The New Boy (Trans Guy Romance)

Chapter 1

If lacrosse isn’t a real sport then I don’t know what is. Peter, a decent middie,  passes me the ball when it’s clear there’s no one else around to pass to. It’s either me or fast break down the field. And Peter isn’t fast enough to not get bulldozed by the lumberjacks we call defensive middies. But the play is beautiful. The ball slices through the air like butter. The better half of the team, middies and attackmen, are all down field and I jog up field to meet the ball. Simple muscle memory takes over. Catch. Cradle. Run. Fast breaks are my favorite to execute. Sprinting down the last few yard lines, I see the four corners in the goal, through Chuck “The Hulk” Lambert. His weak spot being his lower right. I twist, breathe and angle my arms up to swing. The ball sails from my pocket straight passed Chuck’s enlarged goalie stick. Briefly, I let myself bask in the glory of actually shooting in perfect form. I barely see the ball make impact with the back of the net as the brunt end of a helmet suddenly attacks my side, sending implosions of pain toward all the nerve endings on the left side of my body. Shit. The air is knocked from my lungs before I realize my back is suddenly parallel with the ground. The earth is spinning through the slits of my helmet. The little slices of sky filtering through the slits in my helmet align with each other to reveal the face of Curtis Lakowski, Senior Attackmen, Captain of the Varsity team. “Stay off my side of the field, Ffreak.” Up close, he reeks of sweat, testosterone and Axe body spray. It rReminds me of recurring nightmares I have of middle school. He begins to jog up field before I can even think of uttering something in response. Coach Peterson and Coach Dale have their faces pointed toward the opposite goal. Their eyes are cast downward, pretending they didn’t just see a blatant foul that would’ve earned a red card during actual game time. I swallow the taste of iron and turf beginning to form in my mouth. Flex my limbs. Make sure nothing’s out of place. Jump up and prepare to run the drill again.

***

I still reek of sweat and dirt fifteen minutes after practice lets out as I make my way across campus, lacrosse bag in hand. I’d use the boys locker room if I had a death wish. If it wasn’t for Carter Academy being “above” Title XI, they wouldn’t have even let me on the lacrosse team. Something about how it was “undignified for a someone of your...origin to play with boys in such an aggressive sport.””. Dean Howard may vote Democrat every election and wearwhere a rainbow pin for a week in June but once a boy with a vagina wants to change, pee, and play with the other boys, suddenly tradition remains an important aspect of life at Carter and the T of LGBT is a hassle. Luckily, the nurse takes pity on me enough to allow me to use the special handicap bathroom in her office. It smells better than the boy’s room anyway.

Since it’s six p.m. on a Wednesday, my cleats make a clattering squeak against the floor that reverberates through the hall. About five feet away from my locker that’s when I see it. My stomach drops at the same time I can feel it lodging itself in my throat. In black graffiti, the word ‘Dyke’ adornes the off white metal of my locker, little black drops streaking across to the neighboring lockers on either side of mine. I can’t remember a time when I felt more out of breath. And suddenly my face is shoved against the metal.  My arm is twisted behind my back. I’m trapped tightly between a thick body and the cool metal of the locker. I can hear multiple sneakers squeak against the linoleum floor. Two sets of breathing. “Stay off my team, tranny. If you try to play with us or fuckin’ pee with us, you're fuckin dead.” The voice is familiar and so is the scent. The only person who thinks Axe body spray is an adequate substitute for deodorant is Curtis.

“Get off me.”

“Girls don’t play lacrosse. Not real lacrosse. If you show up after school tomorrow we’ll wait for you after practice,” he states, hot breath invading the exposed skin of my neck. “Stop trying to be a boy, dyke. Go play softball like the other girls.”