Javier found the letter tucked inside his locker, folded into a tight square, no name, no return address. Just four words written in shaky handwriting: “You don't belong here.”
His hands trembled as he read it. Then he read it again. The paper was cheap, torn from a notebook. The ink was blue, smeared in places. Someone had taken the time to write this. Someone had watched him. Someone wanted him gone.
He folded the letter and shoved it into his pocket. He didn't tell anyone. Not Mateo. Not Leo. He just went to practice and played like nothing had happened.
But something had happened. And Javier couldn't shake the feeling that whoever wrote the letter was watching him right now.
---
Practice was hard that day.
Javier's passes were off. His serves were tentative. His hits lacked their
