☆ New Star ☆ - Emily Engstler

Team Dinner

My eyelids fluttered open as the early morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft, golden glow across my room. The delicate rays danced on the walls, creating an intricate tapestry of light and shadow. I blinked a few times, letting the hazy morning gradually come into focus, and turned my head to glance at the clock on my bedside table. The digital numbers glared back at me: 11:30 AM.

I groaned softly, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I sat up, feeling the cool sheets slip off my body. My muscles felt stiff and sluggish, a testament to the depth of my sleep. I stretched languidly, extending my arms above my head and arching my back, feeling the satisfying crack of my joints waking up for the day. The remnants of a vivid dream still clung to the edges of my consciousness, blurring the line between reality and the subconscious.

This dream, in particular, had left me unusually shaken. It had been about Emily—a name that sent an inexplicable shiver down my spine every time it crossed my mind. It wasn't a sex dream, but let's say it wasn't just a best friends dream either. The details of the dream were already slipping away, like sand through my fingers, but the emotions remained, raw and confusing. I could still feel the warmth of her touch, the sound of her laughter echoing in my ears, and the look in her eyes that seemed to pierce through my very soul.

I shook my head, trying to dislodge the lingering feelings. Emily. Why did it have to be her? I have to remind myself that I don't like her. It was a mantra I repeated often, as if saying it enough times would make it true. My brain, however, seemed stubbornly resistant to this idea, conjuring up these dreams that left me questioning everything I thought I knew about my feelings. But after all dream, no matter how vivid, were just that—dreams.

My phone buzzes insistently on the nightstand, its vibration cutting through the morning stillness. As I unlock the screen, the brightness momentarily dazzles my eyes, still adjusting to the daylight. The notification that catches my attention is from one of the major sports news apps I follow. My stomach tightens as I read the headline: "Will the Mystics rookie Ivy Evans prove worthy, or will she let the team and the fans down?"

I exhale slowly, a mix of anxiety and determination washing over me. I don't usually read the press about myself. It's a conscious decision to maintain my focus and mental clarity. Yet, there's a magnetic pull, a compulsion to see what they're saying about me. After all, being the No. 1 draft pick comes with enormous pressure, and sometimes the fear seeps in, gnawing at my confidence.

I open the article, my eyes scanning the text rapidly. The words seem to blur together at first, but then they sharpen, each sentence driving home the weight of expectations placed on my shoulders. The journalist speculates on my potential, my performance during training, and how I might handle the transition from college basketball to the professional league. They mention my impressive stats, my agility, my strategic mind on the court—qualities that earned me the top spot. But they also question my resilience, my ability to cope under the relentless pressure of professional play.

I sit back against my pillows, the phone still in my hand, and let the words sink in. I know I'm good at basketball. It's not just confidence; it's a fact reinforced by years of dedication, countless hours of practice, and a track record of achievements. I remember the elation of being picked first, the sense of validation and the dreams of leading the Mystics to victory. But alongside that joy, there's an undercurrent of fear, an ever-present shadow whispering doubts.

The fear isn't just about failing. It's about letting the team down, disappointing the fans who have placed their hopes in me, and not living up to the legacy of great players who came before me. I think about the fans—those who have followed my career, who cheer for me from the stands, who believe in my potential. They see me as a beacon of hope, a new chapter in the Mystics' story.