”
Lynn didn’t deny it. “Yeah,” she admitted. “If anyone’s gonna push us, I’d rather it be someone who knows what they’re doing.”
She grabbed her bag and stood, already thinking about the next practice. About getting better.
She didn’t think about the girl on the sidelines.
Not at all.
And somehow, that annoyed her most.