I shoot him a look and see how rattled he is—bent over, hands braced on his knees, the blond bun on top of his head coming undone, cheeks flushed, breath heaving in sharp white puffs in the crisp fall air.
He catches me staring and flinches.
“What?” he snaps, but there’s no real bite—just frustration, laced with something almost vulnerable.
I don’t know why, but a prickling rush of power buzzes through my fingers. And instead of telling him to learn how to play or landing a harder jab, I just snort and say, “Breathe, Moon. You look like you’re about to pass out.”
For a second, I brace myself for the usual—some curse, a slur, anything to knock me off balance. But it doesn’t come. He just swallows, throat bobbing, and drags in a shaky breath.
That’s when the stadium erupts—Jackson scores—and I take off with the rest of my team, Moon’s gaze burning into my back the whole way.
For the rest of the first half, the Dragons keep pressing, desperate to score—but they wear themselves out fast, never managing to break through our defense. We’re tired too, but we’re holding back, saving our energy. We know we’ll have to work harder in the second half.
And then it happens.
We push too high—everyone but me and Derek surging forward—and the Dragons catch us off guard.
At first, it looks like a solid play: Billy to João, to Mike, while Eric and Jackson charge into the box, ready to receive. But the Dragons’ defense closes in—Gutierrez, Cruz, and Kim swarm Billy before he can think.
He gets nervous, tries to thread it through to Jackson—
Cruz cuts it off clean. He sends a long pass to Styles, who taps it to Smith—who fires it forward—
And suddenly Moon’s flying down the field, crossing the center line with the ball at his feet.
The stadium roars. And I know, if Derek and I don’t stop him now, he’ll be one-on-one with Manuel, our goalie.
Moon’s fast—shoulders forward, hair flying, his stride long and hungry. The field is wide open in front of him.
I take off, lungs already burning, cleats biting into the turf.
Derek’s trying to cut in from the other side, but I’m ahead—just not close enough. I’m fast, but not Moon-fast. No wonder he’s called the quickest forward in the league.
I know I’m not going to make it in time. In a few more meters, he’s going to shoot—and we’ll be screwed. So I do the only thing that comes to mind.
“Sawyer!” I yell.
Just his name. I don’t even know why—pretty sure I’ve never called him anything but Moon.
But to my surprise, it works.
He flicks his eyes my way—for a fraction of a second—and then it happens. He stumbles—foot catching awkwardly on the ball—and loses his balance, crashing to his knees like a junior on his first day at the academy, just as the ball skips away behind him.
The whole stadium lets out a collective “Oooooh,” half shock, half disappointment.
Derek’s there in a flash, stealing the ball and clearing it upfield. As soon as it goes out, the ref blows the whistle and waves the medics in from the sideline.
I turn to look at Moon. He’s still down—kneeling in the grass, hands buried in the turf, not moving. His knees are scraped raw, streaked with blood like he dragged them on the way down.
I walk over, heart still hammering, the stadium buzzing behind me—some mix of confusion and disbelief that the Dragons’ crown jewel choked on such a wide-open shot.
I stop in front of him and crouch, leaving a couple feet between us in case he decides to swing.
“You okay?” I ask, holding out a hand.
The crowd goes quiet, like they’re all frozen mid-breath, waiting to see what he’ll do.
Moon looks up at me, flushed, his silky blond hair loose and falling over his face and shoulders. His eyes meet mine—bright with frustration and a glint of tears he doesn’t bother hiding—before he looks away and gets to his feet.
