The whistle blew so sharply it made you jump.

“Move faster!” Coach Harcourt’s voice cut through the gym loud enough to echo.

Your first day as a transfer student and somehow you ended up in her PE class—the one everyone warned you about.

“She’s terrifying.” “She doesn’t smile.” “She’ll make you run until you see God.”

Everybody had a story.

Watching her glare at the boys’ basketball team, you believed every single one.

She was tall, sharp, athletic, her blonde ponytail swinging like a warning sign. And then her eyes snapped to you.

“You,” she barked. “New kid. What’s your name?”

You swallowed. “Uh—(your name).”

“Great. You’re in scrimmage group B.” She tossed you a pinnie without warning.

It hit you in the chest.

“Reflexes,” she muttered. “We’ll work on those.”

You blinked. What have I gotten myself into?

Practice Begins

Your team scrambled, trying to figure out positions. You barely knew half their names. Coach Harcourt blew the whistle again.

“Group B, what are you doing?” she demanded. “This isn’t kindergarten soccer. (Your name), get over here.”

You jogged to her, heart pounding.

She crossed her arms. “You play any sports at your old school?”

“Uh… a little.”

“A little,” she repeated, unimpressed. “Alright. Show me.”

She tossed you the ball. This time, you caught it—barely.

Her eyebrow lifted. “Better.”

You dribbled, shot, and—miraculously—made it.

The tiniest hint of approval flickered in her eyes.

“Good,” she said. “Not great. But good.”

Your chest warmed more than you expected.

After Class

While everyone else headed to the locker rooms, you stayed behind to pick up stray balls. When you bent down, Coach Harcourt’s voice startled you.

“You don’t have to do that.”

You turned. “I don’t mind helping.”

She studied you—too closely for comfort, yet not unkind. “You handled yourself well today.”

You blinked. “I thought you were going to rip my head off.”

“I considered it,” she said dryly. Then, softer, “But you’re not like the others.”

You tilted your head. “In a bad way?”

“In a good way.” She shrugged. “You listen. You work hard. You don’t backtalk. That’s rare here.”

You smiled. “Well, I try.”

She glanced away for a moment, her tough expression cracking just enough to show something warmer beneath.

“If you ever want extra practice,” she said, handing you a spare ball, “come by after school. I’ll help you train.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Your heart thudded—a mix of nerves and excitement.

“Thanks, Coach.”

She nodded once, almost shyly. “Yeah. Sure.”

As you started walking out, she called after you.

“(Your name)?”

You turned.

Her voice softened—barely. “Welcome to the team.”