Page 23 of Game On
It’s a way to protect myself from being knocked off balance like I was with Jamie. He’d obviously been on a completely different page from me for a while, and that isn’t something I’m willing to experience again. The heartbreak, the confusion, the feeling of being discarded. It’s too distracting.
So, for the time being, I’m going to feign confidence. Tobe bold in places where I was scared to be in the past. Much like how I’ve approached cheerleading: steady, sure, daring. I want to apply that same fearlessness to life outside of the mat. It’s a tall order, considering the chaos of my personal life, but it’s necessary.
I refuse to let the confusion of one messy night dictate how I interact with someone, especially when our paths are bound to keep crossing.
It’s the second week of August, and we’re an hour south-east of Nashville at another university in our division. We pull into the car park, and the sun is high and scorching. It’s a red-hot American summer, but there’s also a thick layer of anticipation in the air.
Or maybe that’s just me—desperate to calm the swarm of butterflies in my stomach.
Gabi and I are sitting outside a week-long cheer camp. Most of Whitland’s team is here, too, which means I’m buzzing with nerves. I’ve had a nice time bonding with the small Skyline crew, but my Whitland practices have been lackluster. They stuck me with the spirit team—rather than the higher-level comp team—in order to prep for game days.
Once the regular season starts, I’ll be able to do both. But for now, I’m playing what feels like an endless game of catch-up. While I’ve done some sideline cheer at Oxford, I have to admit that my crowd skills could still use some work.
Gabi turns off the ignition, and we sit in silence for a moment, staring out at the crowd, a colorful blend of about fifteen uniforms from various colleges. “You have nothing toworry about, El,” she murmurs. I try my hardest to believe her, mostly because I don’t have room for doubt.
From tomorrow, the schedule dictates a marathon of morning warm-ups, designed to ensure we’re limber and ready for our version of a boot camp. Afternoons will be a deep dive into choreography and stunt classes. And then there are the evenings, reserved for competitions that are friendly in theory but fierce in practice.
It’s full-on, and I’m nervous. Eager for the challenge, grateful for the opportunity, but tense with the pressure to keep up and prove I belong.
Stepping out of the car, the heat envelops me. Gabi, bounding ahead like a golden retriever, turns back with a beaming smile. “I promise you’re going to love this,” she says for the umpteenth time, her enthusiasm undimmed by my skepticism.
I’m not so sure. Back home, cheer was serious business, sure, but it was also … cozier. Less about being flung twenty feet into the air and more about precision and, well, not dying. Here, though, it seems like stunts are choreographed by someone whose motto is “Go big or go home.”
And then there’s me, trying to recalibrate my compass. If cheerleading back home was riding a bike, then cheerleading here is like riding a bike if the bike was on fire and you were also on fire.
But it’s not just the cheer that’s different from my life at home—it’s everything. The food (why is it all so sickly sweet?), the slang (I’m still not entirely sure what “y’all” encompasses), and the sheer, overwhelming bigness ofeverything. It’s like I’ve stepped onto another planet, one where everything is dialed up to eleven.
But I suppose a different sort of pressure is a good thing. It might be exactly what I need to push me further out of my comfort zone. To prove to myself that I’m capable of more than I ever thought.
“El, come on! We’ll miss the pep talk if we don’t check in now,” Gabi calls as she leads us to our meeting spot. “Morgan will ream us out.”
Coach Morgan Wells. Now there’s a reason to brave the fires of American cheer. The woman is a legend, winning national titles for Whitland’s squad three times in the last five years. She’s the pinnacle of uni cheerleading—flawless in her routines, commanding in her presence, and inspiring in her leadership.
After briefly hyperventilating, I hurry after Gabi, and firm my resolve. Yes, this is new. Yes, it’s terrifying. But it’s also exhilarating.
I’m here, at an actual NCA camp, being coached by one of the best in the business. The National Cheerleaders Association (NCA) is the gold standard for collegiate cheer, hosting the most prestigious competitions and camps in the country. This is what I wanted—what I’ve worked for all these years.
And if I have to stumble a bit, learn how to ride this flaming bike, then so be it. Because back home, I might have been a Siren, but here? I have the chance to be part of something that sets my very soul alight.
With a determined set to my shoulders, I follow Gabiinto the throng of cheerleaders, ready to tackle whatever this camp throws my way. After all, if I can handle being catapulted into the air with nothing but faith and a pair of strong hands to catch me, I can handle this.
Thankfully, the first few hours are simple, with nothing more to do than check in and settle down. Whitland’s team gathers for a casual meet-and-greet in the main quad, a space surrounded by towering oaks that offer much-needed shade. Here, I meet the rest of my new squad, those faces I hadn’t yet put names to.
Coach Morgan takes her spot at the front, and there’s a notable shift in the air. She’s not overly tall, but she certainly has a presence that fills every last inch of space. Her hair’s a cool mix of dark brown with streaks of silver, tightly pulled back in a way that says she means business.
Her gaze sweeps across the crowd, pinning us in place. As she speaks, she doesn’t mince words or waste time on platitudes. Instead, she gets straight to the point, reminding us why we’re all here: to push ourselves, to learn, and most importantly, to support each other as a team.
“Excellence,” she says as she wraps up, “is not an act but a habit.” And then she’s off, leaving us to prepare for the grueling week ahead.
After a quick huddle with the Skyline crew, Gabi and I check into our dorm. It’s small and sweet, with ivy crawling up red-brick walls and pathways that wind lazily between buildings. The room itself is basic: two beds, two desks, and a window that looks out onto a courtyard where a couple of teams are already practicing.
“It’s no Whitland,” Gabi says as she throws her bag onto the bed closest to the door. “But it’s got character.”
I kick off my shoes before I lie down on my stomach, claiming the bed across from her. “Gabi, there’s no … hazing or anything at these camps, is there?”
She laughs. “‘Hazing’?”
“I don’t know,” I say with a shrug and a wary chuckle. “It’s my first time. I’m scared.”
