Saturday, May 11

  Football Field

  Mission: N/A

  12:53

  We were tied. 14–14.

  Fourth quarter. No timeouts. No breathing room. No sanity left.

  Avion called us in for a huddle, and the smell of sweat and adrenaline mixed together into a scent that could’ve been classified internationally as a biological weapon. My nose just accepted death at this point.

  Avion clapped his hands together with the confidence of someone who’d already planned three backup plays and two motivational speeches. “Alright, guys. I need some constructive offense, got it? Mikey, you’re the wide receiver. Mike, you’re the second receiver. And Connor—”

  My eyes widened.

  “—I want you as my running back, alright?” he said, slapping my shoulder hard enough that I briefly left my body. Then he leaned in and murmured, “Counting on you.”

  I nodded, though my face probably looked like I’d just eaten a lemon and was trying to pretend it was fine. Avion still grinned like this was the best character development episode I’d ever get.

  Then, in dramatic fashion — because of course — Jackson chimed in, “Love the bromance, but why him? What’s bro done?”

  Avion didn’t even look offended. “He’s agile and quick. We don’t need a bunch of buff dudes barreling down the field right now, especially when half the team is more interested in ice skating than running. I need you guys on the defensive — protecting him. Got it?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Jackson grumbled. Mike and Mikey rubbed their hands together like they were scheming in a cartoon.

  “Alright, let’s say YMPA on three,” Avion said, eliciting half-hearted mumbling. “One, two, three—”

  “YM-PM-A-MP—”

  The entire team let out a groan that shook the grass. No one corrected it. We simply accepted the chaos and jogged back into formation.

  We were receiving the kickoff this time.

  The other team’s kicker sent the ball flying, wobbling through the sky like a drunken UFO before crashing down near Mike.

  He barely got two steps before a gust of wind flung him sideways and a boulder shattered next to him, the debris pelting him like angry gravel.

  Mike screamed and curled up, gripping his leg like he’d been drop-kicked into next week.

  “Oh, Lord have mercy…” Jackson muttered.

  “You good?!” Avion called out. Mike weakly raised his hand before trying to stand. The second his weight hit his foot, he winced like someone had stabbed his tendon with a fork.

  Avion didn’t waste a second. “Jackson, take his place. Put him on the bench. I need someone else here!”

  A bench player with bright strawberry-red hair sprinted in to replace him.

  “Alright, let’s move,” Avion barked. Once we set up, he made a series of hand signs that looked like he was playing charades with himself, then mouthed: Double Fly.

  That meant both receivers just bolt forward in a straight line. Simple. Stupid. Potentially genius.

  “Ready, set—HIKE!”

  Jackson and Mikey launched into the air like synchronized circus performers. Avion threw the ball to Jackson, who caught it while practically climbing over a defender’s spine.

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  But then the monsters arrived.

  An avalanche of ice crashed toward him, followed by rolling boulders like someone had set the field to “natural disaster” mode.

  Jackson dodged each attack with actual style, weaving around it all, hair swaying like he was in a shampoo commercial. But then—

  WHIP!

  A water whip cracked against his back, and a second later a massive ball of water slammed into him like Poseidon himself threw hands.

  Jackson flew backward and hit the ground with a splash that suggested he might actually dissolve into the turf. We were now on second down.

  Avion didn’t blink. “Set!” He snapped the ball back, then launched it again — this time at Mike, who had somehow regained full spirit despite earlier nearly crying.

  Mike sprinted, created spring platforms like a magical Mario, and bounced off them with gymnastic flair. He caught the ball, then generated an earth slide that carried him elegantly toward the ground.

  It was enough for a first down before Andre arrived and basically ended his bloodline.

  “FIRST AND TEN!” Avion yelled.

  We reset. Avion trusted Jackson and Mikey again, throwing to them like they were his comfort picks. But the other team adapted quickly. Their defense became a three-headed hydra with powers.

  And just like that, we were on fourth down with 20 seconds left and we still hadn’t crossed half the field.

  Not ideal.

  “Connor.” Avion’s voice was strained. I stepped closer and saw actual pools of sweat dripping down his face like he was melting.

  He wiped his forehead with a cloth, then whispered, “I want you to run this ball. You’re going behind me, then cutting forward.”

  “But what if I don’t make it?”

  His expression tightened. “Then make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  Not comforting.

  Avion stepped back and shouted, “Stations!”

  Everyone got into formation.

  Andre moved closer — too close — staring directly at me with those predatory eyes that said, I know where you live and I'm not afraid to show up.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t get the ball once,” he said casually. “That’s boring of you.”

  I didn’t look at him.

  “I thought you were the best,” he continued. “Show me I’m not wrong.” He snapped his fingers. “Ay. Look at me.”

  I did — because fear is a powerful motivator.

  He smiled, which somehow made it worse. “Don’t bail this time.”

  Honestly? Concerning.

  “Hike!”

  The play exploded. I darted behind Avion, caught the ball cleanly, and blasted forward faster than I thought my legs could handle. I crossed first down with room to spare.

  “AY, AY, SOMEBODY GET ON HIM!” the blond guy from earlier screamed.

  Andre was already chasing me with Malachi right behind him. I fired lasers from my eyes, carving a quick circle into the ground. Then I summoned a massive slab of earth and hurled it backward like a meteor.

  People screamed as the mini-mountain soared past them. They scrambled, leaping out of the way while a burst of fire rocketed toward me from Andre’s hands.

  Avion countered with a wave of smoky air, sending plumes high into the sky before it slammed into a glowing blue shield.

  Okay, that was cool.

  “You two! Double team!” Blond Guy yelled. Two players sprinted toward me wielding water and fire whips.

  Tisiah came out of nowhere like a rocket with legs. Fire burst from his fists as he intercepted both whips, knocking them off course.

  I used the momentum of my sprint and the push of wind beneath my feet to launch forward, sending the two attackers flying backward into a different ZIP code.

  But then I heard it.

  Footsteps. Heavy. Fast. Angry.

  I turned.

  Andre was chasing me like a mythological beast. Behind him, the entire field looked like an actual war zone — water cyclones, lightning flashes, fire arcs, broken earth, random floating debris, you name it.

  But the only thing that mattered was him.

  He leaped into the air and summoned streaks of lightning, raining them down on me like a vengeful storm deity.

  I looked to the side and saw Tisiah — eyes wide, urgency in every feature.

  “Give it to me.”

  His face screamed it.

  I nodded.

  I jumped, twisting midair, and launched the ball toward Tisiah — 25 yards to the goal, 0 seconds on the clock.

  As I twisted again, my Perk activated on reflex. Both our fists collided with a BOOM that cracked the air like a sonic wave.

  We were swept apart — players, debris, everything — knocked backward by the explosion.

  I bounced across the ground like a ragdoll thrown by a toddler. My ribs screamed. My spine questioned its contract. My lungs begged for a refund.

  It was like falling off the top of a semi-truck at twenty feet — which, unfortunately, I’ve done before.

  But beneath the ringing in my ears, I heard cheers — mixed with groans of pain — from both teams. Everyone’s body probably felt like they’d been tenderized with a steel hammer.

  Suddenly Jackson appeared above me. Well — “appeared” is generous. He walked over like he was casually fetching a snack.

  He extended a hand, helping me up. “Thought you had it for a moment. But apparently fatso over here—” he pointed toward Tisiah, who was lying on the ground like a victorious corpse, “—actually had the ball.”

  “He made it?” I asked.

  My eyes widened. Jackson recoiled like he’d smelled something foul.

  “Y-y-yeah. We won,” he said. “But uh… we probably made the biggest mess any tryout team has ever made.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  I turned.

  The field… wasn’t a field anymore.

  It was a war-torn wasteland. Craters. Burn marks. Flooding. Dirt hills. Patches of melted turf. Something still on fire.

  “How is anyone supposed to fix this?” I asked, horrified.

  Jackson tapped my shoulder. “I don’t have a single clue, bro.”