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SANJANA

A breeze tugged at the hem of my cheer skirt, a crisp reminder that autumn had wrapped its spindly fingers around Hemlock Heights. The cool air carried the faint scent of pine and woodsmoke, perfect weather for football, hiking, and bonfires. All the things I loved.

“Five, six, seven, eight! Hit those marks!” Roxxi called, her tone unyielding.

I was completely focused on the routine we were running yet again, every move ingrained in my muscles but still demanding my full attention.

Roxxi’s sharp brown eyes swept over the team with an almost eerie precision.

The floodlights from the stadium cast long shadows across the field, glinting off the metallic colored pom-poms as the music started.

The heavy drumline of Crow Killer Blues filled the air, the haunting rhythm driving our steps.

The lyrics came easily to me, and I sang along in my head, so I didn’t fuck up.

“Formation two!” Roxxi ordered, her voice carrying over the beat.

Kellan and Noah moved into position; their hands steady as I stepped into their hold for the lift.

I trusted these two without question. They had been my primary base for the past two years and had never let me down, figuratively speaking.

The chill of the evening air stung my legs, but adrenaline drowned out the discomfort.

They hoisted me high into a prep, and my arms snapped into a V, my balance rock-solid.

Roxxi’s gaze slid to me briefly, a slight smile on her lips.

On either side of us, Layla and Brittany mirrored the move, their extensions steady as the rest of the team executed a synchronized jump.

The routine unfolded like clockwork, each move feeding into the next.

My guys dipped, their grips firm as we transitioned into the next stunt.

At the count, they threw me higher. I twisted mid-air into a Scorpion; my leg arched behind me in a perfect curve.

The lights of the field blurred momentarily before I locked into the pose, holding it steady until Roxxi shouted, “Cradle!”

I braced for the drop, letting Noah and Kellan catch me before they eased me back into a reload.

“Pyramid!”

Kellan and Noah crouched, forming the foundation for two of our other squad members, Sydney and Zara, to climb.

I moved to the center, scaling Noah’s broad shoulders to take my place at the peak.

The music swelled, and the entire formation leaned into the energy.

My arms shot out into another high V as the chorus rang out, a gust of chilled air whipping through my hair.

“Hold it!” Roxxi commanded.

Each of us locked in our position as the anthem reached its crescendo.

The pyramid felt unshakable, a testament to our teamwork and Roxxi’s relentless drive.

As the final note of the bridge faded, I was lowered into a flawless dismount, and the entire team exploded into our synchronized choreography to close out the routine.

By the time the music died down, there was only the sound of our labored breathing and the distant rumbling of the football team.

Roxxi clapped her hands, her expression unreadable, but her tone satisfied.

“Not bad. Let’s run it again in a few and make it perfect. We’ll freeze our asses off out here if we have to.”

She meant that wholeheartedly.

We had a rivalry game in two weeks, leaving only a few practices between now and then.

Our routine needed to be flawless, our moves in perfect sync.

We had to nail this. And we would, thanks to Roxxanne.

Mrs. Gale, our head coach, might as well have been one of the many leaves covering the ground outside The Pit, our affectionately named playing field, for all her presence was worth.

She was more than content to let Roxxi run the show.

She'd sit back, arms crossed, watching her direct us through stunts and transitions. That’s what made Roxxi the heart and soul of our team, the one who handled everything from choreography to lineup changes, keeping us focused and pushing for us to be our best. It was when competition season rolled around that Mrs. Gale transformed herself into someone else entirely.

Suddenly, she was front and center, taking no one’s shit.

She became our biggest advocate, fighting for every resource, every inch of practice space, and every opportunity to get us an edge over the competition.

It was that duality that made her vital.

Mr. Kruger, the assistant coach, was good for us, too, whenever he actually came to work. I didn't know how that man was still employed. I swear I’d seen random strangers on the streets more than I ever had him.

“That was so good!” Layla panted once she was at my side, her grin wide. “We’re going to crush it next week.”

“After we do this at least a dozen more times,” I muttered.

Roxxi circled around us, her long, red ponytail swishing as she high-fived one of the other girls.

She thrived on this intensity, the need for perfection seeping into every practice.

She didn’t accept anything less, even from me.

I couldn’t pull the, I’m your best friend-practically sister card and skate by doing the bare minimum.

Not that I would, anyways. As one of the main flyers, my position was too coveted, and I had busted my ass to earn it.

We split apart, and I grabbed my water bottle from the sidelines, savoring the cool, refreshing liquid as I sank onto the grass for a breather.

Arianna joined me moments later; her dark hair twisted into a messy bun.

A soft smile was on her lips as she pushed her glasses up and tugged her Crowsfell hoodie down, settling beside me.

She wasn’t on the squad, but she came for a good number of our practices, her quiet moral support a constant, just like Cloe’s, who was perched on the bleachers with her camera, snapping candid shots.

She loved freezing these fleeting moments, little pieces of us in motion, unguarded and real.

She was good too. Her photos were always chosen for the Inkwell, Crowsfell’s media journal.

The three of us, along with Roxxi, had been inseparable for as long as I could remember.

We’d navigated our first crushes, whispered secrets late into the night, and spent endless hours dreaming together.

It was in those moments of just being girls, laughing until we cried, daring each other into the wildest ideas, and always having each other’s backs that we built a bond that was now woven deep into the fabric of who we were.

“You looked amazing out there, as usual,” Ari gushed, adjusting her glasses. Her accent curved around the words, an even mix of her Filipino and Aussie background.

“Thanks. We still have some kinks to work out.”

Cloe caught my eye and lifted the camera as if to say, “ I’m getting this one.”

I gave her a small wave before turning my attention toward the football team.

Their practice uniforms were modeled after the official team jerseys and our cheer get-ups, black and silver, giving an intimidating, battle-ready look.

The emblem on the helmet stood out even from a distance, a fierce crow in flight, its wings spread wide.

At Crowsfell University, sports were practically their own religion.

The athletic complex was like a cathedral and the pride of our campus.

It had been remodeled a few years ago into something state-of-the-art both inside and out.

Generations of athletes were discovered here.

From hockey to baseball, basketball, and polo.

Even snowboarding, and of course, football.

The university had it all. So many people I’d come to care about were part of those teams.

It was a little bittersweet when I realized that in a few short years, we would go our separate ways.

College was the final act before the inevitable curtain call.

Everyone would scatter across different cities, chasing dreams that didn’t quite align with this small town we all loved to call home.

Everyone but me, that is. I couldn’t think about it too much without getting teary-eyed.

We had been together for over two decades, more family than friends.

I knew distance wouldn’t sever our ties, but it was still going to leave a gaping empty space where they were meant to be.

I wondered if this was how mothers felt knowing their babies would soon fly from the nest. Not that I would ever voice that thought out loud.

I could imagine the looks I would get for calling myself their mom when they all saw me as the baby sister.

Never mind the fact that we were all the same age, give or take a few months.

The team was deep into warm-ups now, the rhythmic thud of cleats hitting the turf filling the air.

It didn’t take long for me to spot Ryder Voss among them.

He was always easy to find, the number 12 on his jersey marking him as the quarterback and offense captain of the Crows.

His dark hair was hidden under his helmet, and I knew he was sporting the cocky grin he always wore when he was in his element.

Cade Voss, number 88 and our defense captain, was across the field, his stance relaxed but coiled with energy.

His eyes stayed locked on his brother, already strategizing their next play.

He had this wild unpredictability, always willing to take risks that most players would avoid.

That recklessness made him dangerous, and the reason the Crows’ defense was nearly impossible to crack.