Kyra's POV
The ache in my legs was sharp and unforgiving, shooting up my calves the moment I stretched. My arms felt like lead, and my back was stiff as hell. God, Coach Williamson was the absolute worst. I swear, this new coach was trying to break us. I'd barely managed to get any sleep after yesterday's session training felt more like torture than football. The groan that escaped my lips as I shifted in couch was automatic, my body screaming at me to stay put. But of course, it wasn't my sore muscles that ultimately dragged me out of couch. No, that honor belonged to Vic.
"Kyra! Get up, we're FUCKING LATE!" Her voice was so loud it felt like it physically slapped me awake.
"Vic, it's too early for this," I groaned, pulling the duvet over my head in a futile attempt to block her out. But Vic was persistent. I could hear her stomping around in the kitchen, slamming drawers and cursing under her breath. She was in full-blown panic mode, which only meant one thing
We had definitely overslept.
"We're gonna miss the first lecture!" she shouted from down the hall, her footsteps racing toward out living room . And then it hit me shit, the first lecture.
I shot up, every muscle in my body protesting at the sudden movement. My limbs were still heavy from training, and I felt like I had been hit by a bus. Or maybe several buses. I didn't care much for Medieval History, but missing the first lecture with the new professor? That'd be bad even for me.
"Why didn't you wake me earlier?" I half shouted back, stumbling out of couch and into some semblance of clothes or blankets.
"I fucking did!" Vic snapped, now standing in our doorway with her hands on her hips. Her hair was still a mess, though she was at least half-dressed, wearing a shirt that she'd definitely put on inside out in her rush. "You wouldn't wake up, and I'm not your fucking mum, Cooney-Cross."
I was halfway into a pair of jeans, wincing at how every muscle in my legs screamed in protest, when I realized how utterly screwed we were. "Shit, Williamson is killing me," I muttered under my breath, shoving my feet into my trainers without bothering with socks.
Half the day passed in a blur of exhaustion and pain. We somehow managed to make it to our first lecture only five minutes late, but neither of us had the energy to care about anything that came after. By the time we made it to the last lecture of the day the infamous Medieval History class, I could barely keep my eyes open.
Vic and I trudged into the auditorium and made our way to our usual spot, up at the very back, right at the top. It wasn't like we were eager to hear about castles and knights and whatever else Medieval historians wasted their lives studying. To be honest, I blamed historians for everything. I mean, who the hell decided that we needed to keep learning about the Middle Ages? Hadn't they done enough by writing it all down? Why make us sit through it now? (I asked myself the same question when I was sitting in boring lectures at the uni)
The lecture hall buzzed with chatter as students filed in, everyone eager to see this new professor who was supposed to take over. I, on the other hand, could barely keep my head off the desk. My legs throbbed underneath me, the aftermath of endless sprints and drills pounding through my body like a drumbeat. I could still hear Leah's voice from yesterday "Faster! You call that running, Cooney-Cross? You'll be on the bench if this is how you play!"
Leah was ruthless. Not that I hadn't had tough coaches before, but Williamson... she took it to a new level. Every drill was a race, every touch on the ball scrutinized, and every mistake earned you an extra set of laps. I could still feel the burn in my lungs from the sprints, the way the grass stuck to my legs as I slid into tackle after tackle. No matter what I did, it wasn't enough. Leah pushed harder than anyone I'd ever played for, and I knew she wasn't going to let up.
