You win

Sofia - proposals

Faster, harder, more, more...

Sweat is heavily dripping down my face, my lungs are collapsing with their last breaths, and my legs are turned to jello.

"Fuck," I pant, my lungs burning from the intense run.

"Chill out, Sof," Jordan says, her hands on her knees, also struggling to catch her breath after the gruelling sprint. 

"You're making the rest of us look bad," she adds with a laugh, glancing at our teammates reaching the finish line.

I walk towards the sideline, hands intertwined and resting on the top of my head. "I need to get better." My voice is breathless, but somehow it is there.

"You are better," Jordan says, joining me and adjusting her ponytail.

"I have to be the best. As captain, there's no room to mess around and give Dean Dick any excuse to give us less than we already have," I say, reaching for my water bottle, squirting the cool water on the top of my head, and pulling off my shirt, leaving me in my drenched sports bra.

"We should all be better." I drag out my eyes, lingering on our other teammates, either just finishing or continuing their sprints.

"Come on, Sof."

"You're 5 seconds slower, Alo." I snap using her last name.

"Good work, Delezar," Coach Smitty acknowledges without glancing in my direction. She's a tall woman, around 6 feet, with the whitest blonde hair and a stoic expression. I strive to be like her—well-respected. There's no room for a female athlete or a woman in the athletic world in general to mess around. Guys can get away with foolishness because 'boys will be boys,' but as a woman, messing around is a reflection of our entire gender and an excuse to not be taken seriously.

The rest of the team eventually joins the sideline, packing up their things. 

"The boys' team is moving in; I want us out before they can think about bitching and moaning," Smitty states, watching us hustle.

I watch as some of them make their way over, gear in hand, some enjoying the view of sweaty girls in short shorts, and the others preoccupied by their phones and/or ball dribbling.

"Look good out there, Sofia." I hear the familiar voice of Max Popov, one of the taller soccer guys standing at 6'2. My only reason for knowing that is that I stalk the athletic stats account in my free time. He pushes back his blond hair with a thin black headband, and his soft blue eyes linger over my exposed body.

"I try," I shrug, offering a small enough smile to be friendly but not big enough to encourage further conversation. Though his physique is killer and his soccer skills unmistakable, I know my limits on men, and Max exceeds those limits.

"Hey, Max!" Sarah, our goalie, chirps, twisting her hair with her finger, diverting his attention. 

Good.

"Oh, come on," Jordan drags as we walk towards the showers. 

"He was checking you; I mean, he has been for a while; he's an upcoming captain, y'know?" she states, looking back.

"Did he pay you to talk him up?"

"Max Popov speaks for himself," Jordan states animatedly, throwing her hands up.

"Like I've said many times, I don't do athletes. It's my one rule."

"Your rules suck. Not every guy is like..." Before I can even attempt to listen to the must-never-be-mentioned, I place my earpod in my ears and let the music resume where it left off.