No Longer His Practice Girlfriend

Slam—

The metal locker door crashed shut.

I was hiding in the back stall, Carter's practice jersey clutched in my hands. It still smelled like sweat and cut grass.

I'd only meant to surprise him—slip his clean jersey into his locker before practice. But footsteps flooded the locker room, and suddenly I couldn't move.

Carter's voice. His teammates. And Chloe, the cheer captain.

"Carter, you're not seriously bringing that stuttering freak to State with you, are you?" Chloe's voice was all sugar and poison. "God, yesterday she could barely get three words out. It was like watching someone have a stroke."

Laughter exploded around her.

I stopped breathing.

That was my boyfriend. The guy who'd pulled me out of a bathroom stall freshman year when Jenny Marks had me cornered. Who told everyone to leave me the fuck alone.

I waited for him to shut them down like he always did.

Instead, I heard a lighter click. Then his laugh—low and easy.

"Why not bring her? You don't get it." Carter's voice had that lazy confidence that used to make me feel safe. "Girls like her—broken, no family—easiest fucking targets in the world."

Something inside my chest cracked.

"Just give her a little attention and she'll do whatever the hell you want." He exhaled smoke. I could picture him leaning against the lockers, that cocky grin on his face.

"Remember last month when you assholes bet me I couldn't get her completely whipped? She literally withdrew her early decision to Cornell. Fucking Cornell. Just to follow me to State."

"Bro, you just like playing hero," someone said.

Carter laughed harder. "Hero? Nah. I'm just killing time till she turns eighteen. Perfect practice girlfriend, you know? And she'd literally die without me anyway."

"Practice girlfriend."

The words punched straight through my ribs.

My stomach turned over. The floor tilted.

I slid down the cold metal door, legs giving out completely. Tears came so fast I couldn't stop them.

I clamped both hands over my mouth, terrified of making a sound.

Hot tears streamed through my fingers. My whole body shook with silent sobs—the kind that tear you apart from the inside.

The stutter he'd supposedly "fixed" came roaring back. My jaw trembled. My chest heaved.

Every good memory shattered at once. Him holding my hand in the hallway. Him standing up to my bullies. Him saying I'll always protect you.

All of it—lies.

He wasn't protecting me. He was training me.

I was his entertainment. His bet. His practice round before the real thing.

And I'd believed every fucking word for an entire year.

The voices faded. Footsteps moved away. The locker room went silent.

I don't know how long I stayed on that floor.

The bell rang. Somehow I stood up.

The bathroom mirror showed a disaster—red, swollen eyes, mascara everywhere, face blotchy from crying. But my eyes looked dead.

I stared at the jersey in my hands. Number 7. I'd ironed it this morning, obsessing over every wrinkle.

I dropped it in the trash.

Math class was already in session when I slipped into my back-row seat. My phone buzzed immediately.

Carter: [Babe, wear that tight black dress tonight for the party. The one I got you. Love you.]

I stared at the screen.

Last month, a text like this would've made my whole day. I would've spent an hour in front of my mirror, trying to feel okay in that dress that was two sizes too small, that showed too much skin, that made me uncomfortable. But he'd said you look so hot in this, so I wore it.

Now, looking at those two words—love you—I felt nothing but cold clarity.

I didn't reply.

I opened Common App instead.

Each screen that loaded felt like ripping off a bandaid.

There it was: State University. The school Carter picked because his GPA was trash and football was his only shot.

We'll get an apartment, he'd said, eyes so sincere I'd believed him. Just you and me. I'll take care of you.

So I'd made myself smaller. Quieter. I'd withdrawn from the schools my 4.2 GPA could've reached. Because he'd asked me to.

My cursor moved to the delete button.

I didn't hesitate.

Delete.

State University vanished from my application list.

I typed in "Columbia University." Then "Yale University."

My essays were already written—the ones about overcoming trauma, about finding my voice. About being more than my past.

They were supposed to be lies I told to get into Carter's safety school.

Turned out they were true after all.

I hit Submit on both applications.

Green text appeared: Application Submitted Successfully.

I stared at those words for three seconds.

Then I shut off my phone completely and shoved it to the bottom of my backpack.

Done.

No confrontation. No dramatic scene. No explanation.

The girl who would've done anything for Carter Reed—who would've followed him anywhere, believed anything—she was gone.

She'd died on that locker room floor.

And I wasn't bringing her back.