I tighten my laces, pull up my white socks, adjust my shin guards.
Rituals. Always the same. Always in the same order.
My brain finally falls into place.
The coach enters and the room snaps to attention.
Julian Heart is a controlled storm—steady stride, clear eyes, a voice that slices the air.
“Alright, listen up,” he says.
The noise dies instantly.
“Westbridge is fast, aggressive, but sloppy. They’re confident—too confident. And what do we do with people who overestimate themselves?”
Turbo raises his hand. “We make them cry.”
“Correct. But without talking, Klein.”
Laughter ripples—light, freeing.
Heart continues, “I don’t want lone heroes. I want the team. Look at each other, feel each other, trust each other. The armband’s on Delgado today, but the responsibility is everyone’s. Clear?”
“Yes, coach!”
I exchange a look with Javier.
The armband shines on his arm, and for the first time since he got it, I don’t feel even a trace of bitterness.
Just pride.
It’s his time.
And I’m… I’m part of the game again.
Heart claps once. “Becker, lead the warm-up.”
I nod. “Yes, coach.”
I stand, slap hands with the guys.
“Let’s go, Lakewood!”
The locker room erupts—shouts, pounding fists, energy bouncing off the walls.
The hum of the crowd bleeds through from outside, steady and alive, like a heartbeat.
Saint steps beside me.
“Ready?”
“Always.”
“Lie.”
“Always,” I repeat, quieter.
We walk into the tunnel.
