The file landed in Maya’s inbox like a punch to the stomach. Her team’s set-piece plans; every formation, every player movement, every backup variation laid out in sharp detail. It wasn’t just information. It was a weapon. And the message attached to it hit harder than anything she’d faced on the pitch:

Your secrets are my currency.

Maya stared at the screen, her heart thudding. This wasn’t gossip. This wasn’t about photos or whispers behind her back. This was a direct attack on ...