The truth arrived at the worst possible moment: the semifinals against Coddington. Her former teammates. Her former best friend, Monica, now glaring at “Sebastian” from the opposite sideline. Halfway through the second half, tied 1–1, Viola took a cross to the chest. The wrap gave way. So did her shirt button.
Coach Harris, a grizzled woman who’d been watching Viola with narrowing eyes for two weeks, stepped forward. “We have eleven. Viola Hastings, you’re playing forward. And if anyone on this team has a problem with that, they can run laps until they graduate.” she's the man 2006
The referee cleared his throat. “Either you have eleven players, Coach, or you forfeit.” The truth arrived at the worst possible moment:
The word rippled through the mud and rain. Duke dropped his mark. The referee blew the whistle. Halfway through the second half, tied 1–1, Viola
Duke tossed her the ball. “Show me that fake again. The one where you look left and go right.”