"Nice routine, new girl," Brett called after her, his tone making the compliment feel like an insult. "Hope you can handle the pressure."
That evening, Amaya followed her father into the woods behind their new house. Despite his retirement, Elijah Walker maintained the disciplined physicality of an active Navy SEAL. He'd set up a makeshift training course—rope swings, balance beams made from fallen trees, and a series of targets for their regular self-defense practice.
"How was school?" Elijah asked as they warmed up with stretches.
"I made the cheer team," Amaya replied, reaching for her toes. "As the lead flyer."
Elijah's face broke into a rare full smile. "That's my girl. Your mother would be proud."
The mention of her mother made Amaya's throat tighten. It had been just over a year since the accident during Elijah's final mission—a helicopter crash that had claimed the lives of both Sarah Walker and two other SEAL team members.
"I miss her," Amaya said softly.
Elijah's expression softened. "Me too, baby girl. Everyday." He cleared his throat. "Now, let's work on your evasive maneuvers. Remember, the best way to win a fight is to avoid it completely."
Amaya finished with a small smile. It was one of her father's favorite sayings, drilled into him since she was 10 years old and he'd first started teaching her self-defense.
For the next hour, they trained: Elijah teaching Amaya how to break holds, escape from restraints, and use an attacker's weight against them. These sessions had become more frequent after Sarah's death, as if Elijah was determined to ensure his daughter could protect herself from any threat.
"You're getting stronger," he noted as Amaya successfully flipped him over her shoulder, a move that would have been impossible a year ago.
"I have a good teacher," she replied, helping him up.
The first pep rally of the school year came the following Friday. The gymnasium was packed with students, teachers, and parents, all dressed in Westbridge's colors of navy and gold. The cheerleaders performed their routine with Amaya executing flawless aerials and being tossed higher than any flyer before her. The crowd erupted in cheers. Even some of the teachers were on their feet.
Amaya caught sight of her father in the back of the gym, his proud smile visible even from a distance as the football team ran in to thunderous applause.
Brett jogged past the cheer squad. He slowed as he passed Amaya. "Don't get too comfortable in the spotlight," he said under his breath, then flashed his winning smile to the crowd.
Later in the hallway, Amaya felt her phone buzz with notifications. Anonymous texts were flooding in: Show off. Who does she think she is? Charity case. Go back where you came from.
Amaya stared at her phone, her stomach knotting with anger and hurt. As she rounded the corner, she nearly collided with Grace.
"Hey, I was looking for you," Grace said, then noticed Amaya's expression. "What's wrong?"
Wordlessly, Amaya showed her the texts. Grace's face fell. "I'm so sorry. This happens sometimes when someone new shakes things up."
"By someone new? You mean someone Black?" Amaya said flatly.
Grace had the decency to look ashamed. "It's not right. Not everyone thinks that way. I promise."
"Enough do," Amaya replied, putting her phone away. "And the rest just watch."
That night, Amaya sat on the back porch, watching as her father cleaned his service pistol, a ritual he performed every Friday night, more out of habit than necessity now.
"Dad," she said hesitantly. "How did you deal with it in the Navy? I mean, being one of the few Black SEALs?"
Elijah's hands stilled. "Who's giving you trouble?"
"Just some kids at school. Anonymous texts." She showed him her phone.
Elijah's jaw tightened as he read the messages. For a moment, Amaya saw a flash of the warrior her father had been—still was—underneath the calm exterior he maintained.
"Listen to me," he said, setting the gun aside. "People fear what they don't understand, and sometimes that fear makes them cruel." He took her hand. "But you are a Walker. You come from a long line of people who refuse to break no matter what life threw at them."
He went inside and returned with a small box. From it, he removed a set of dog tags. "These were mine from my first deployment," he said, placing them around her neck. "When things get tough, remember: they fear what they don't understand. Let's make sure they never figure you out."
Amaya clutched the tags. "I won't let them win."
"I know you won't," Elijah said with a fierce pride in his eyes.
Across town, in the basement of the Carson family's sprawling colonial home, Brett was holding court with his friends. Empty beer cans littered the coffee table, and music played softly in the background.
"She's making us look bad," Brett was saying, his words slightly slurred. "Coach is acting like she's the second coming of cheerleading Jesus or something."
"She is pretty good," Kyle admitted, earning a glare from Brett.
"That's not the point," Brett snapped. "She needs to learn her place."
Troy, the most volatile of the group, leaned forward. "So, what are we going to do about it?"
Brett's mouth curved into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I've got some ideas. Let's remind her whose turf this is."
The others exchanged glances: Mason looking uncomfortable, Kyle uncertain, Troy eager. But none of them challenged Brett. They never did.