XIV.
1744 Words
-Alec-
The wind cut across the field, but I didn’t feel it. Not when the ball was in my hands. Not when the game was moving like lightning and I was right in the middle of the storm.
My breath synced with the rhythm of my steps—inhale, drive, pivot, throw. The turf blurred beneath my cleats, the sky wide open above. This was my world. My battlefield.
“Shift left, offense! Watch the blitz!” Coach’s voice rang through the air, but I was already moving.
I didn’t need a shout to tell me where to go. The game told me. The gaps, the angles, the pressure of defenders closing in—football wasn’t just physical, it was instinct. It was reading players before they even made a move.
Felix was sprinting down the sideline. Mason had already dropped into coverage, eyes scanning the field. I held my breath for a split second, then launched the football spiraling between two defenders. It arced perfectly to Felix’s hands—just before the goal line.
He didn’t even hesitate. Just caught it and kept racing.
That’s why we clicked. We didn’t talk. We understood.
Mason fell back into his linebacker stance, pads thudding against the turf with every step. He was a wall—solid, sharp, and always ready to plug the gap. He could read a play and shut it down before the offense even knew what hit them.
“Nice pocket presence, Mac!” someone called. Probably Connor.
I stayed in motion, scanning the edges of the field, tracking players as they shifted and repositioned. Eyes everywhere. Mind in five places at once.
Play smarter, not just harder. But also harder, because I couldn’t afford not to.
The opposing defense shifted. I saw their setup forming before it even started—number 8 creeping wide, drawing Felix’s attention, while their safety dropped back in a fake coverage. If I bit the bait, they’d tear through our line.
Nope.
I scrambled just before their pass rush came through, sidestepping a linebacker and scanning for the open man. The ball hit my hand, and I spun into a quick throw, using the momentum to launch it past the secondary.
“Let’s go!” Coach barked.
I didn’t slow down.
The ball and I—one. My arm controlled the pace, the rhythm, the tempo. I was aware of everything—the rasp of my breath, the heat in my legs, the pulse of the play shifting around me like waves. And I rode it.
There was beauty in the chaos. Structure in the speed. You just had to feel it.
“Roll right!” Mason called.
I did, and he was there—catching the quick screen, then cutting back behind the defenders like a blur. We sliced through their defense like a hot knife through butter.
Felix finished it—breaking the tackle, diving into the end zone just inside the pylon.
The whistle blew. Cheers. Coach clapped. “Reset! Again!”
No one complained.
We lived for this.
We didn’t need an audience, didn’t need validation. This was what we were made for. Each bead of sweat was a promise—to ourselves, to each other—that we would earn our wins.
Not because we were the best.
Because we worked harder than anyone else.
“Keep that energy,” I told Mason, bumping helmets with him as we reset.
“You’re the one firing it up,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow. “You good?”
“Never better.”
Because on this field, I wasn’t just Alec McIntyre, the quarterback expected to be good. I was good. I knew what I was doing. I was in control.
And control was everything.
We reset at the 50-yard line. My jersey clung to my back, soaked through, and my thighs burned with every movement, but I didn’t care. This was where I thrived—chasing perfection in the chaos.
Mason jogged to my side, panting. “Wanna run it again?”
“Yeah. Let’s close this set strong.”
Felix bounced the ball between his hands a few paces ahead. “Last one before Coach gives us his ten-minute lecture about grit and hunger.”
I cracked a half-grin. “As long as it’s not the ‘your generation is soft’ speech again.”
Laughter from the team. Everyone was fired up.
Coach raised his clipboard and blew his whistle. We broke into formation again. I scanned the field out of habit—sizing up space, reading body language, calculating flow.
Then my eyes shifted to the sidelines.
Just a glance.
But it held me.
Raya.
She wasn’t sitting on the bench like the rest of the girls. No crossed arms or bored yawns, no idle chatter about cleats or touchdown dances or whatever they usually talked about when practice didn’t concern them.
She was moving. Sprinting through cones like her life depended on it.
And she wasn’t alone.
Mela and Trish flanked her, guiding her footwork, calling out pointers, adjusting cones, clapping her on when she messed up. The three of them were a blur of motion, dedication, and sweat under the late-morning sun.
“Quick feet, keep your pads low!” Mela yelled.
“Hands loose, keep your balance!” Trish added.
And there was Raya, focused like she was trying to memorize every step the earth made while spinning on its axis. Her face flushed, her braid swinging behind her, and her eyes—sharp. Determined.
A low whistle escaped me.
“Yo, Alec?” Mason nudged my arm. “You good?”
I blinked and turned forward. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”
But my mind wasn’t.
What the hell was she doing?
I expected her to give up. Be done after yesterday’s disaster. To maybe come back once, realize it’s too much, and bail.
But there she was—after a full team practice, on a Saturday—training harder than half the people actually on the roster.
And she wasn’t just jogging around looking busy. She was listening, trying, falling, recovering, and asking for more.
I missed the snap the next play.
Felix gave me a look. “Seriously?”
“Nothing.” I waved it off. “Just slipped.”
Mason arched an eyebrow. “You? Slipping? Is the world ending?”
“Shut up.”
I ran my hand over my face, trying to shake it off. But my eyes flicked back again.
This time, Raya was doing short bursts—sprint, stop, pivot. Mela called directions, and she followed without hesitation. Even when she messed up, she laughed it off and reset. No whining. No complaints.
I’d seen players who had talent but no drive. And I’d seen players with drive but no talent.
Raya? She had heart. Too much of it, maybe.
Which made her dangerous—in the kind of way that either built greatness or burned you out fast.
My head wasn't in the game anymore.
Coach blew the whistle, and I nearly forgot we had another drill lined up.
She caught my eyes for a second.
Just a second.
She didn’t smile. Didn’t wave. Just looked.
Focused. Calm. Ready.
I looked away first.
That stirred something weird in my chest—like I’d been caught off guard and didn’t like it one bit.
Felix passed by me with a knowing smirk. “She’s not quitting, y’know.”
“I never said she was,” I muttered.
But yeah. I did. Over and over again.
And now I wasn’t so sure.
The sun dipped lower in the sky, stretching long shadows across the field. I shook my head, forcing myself to focus. Whatever. Let her do whatever she wants.
I planted my cleats back into the turf and chased the ball like it owed me something. The rest of the scrimmage flew by in a blur of sweat, shouting, and grit. We ran hard, played harder. Mason tipped a pass just right to intercept a play. Felix broke up two near-scoring attempts. I was in the zone again—kind of.
By the time Coach called the end of practice, our lungs were on fire and our jerseys clung like second skin. The field glowed gold under the setting sun, as if the day didn’t want to end either.
Felix flopped onto the bench, chest heaving. I sat beside him, gulping down water, trying not to let my eyes drift.
Did it matter what she was doing?
“Irene!” Mason called out, spotting her as she made her way across the bleachers with a towel and a bottled drink in hand.
Felix perked up, and sure enough, Irene headed straight toward him.
“Look at this lucky dude,” I muttered under my breath as she reached up and gently dabbed the sweat off Felix’s face like it was the most romantic thing in the world.
Felix looked smug. “Hey, hydration and love, man. That’s what keeps me going.”
“Shut up, simp,” Mason laughed.
“Jealousy is loud today,” Felix teased.
I smirked but didn’t reply, letting their teasing wash over me. I leaned back, tilting my head toward the darkening sky.
Then I saw her.
Raya.
She was sitting on the grass off to the side, legs stretched out, arms loosely wrapped around her knees. No big smiles, no dramatic reactions. Just stillness.
A quiet kind of stillness that somehow echoed louder than all our shouting earlier.
Her shirt was damp, her ponytail messy, face flushed from the work. But she looked... content. Not in a proud, bragging way. Just—satisfied.
And something about that tugged at me again.
Why was she like this?
Why wasn’t she giving up?
She didn’t belong here. Not really. No experience. No background. No support. Just guts and... whatever that fire inside her was.
I’d seen players lose interest in less than a week. Heck, I’d seen people quit the team over one bad practice. But she’d faced mocking, failure, even me telling her straight out she wasn’t going anywhere—and yet here she was. Sitting like someone who found peace in chaos.
It messed with me.
I looked away and reached for my water bottle, twisting the cap harder than necessary.
She wasn’t supposed to last this long.
And the more she stayed, the more I didn’t know what to think.
- Writer
