Coach stands up.
“Alright, team! Remember who you are: eleven heads, one heart. Let’s take our season back.”
The bus erupts—clapping, shouting, hyping.
Adrenaline sparks in my chest like gasoline.
I feel it again—cleats ready, muscles coiled, mind sharpening.
This is my territory.
Where I know exactly who I am.
Where I don’t have to talk.
And yet, as I step off the bus, my phone vibrates.
Angel:Good luck, Becker. Don't be an asshole.
I grin.
“Impossible, Angel.”
24
Visions, Hallucinations, or… Reality?
Cohen
Gracie:Go get ’em, big brother. I’m watching you on TV.
Me:Hey G. You good?
Gracie:Stop worrying about me. Love you!
The new kits hang in a row like soldiers: red jerseys with white stripes, white shorts, numbers bold on the back.
Mine, is there—the number nine.
Derek “The Wall” Haskins is sitting on the bench, fingers laced, head bowed.
When he finally lifts his gaze, you justknowhe’s ready to run through fire.
Turbo, on the other hand, can’t keep still.
He’s pacing, throwing punches in the air, shaking his head like he’s about to walk onstage at a concert.
“Guys, we’re crushing them today!” he yells.
“Westbridge doesn’t know what’s coming!”
“You don’t know what’s coming,” Doc mutters as he tapes Blaze’s ankles.
Blaze chews his gum calmly, like he’s made an unholy deal with someone who now oweshima favor.
Saint is quiet. He’s sketching something on the tactics pad like he’s solving a physics problem.
Laughter cuts the tension.
