Football Field

  Mission: N/A

  12:30**

  The locker room doors groaned open as we stepped out into the afternoon sun, jerseys on and cleats biting into the pavement. The air outside hit different—fresh, crisp, yet humming with tension. Tryouts day. Everything we had been training for all week had come down to the next couple of hours.

  I was just stepping off the pavement and onto the grass when something cold and metallic clapped against my back. Not painfully—just firmly enough to make me jolt.

  I turned, heart skipping.

  Avion.

  Somehow his hair was still perfectly arranged, like he’d gelled it with military precision. Not one strand dared to defy him. Meanwhile, mine looked like a storm cloud that had lost a fight with a leaf blower.

  “How’ve you been?” he asked with that warm, steady smile of his—a smile that made people trust him even when they probably shouldn’t. “You excited?”

  I opened my mouth to answer, but—

  “Alright, everybody in line!”

  There it was. The battle cry of the defensive coordinator, delivered with the same exact rhythm and tone as always. Red polo shirt tucked too perfectly into khakis, Skechers tennis shoes with the faint squeak, a cap that looked older than everyone on the field combined. He was a walking, talking NPC… but the kind you don’t want to fight because he probably has secret boss stats.

  And just like clockwork, Coach Wallaby emerged from his office. He wiped his forehead dramatically, pulled off his sunglasses like he was in an action movie, and squinted at us.

  “Good mornin’, afternoon’, and evenin’, ladies,” he said. “I’m certain we’re gonna have a good practice today, alright? Now—everyone, huddle up. Huddle up.”

  The line dissolved instantly into a circle, cramming together with the awkward closeness of people stuck in an elevator. Coach Wallaby looked around at us, a fraction softer than usual—like he was trying not to yell at us for once.

  “Today I want us to focus on two things,” he announced. “Teamwork and sportsmanship. I want each of you to lift each other up. Sports ain’t about showing how good you are—how skilled, how many plays, whatever. No. It’s about looking out for each other. Lead the team. Got it? Now choose your two captains.”

  Immediately chaos erupted—voices shouting suggestions, explanations, arguments. I scanned the circle for Avion instinctively. Turns out everyone else had the same brainwave, because the final captains were him… and Andre.

  Because of course.

  Coach Wallaby smiled at the choice. I have no idea why. Maybe he liked the drama.

  “Alright,” he said. “Captains, pick your teams.”

  Avion picked first—Malachi.

  Sixty percent of my anxiety evaporated.

  But the other 40%? Still very alive. I could practically sense Danne somewhere behind me, radiating chaotic energy like a malfunctioning microwave.

  Names were called one by one. I tried not to look eager or terrified, but then—

  “Connor.”

  I looked at Avion, who didn’t look thrilled. Then at Andre, who gave me a nod that said, You better not suck.

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  I swallowed. Hard.

  “Let’s see how you play,” Andre said with a smirk, patting the back of my jersey like he was baptizing me into the torture.

  And then, just to ruin my mood further, Avion called, “Danne!”

  My eyes widened. Danne didn’t even glance at me. He just strutted over to Avion’s team with the self-importance of a man who thinks the world is his locker room.

  Ten minutes later teams were finalized:

  Andre, me, Mike (thankfully not Mikey), Jackson, Tisiah, and a few others.

  Tisiah was chosen last. He looked like someone had just told him his Perk was being repossessed.

  “Alright, captains to the middle,” Coach Wallaby said.

  Avion and Andre approached as the defensive coach flipped a coin. I didn’t see the result, but Andre’s expressionless return told me we’d lost the toss.

  “Alright,” Andre said, clapping his hands aggressively. “Tisiah—you’re my offensive lineman. Protect the runner.”

  “Sure thing, boss,” Tisiah muttered.

  “Mike, Jackson—wide receivers. Make me proud. And you—Connor,” he said, pointing at my chest, “running back.”

  Running back.

  Again.

  I nodded stiffly and took my place.

  Avion kicked off. The ball arced through the sky, wobbling as the entire opposing team barreled toward us like a herd of magical rhinos.

  When the ball skipped across the turf—tut, tut, tut—it bounced squarely onto Jackson’s toe before sliding into his hands.

  Possession.

  Our team collided with theirs instantly. Bodies slammed, grunted, and slid across the grass.

  Jackson sprinted forward, dodging two defenders, then conjured a slick arc of ice that curved over them. He slid across it—only to be flattened midair by a linebacker built like a bulldozer with legs.

  The entire field winced.

  “How does he move that fast…” Jackson groaned as he hit the ground.

  We were at the thirty-yard line.

  “Double down! Double down!” Andre barked, waving us in.

  We regrouped, and he hiked the ball. I trotted forward behind the wide receivers, who rushed outward, drawing defenders with them.

  I was wide open.

  Andre ignored me entirely and threw toward Mike.

  The ball slapped Mike’s hand and plummeted to the ground.

  “You need to be smarter than that, Andre!” Coach Wallaby shouted.

  Andre didn’t look thrilled, but he brought us in again.

  “Fake run, Mike. Then I throw to Jackson,” he said. “We do it right, the field opens up.”

  Jackson looked dizzy. Understandably—he’d been tackled by something with the gravitational force of a small moon.

  “Get into position.”

  We lined up again. Andre hiked.

  He faked to Mike. Doubled back. Looked for Jackson.

  Three defenders instantly converged.

  Time was evaporating.

  Andre threw—poorly.

  Jackson reached out, fingertips brushing the ball—

  It bounced off him—

  Straight into my chest.

  Because of course it did.

  “GO! GO GO!” Jackson yelled.

  My brain entered panic mode. I was not mentally prepared to run the ball right now. Every scenario that ended with me being impaled by some kid’s earth spike flashed in my head.

  A wall burst from the ground. I spun behind it, barely dodging a lineman diving for my legs.

  We made it past first down.

  I was—dare I say—killing it.

  Then Danne slammed into me like a meteor.

  The ball flew upward, glittering against the sun.

  I hit the ground hard.

  Danne peered down at me with that annoyingly innocent, smug smile of his. “Since when did you become an athlete?”

  “Get off me,” I muttered.

  Then—out of nowhere—an ice bridge shot up like a rollercoaster track, and Jackson slid down it perfectly, snatching the ball midair.

  “Yes! THAT’S IT! COME ON!”

  Our entire team erupted. They swarmed Jackson, practically tackling him in celebration. I stood slowly, bruised ego and ribs throbbing.

  Danne just stared, face twisted in disbelief. He looked back at me, lips silently forming curses, before stalking away.

  1:45

  We won.

  Barely.

  Mostly thanks to Malachi going full gorilla mode and bodying everyone in a ten-foot radius, including his own teammates. But a win is a win.

  And me?

  I actually contributed.

  For the first time, I felt like maybe—just maybe—Mage Football was something I wasn’t awful at.

  I finished changing in the locker room. The familiar stench of Axe, sweat, and crushed dreams filled the air as always.

  Then—

  Tap.

  On my left shoulder.

  I assumed it was Tisiah. Or maybe Malachi.

  I turned—

  And nearly passed out.

  Mikey.

  His face had that innocent-but-not-really innocence he specializes in. The kind that looks sweet but feels like a warning.

  “Did I scare you?” he asked gently.

  I cracked my neck like I meant to do that and shook my head. He didn’t buy it. At all.

  “Mmm… anyway,” he continued softly, “there was something I wanted to tell you. Something that might help your case.”

  Before I could even respond, I heard footsteps.

  Malachi and Tisiah rounded the corner.

  And suddenly… whatever Mikey had to say felt a lot more serious.