Chapter Text
For Becky Rebecca Patricia Armstrong the scent of freshly cut grass had always been the one aroma that made her feel at home. Yet, that afternoon at the Verde Valle training complex, the air felt stifling.
Becky sat on the edge of a wooden bench in the women's team locker room. With hands that were trembling yet steady, she precisely untied the laces of her cleats. At 21, she possessed a level of technical agility few at the club could match, a blend of the tactical discipline learned during her childhood in Thailand and the raw intensity of street soccer. But her talent seemed to matter little in that moment.
Just a few meters away, the murmur of her teammates' frustration and helplessness filled the room. In the center of the locker room, two executives in dark suits were finishing delivering the news with the cold detachment of men who saw nothing but numbers on a spreadsheet.
"It's an institutional decision, ladies. Due to budget restructuring and last-minute adjustments for the upcoming cycle, the Chivas women's project is being put on indefinite hold. There will be no participation in this tournament."
A deathly silence fell over the locker room. Seconds later, the tension erupted into tears, stifled protests, and the slamming of lockers. Blanca Félix covered her face with her hands, while Alicia "Licha" Cervantes kicked a cooler with pent-up rage.
Becky felt a sharp pang shoot down her spine. She slowly stood up, clenching her fists at her sides.
"This has to be a joke," Becky said. Her voice rang out clearly, carrying the unmistakable, subtle foreign accent that had stayed with her since her return to Mexico. "We've been in preseason for six months. We've worked ourselves to the bone in every training session out in the sun, doing double sessions. And the answer is just... 'it's cancelled'?"
"We're sorry, Armstrong," one of the executives replied without looking her in the eye, adjusting his shirt collar. "It's an order from high up. There is no budget for the women's squad. Gather your belongings before six o'clock."
Without waiting for a reply, the executives left the locker room. The sound of their dress shoes against the tile floor echoed like a final verdict.
Becky felt the world crumbling beneath her feet. She hadn't traveled halfway across the globe leaving behind the comforts of Thailand and facing the stigma of being viewed as an "outsider" only to end up with her dream packed away in a bag. She grabbed her sweatshirt, hurriedly pulled it on, and rushed out of the locker room, ignoring Licha calling out to her.
The main pitch at Verde Valle gleamed under the afternoon sun. On the field, the men's First Division team was wrapping up a shooting drill. Shouts from the coaching staff, the clatter of the ball hitting the metal goalposts, and the distant echo of fans sometimes drifting in through the outer fences filled the air.
In the distance, high up in the secondary stands, a group of fans was making preparations for the start of the tournament. It was The Minervas, the official supporters' group. Among them, one figure stood out with an imposing presence: Freen Sarocha Pérez. With a red-and-white scarf tied around her wrist and a resolute stance, Freen set the rhythm on the group's large bass drum.
The booming sound of the drumhead struck by Freen's mallet resonated throughout the complex. For Freen, Club Deportivo Guadalajara was more than just a soccer team. It was a religion and a symbol of national identity. Chivas represented the tradition of fielding an all-Mexican squad, a sacred norm she defended tooth and nail from the stands. Every beat of her drum was a call to arms, a declaration of love for her roots. Becky heard the bass drum as she strode purposefully toward the sideline of the main pitch. The sound gave her goosebumps, though she didn't know exactly why, but she had no time to be distracted by the stands. Her eyes were fixed on the head coach of the men's first team: a man with a stern face, a graying mustache, and a reputation in national soccer for being a traditionalist.
"Sir," Becky interrupted, stopping right at the touchline. She was breathing heavily after running all the way there.
The head coach turned slowly, lowering his tactics notebook with evident annoyance at the interruption.
"Who let you onto the pitch, girl? We're in the middle of a tactical session," he said, looking her up and down.
"They've cancelled the women's team. They say there's no budget," Becky explained without hesitation, closing the distance between them. "I know what I'm capable of. Let me try out for the men's team. Just give me three days of preseason. If I'm not up to the level, I'll leave without a word."
The coach let out a dry laugh that made several players on the pitch turn to watch the scene.
"A tryout for the men's team? Girl, this is the Mexican First Division. Chivas. We play professional soccer here with full-contact and high-intensity. We don't have time to indulge whims or for organizing casual mixed-gender pickup games. Gather your things and go back home to train for when your league starts up again."
"I have the technical skill, speed, and tactical vision," Becky insisted, stepping forward and lifting her chin. "Legally, I'm Mexican. My papers are in order. I have the talent. Judge me by how I handle the ball, not by my gender."
The head coach took a step toward her, leaning in slightly with a condescending smile.
"Look, Blondie or whatever they call you. Wearing this jersey takes more than just a passport and enthusiasm. You don't even sound like you're from here. You're 'The Brit,' right? The one who came from abroad to try her luck? Here, we play hard. You feel the nation's spirit in the jersey you wear. Don't waste my time with tall tales. Go get some rest."
The rejection stung her cheeks like a slap. The words "The Brit" echoed in her mind like an insult charged with prejudice. Before she could respond, the coach turned his back on her and signaled security to escort her off the pitch.
From the top of the stands, Freen's bass drum began to boom again. Freen watched the brief argument on the sideline from afar. She couldn't hear the words, but she saw the blonde girl with her distinct accent and foreign air walk away with her head held high. Freen tightened her grip on her mallet and murmured to herself, "This is Chivas. Only those who truly have the flag running through their veins play here."
An hour later, the engine of Becky's car cut out in front of the Armstrong family home in a quiet neighborhood of Zapopan.
The interior of the house was a temple dedicated to Mexican soccer. Black-and-white photographs, framed jerseys, and vintage trophies lined the hallway walls. Robert "Robbie" Armstrong Hernández, Becky's father, paced back and forth across the living room with a slight limp, a permanent reminder of the terrible knee injury that had destroyed his promising career as a Chivas striker thirty years earlier.
Robert was a passionate, impulsive man, deeply proud of his Mexican roots, despite having lived in Thailand and England for work over the years. To him, his children carried the Hernández legacy in their veins, a lineage of footballers from Guadalajara who belonged at the very top.
When Becky walked through the door and dropped her bag on the floor, Robert didn't need to ask. His daughter's expression said it all.
"It's an insult and a damn injustice!" Robert exploded, throwing his hands up as the living room TV silently broadcast sports news. "You trained for years, Rebecca. You have the blood and the Hernández last name. Your grandfather bled in that jersey back in the sixties. It's your birthright to be on that pitch!"
"I know, Dad," Becky sighed, sinking into the leather armchair and burying her face in her hands. "But to the men's head coach, I'm just a spoiled foreigner. He called me 'The Brit.' He wouldn't even let me touch a ball to show him what I'm made of."
Robert gritted his teeth, gazing at framed photos from his own youth, dressed in the team's red-and-white stripes.
"Pure prejudice... Those executives don't understand a thing about football. They focus on a surname or the tone of someone's voice rather than the magic in their legs." Robert let out a bitter sigh and glanced toward the stairs. "If only your brother had ten percent of the drive you have..."
At that moment, Richard "Richie" Armstrong came skipping down the stairs two steps at a time. But instead of wearing the official training gear the club had sent him to report to the men's first team meeting the next morning, Richie was wearing a floral shirt and Bermuda shorts, dragging a huge travel suitcase behind him.
"Where do you think you're going, Richie?" Robert asked, immediately frowning. "Tomorrow is your first day at the Verde Valle training camp. You're on the first-team roster for the preseason. It's the opportunity life never gave me."
Richie stopped on the bottom step, scratching the back of his neck feeling guilt and nervousness.
"Look, Dad, don't get worked up... It's a personal emergency," Richie said, lowering his voice. "Hannah called me from London. She's hysterical. She said if I don't go see her this weekend to 'talk about us,' she's going to dump me. I already bought the plane tickets and I leave in three hours."
"You're doing WHAT?" Robert shouted, turning red with rage. "You're going to miss training with the most important club in the country just to go see a girlfriend in England? They're going to kick you out! You're going to throw your career in the trash before it even starts!"
"Relax, Dad," Richie replied, avoiding his father's furious gaze. "I paid a friend to make up a story about me having a severe infection or something... I'll be back in 10 or 12 days, I swear. No one will notice. It's just preseason."
"You're irresponsible! Your sister is dying for that opportunity and you're throwing it away over nothing!" Robert declared. Unable to contain his anger, he turned and shut himself in his study, slamming the door behind him.
Richie sighed, grabbed his bag, and looked at his sister, who remained seated on the sofa, watching him in silence.
"Wish me luck, Bec," Richie said, planting a quick kiss on her forehead. "Look after the old man. I'll be back soon."
Richie hurried out to the taxi waiting on the street, leaving the front door ajar. A cool breeze drifted into the living room.
Becky slowly stood up and walked toward the coat rack by the entryway. There, hanging from a wooden peg, was Richie's official uniform for the Chivas training camp.
The red jersey with white stripes seemed to glow in the golden afternoon light. On the back, printed in bold black letters, was their family name: A HERNANDEZ.
Becky reached out and touched the fabric. She closed her eyes for a moment. She remembered the coach's scornful voice calling her "The Brit." She remembered her father's face, filled with frustration at not seeing the Hernández legacy on the field. And, for an instant, the sound of the bass drum from the stands echoed in her head again, setting a rapid rhythm for her racing heart.
She looked at her reflection in the hallway mirror. She and Richie shared a striking resemblance in bone structure, height, skin tone, and facial features. The only obvious differences were her long light brown hair and the shape of her eyebrows.
Becky took the jersey in her hands. A wild, dangerous, and absolutely crazy idea began to take shape in her mind. A plan that could ruin everything or give her the greatest victory of her life.
If the women's league was cancelled, and if Mexican soccer refused to give her a chance simply because she was a woman... then the Sacred Herd would have to meet "Richie" Armstrong.