The plane touched down with a gentle bump, rousing Tristain from his restless sleep. Outside the window, Indiana greeted him with a blanket of snow and a slate-gray sky—far different from the Texas winter he'd left behind.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Indianapolis International Airport," the flight attendant announced. "Local time is 11:42 AM, and the temperature is a chilly twenty-eight degrees."
Tristain pulled his thin jacket tighter around his shoulders. He'd packed his heavier coat in his checked luggage, not thinking about the dramatic temperature difference. First mistake of many, he thought ruefully.
As he made his way through the terminal, a knot formed in his stomach. His parents had wanted to come with him, but he'd insisted on doing this alone. "I'm not a kid," he'd told them. "I need to learn to stand on my own." The words had sounded confident coming out of his mouth. Now, surrounded by strangers in an unfamiliar airport, that confidence was evaporating fast.
"Tristain!" A familiar voice called out. Coach Milton stood near the baggage claim, waving enthusiastically. He wore a navy Royals windbreaker similar to the one he'd had on when they first met, but this time paired with a thick scarf and gloves.
"Coach," Tristain greeted him, extending his hand.
Milton bypassed the handshake and pulled him into a quick, firm hug. "Welcome to Indiana, son. Better get used to the cold—it's part of the package deal." He glanced at Tristain's light jacket and chuckled. "We'll have to get you some proper winter gear."
After collecting his bags, Tristain followed Milton to the parking lot where an aging Ford F-150 awaited them. The truck's heater blasted warm air as they pulled onto the highway, heading north toward North Bridgeton.
"So," Milton said, keeping his eyes on the road, "how are you feeling? Nervous? Excited?"
Tristain watched the unfamiliar landscape roll by outside the window. "Both, I guess. It's a lot to take in."
Milton nodded. "That's normal. Big changes always come with big feelings." He glanced over. "The team's excited to meet you. Word's gotten around that we've got a new quarterback from Texas."
"What have you told them about me?" Tristain asked.
"Just that you've got potential that wasn't being tapped at your old school." Milton changed lanes, passing a slow-moving truck. "I didn't make any promises about your skills. I want them to see for themselves."
Relief washed over Tristain. The last thing he needed was to arrive with impossible expectations on his shoulders.
"The Sayanas are good people," Milton continued. "Tom Sayana was one of my best defensive coaches until he took that job at the factory. His son Kyle played defensive end for us, graduated last year. Full ride to Purdue."
"What about their daughter?" Tristain asked, remembering his mom mentioning a girl his age.
Milton raised an eyebrow. "Ah, Ayana. Junior, like you. Smart as a whip and twice as sharp. Fair warning—she's not big on the whole football scene. Had her fill watching her brother, I suspect."
Great, Tristain thought. Living with someone who already hates what I do.
As they drove, the urban sprawl of Indianapolis gave way to smaller towns, then farmland, then finally the small city of North Bridgeton. It was bigger than Tristain had expected—a proper small city rather than the rural town he'd imagined. They passed strip malls, a movie theater, and several chain restaurants before turning onto a tree-lined street of well-maintained homes.
"Here we are," Milton announced, pulling into the driveway of a two-story brick house. It was modest but neat, with dormant flower beds lining the front walkway and a basketball hoop over the garage.
Before they could exit the truck, the front door opened, and a middle-aged couple stepped onto the porch. Tom Sayana was built like the former football player he was—broad-shouldered and solid, with dark hair and a friendly face. His wife, Lisa, was petite with short blonde hair and a warm smile that immediately put Tristain at ease.
"There he is!" Tom called out, descending the porch steps. "The quarterback we've been hearing so much about."
Tristain climbed out of the truck, instantly shivering as the cold air hit him. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Sayana Thanks for opening your home to me."
"Call me Tom," he insisted, shaking Tristain's hand vigorously. "And this is my wife, Lisa."
Lisa embraced him in a motherly hug. "Welcome to our home, Tristain. We're so happy to have you."
As Milton and Tom unloaded his bags from the truck, Tristain noticed a figure watching from an upstairs window. For just a moment, he caught sight of a girl who was light skin and had curly dark hair, her expression unreadable before she disappeared from view.
"Come on inside," Lisa urged, ushering him toward the door. "You must be freezing in that jacket. Let's get you warmed up."
The Clark home was cozy and lived-in, with family photos covering the walls and shelves. Tristain spotted the son, Kyle, in many of them—a burly young man in a Royals football uniform, his smile wide and genuine.
"We've got your room all set up upstairs," Lisa explained as they entered. "Used to be Kyle's, but we've cleared out most of his things. He only comes home on breaks now."
Tom and Milton brought in the last of his bags. "I'll leave you to get settled," Milton said. "Practice starts Tuesday after school at 3:30. That gives you the weekend to adjust. Tom can show you where the school is tomorrow."
After arranging to pick Tristain up Monday afternoon, Milton departed, leaving him alone with his host family.
"You hungry?" Lisa asked. "I've got soup on the stove, and I can make you a sandwich."
"That would be great, thank you," Tristain replied, suddenly aware of how long it had been since his airport breakfast.
"I'll show you to your room first," Tom offered. "You can freshen up before lunch."
As they climbed the stairs, Tristain felt a strange mixture of gratitude and displacement. The Clarks seemed genuinely kind, but everything—from the unfamiliar house to the cold weather to the very air he breathed—reminded him he wasn't home.
The bedroom was spacious, with a queen-sized bed, desk, and dresser. The walls had been repainted a neutral blue, but faint outlines remained where posters had once hung.
"Bathroom's across the hall," Tom explained, setting down Tristain's suitcase. "You'll share with Amber, but she's pretty tidy. Towels are in the linen closet next to it."
"Thank you, sir. For everything," Tristain said earnestly.
Tom waved off his gratitude. "Happy to do it. Any friend of Brad's is welcome here. Besides, it's nice having another athlete in the house. Gets too quiet with just the three of us."
After Tom left, Tristain sat on the edge of the bed, letting reality sink in. He was here. In Indiana. Four states away from everything he knew. The thought sent a wave of panic through him, quickly followed by determination. This was his choice, his chance. He couldn't waste it on homesickness.
He unpacked his carry-on and headed to the bathroom to splash some water on his face. As he opened the door, he nearly collided with a girl coming out.
"Whoa!" she exclaimed, stepping back. "Personal space, much?"
Tristain stammered an apology. "Sorry, I didn't—I was just—"
"Ayana Sayana," she said, extending her hand with formal precision. She was pretty in an understated way, with dark curly hair pulled back in a messy bun, intelligent hazel eyes, and freckles scattered across her nose. She wore jeans and a Northwestern University sweatshirt, and regarded him with undisguised wariness.
"Tristain Dyce," he replied, shaking her hand.
"I know who you are," she said, her tone neutral. "The quarterback from Texas. My parents haven't talked about anything else all week."
Tristain wasn't sure how to respond to that. "Nice to meet you," he finally managed.
She studied him for a moment, then nodded once. "Lunch is almost ready. Mom makes good soup, at least." With that, she brushed past him and headed downstairs.
Great first impression, Tristain thought, staring after her. He didn't need her to like him, but sharing a house with someone who clearly resented his presence was going to make an already difficult transition even harder.
After splashing water on his face and trying to make himself presentable, Tristain headed downstairs. The kitchen smelled amazing—homemade chicken noodle soup bubbling on the stove and what looked like freshly baked bread cooling on the counter.
"Just in time," Lisa said cheerfully. "Have a seat. Tom's in his office finishing up some work, but he'll join us in a minute."
Tristain sat at the table across from Ayana, who was scrolling through her phone with studied indifference. He cleared his throat. "So, uh, you go to North Bridgeton too?"
She glanced up. "Yep."
"What year are you in?"
"Junior. Like you." Her attention returned to her phone.
Lisa set steaming bowls of soup in front of them. "Ayana's top of her class," she said proudly. "Heading for Northwestern if she keeps it up. Early acceptance program."
"Mom," Ayana sighed, clearly uncomfortable with the praise.
"That's impressive," Tristain said genuinely. "What do you want to study?"
Something in his tone must have surprised her because she actually looked up and met his gaze. "Biochemistry. I want to go into medical research."
"Amber volunteers at the hospital twice a week," Lisa added, bringing over a plate of sandwiches. "And she's president of the science club."
"Mom, seriously," Ayana protested. "He doesn't care about any of that."
"Actually, I think it's cool," Tristain said. "I've always been decent at science, but nothing close to your level, I'm sure."
Ayana's expression softened slightly. "What are you planning to study in college?"
"Sports medicine, maybe," Tristain replied. "Or physical therapy. Something where I can stay connected to athletics even if playing doesn't work out."
She raised an eyebrow, seemingly reassessing him. Before she could respond, Tom entered the kitchen.
"Sorry about that," he said, taking a seat at the head of the table. "Work never ends, even on a Saturday." He grabbed a sandwich. "So, Tristain, Brad tells me you've got a cannon for an arm."
"I'd say i'm more of an accuracy and ball placement kind of guy than a rocket launcher." Tristan sheepishly replied
And just like that, the conversation shifted to football. Tristain answered Tom's questions about his previous team, their championship season, and his experiences, all while aware of Ayana's attention drifting back to her phone, her brief interest in him evaporating.
After lunch, Tom insisted on giving Tristain a tour of the neighborhood. "The high school's just a mile away," he explained as they climbed into his car. "Nice walk in good weather, but you'll want a ride during winter."
The school was larger than Tristain had expected, a sprawling brick building with a modern addition on one side. The football field behind it was covered in snow, the goalposts rising like lonely sentinels against the grey sky.
"Training facilities aren't state-of-the-art," Tom admitted as they drove slowly past. "But they're decent. Weight room got upgraded last year, and the team lounge is comfortable enough."
They continued the tour, Tom pointing out the local hangouts—a coffee shop popular with students, the movie theater, a burger joint called Flip's where the team often gathered after games. Tristain tried to absorb it all, knowing these places would soon become part of his daily life.
When they returned to the house, Tristain excused himself to unpack and rest. The day's travel and new experiences had left him exhausted. In his room, he arranged his belongings, set up the few personal items he'd brought—a framed photo of him and Alex, another of his family, his lucky keychain that had belonged to his grandfather—and tried to make the space feel like his own.
As evening approached, his phone buzzed with texts from his parents and Emma, checking in. He assured them he was fine, sending a quick photo of his room and promising to call the next day. Alex had sent several messages too, demanding details about everything from the weather to the facilities to "any hot Indiana girls."
Tristain smiled, typing back: One girl. Host family's daughter. Pretty but hates football and probably me by extension. Otherwise, settling in. Cold as hell. Miss you guys already.
After dinner—a hearty lasagna that reminded him how much he missed his mom's cooking—Tristain excused himself early, jet lag and emotional exhaustion catching up to him. Back in his room, he lay in the unfamiliar bed, listening to the strange sounds of the house—the hum of the heating system, the occasional creak of settling wood, voices from the TV downstairs where Tom and Lisa were watching a movie.
Sleep eluded him. His mind raced with doubts and questions. Had he made a mistake? Was he really good enough to justify this massive change? What if Coach Milton had misjudged his abilities? What if the team rejected him as an outsider?
As the digital clock on the nightstand ticked past midnight, Tristain gave up on sleep and sat up. He needed air. Quietly, he made his way downstairs, careful not to wake anyone. The house was dark except for a small light left on in the kitchen. He found the back door and stepped out onto a covered patio.
The cold hit him immediately, but he welcomed it, letting it clear his head. The backyard was blanketed in snow, shimmering under the moonlight. A sense of peace slowly settled over him as he breathed in the crisp air.
"Football," he whispered to himself, a reminder of why he was here.
As if triggered by the word, a sharp pain suddenly lanced through his head. Tristain gasped, gripping the patio railing as the world around him seemed to shimmer and distort. A voice—or was it voices?—whispered in his mind, the words indistinct but somehow urgent.
Then, as quickly as it had come, the sensation passed, leaving him disoriented and breathing heavily. What the hell was that? A migraine? Stress?
Shaken, he returned inside and made his way back to his room. As he passed Ayana's door, he heard the soft sound of music playing and saw light seeping from beneath it. She was awake too, perhaps dealing with her own version of insomnia.
Back in bed, Tristain stared at the ceiling, the strange episode on the patio replaying in his mind. Finally, exhaustion won out, and he drifted into an uneasy sleep.
He dreamed of football fields that stretched endlessly, of passes that never reached their targets, of running but never gaining ground. And through it all, shadowy figures watched from the sidelines, their features blurred but somehow familiar.
When he woke the next morning, sunlight streaming through the window he'd forgotten to close the curtains on, Tristain felt different. Something had changed during the night, something he couldn't quite identify. He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes, and then noticed it—a faint blue glow emanating from his hand.
Startled, he held his hand up to the light. The glow was barely perceptible, like a vein running just beneath his skin, tracing from his wrist up through his fingers. As he watched, it pulsed once, twice, then faded completely.
"What the hell?" he whispered, examining his hand. It looked normal now, no different than it had yesterday. Had he imagined it?
He closed his eyes, trying to recapture the sensation from the patio the night before. In his mind, he saw a football field, but not his own—this was a Texas A&M stadium, packed with fans. He could hear their roars, feel the weight of expectations. And then, a name floated to the surface of his consciousness: Johnny Manziel.
Tristain's eyes snapped open. Johnny Manziel—the Heisman Trophy winner who'd flamed out in the NFL after being drafted in the first round by the Cleveland Browns. Known for his improvisational skills and ability to extend plays, but ultimately undone by off-field issues and poor work ethic.
Why was he thinking about Manziel? Tristain had always followed the NFL closely, but he'd never been particularly fascinated by busts like Manziel.
The image persisted, though, along with a strange compulsion. Before he could question it, Tristain found himself reaching for his phone and pulling up highlight videos of Manziel's college career. As he watched, something stirred within him—the way Manziel moved, the instinctive ability to sense pressure and escape the pocket, the creativity when plays broke down.
A knock at his door broke his concentration. "Tristain?" Lisa called. "Breakfast is ready if you're up."
"I'll be right there," he replied, setting his phone aside. He dressed quickly, trying to shake off the strange morning experience. But as he reached for the doorknob, another flash of pain shot through his head, and for a split second, he saw a vision—not of himself, but of Johnny Manziel, scrambling away from defenders, making an impossible throw on the run.
The vision cleared, and Tristain stood frozen, hand still on the doorknob. What was happening to him?
Breakfast was a quiet affair. Sunday mornings at the Syana household, he learned, were relaxed. Tom read the newspaper at the table, occasionally sharing interesting tidbits with Lisa, who was planning her week in a neatly organized planner. Ayana appeared briefly, grabbed toast and coffee, mumbled something about studying, and disappeared back upstairs.
"Don't mind her," Lisa said after she'd gone. "Sundays are her intense study days. We barely see her until dinner."
"It's fine," Tristain assured her, though he couldn't help feeling a pang of disappointment. Despite their awkward introduction, he'd hoped to get to know Ayana better—if only to have someone his age to talk to in this new place.
After breakfast, Tom invited him to watch the NFL playoff games, and Tristain gratefully accepted. Football was familiar territory, a comfortable topic that bridged the awkwardness of their new living arrangement.
As they settled in front of the TV, Tristain felt another strange sensation—not pain this time, but a sort of humming energy running through his throwing arm. He flexed his fingers, watching as that faint blue glow briefly reappeared along his veins before vanishing again.
"You okay?" Tom asked, noticing his distraction.
"Yeah, just a little stiff from the flight," Tristain lied.
Throughout the day, the strange sensations continued. Each time he thought about football, especially when watching the quarterbacks on TV, that humming energy returned. By evening, Tristain was convinced something was seriously wrong with him. Stress-induced hallucinations? Some weird manifestation of his anxiety about starting at a new school?
That night, unable to sleep again, Tristain sat cross-legged on his bed and tried an experiment. He closed his eyes and deliberately focused on Johnny Manziel—the playing style, the movements, the instincts.
The response was immediate. The energy intensified, spreading from his arm through his entire body. When he opened his eyes, his hands were glowing blue, the light pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.
I'm losing my mind, he thought wildly.
As if in response to his panic, text appeared before his eyes—not on any physical surface, but somehow projected directly into his field of vision:
[QB SYSTEM INITIALIZING][SLOT 1: JOHNNY MANZIEL - SCRAMBLING - 15% ASSIMILATED][SLOT 2: EMPTY][SYSTEM CAPACITY: 2/2 SLOTS AVAILABLE][INTEGRATION BEGINNING...]
Tristain blinked rapidly, but the text remained for several seconds before fading. The blue glow receded back into his skin, leaving only a faint trace along his forearm.
"What. The. Actual. Hell," he whispered into the dark room.
He waited, half-expecting the text to reappear, but nothing happened. Cautiously, he stood up and moved to the mirror on the back of the door. He looked normal—same black twists, same brown eyes, same black skin and build. No outward sign of whatever had just happened.
But he felt different. When he thought about football now, about scrambling outside the pocket specifically, he could feel something new—a kind of muscle memory that hadn't been there before, an instinct for movement and space.
Tristain raised his hands, studying them in the dim light. Johnny Manziel's scrambling ability, 15% assimilated? What did that even mean?
He paced the room, trying to make sense of it. A "QB System"? Slots? It sounded like something from a video game, not real life. But the sensations in his body were undeniably real.
On impulse, he dropped into a quarterback stance, mimicking taking a snap. Immediately, he felt it—a heightened awareness of imaginary defenders, an instinctive understanding of how to shift his weight to evade them. The movements weren't completely natural yet—they felt slightly disjointed, as if his body was trying to follow a blueprint it didn't fully understand—but they were definitely there.
Fifteen percent, the text had said. Only a fraction of the ability, with room to grow.
A wild thought struck him: What if this was real? What if, somehow, he was actually absorbing abilities from Manziel? And if so, what triggered it? Moving to Indiana? The pressure of his new beginning? Or something else entirely?
More importantly—could he control it? Could he choose whose abilities to absorb? Could he increase that percentage?
The questions whirled in his mind as he finally returned to bed, exhaustion overtaking his excitement and confusion. As he drifted off to sleep, one thought remained clear: tomorrow was his first practice with the Royals, his chance to make a first impression.
And now, it seemed, he had a secret advantage—however small and strange it might be.
Monday morning arrived with swirling snow and temperatures in the low twenties. Tristain layered up in the warmest clothes he'd brought, grateful that Lisa had insisted on lending him one of Kyle's old winter coats until he could get his own.
"First day jitters?" Lisa asked as she packed him a lunch for school.
"A little," Tristain admitted, though "jitters" didn't begin to cover the chaotic mix of emotions churning inside him—normal new-student anxiety compounded by the inexplicable QB System that had manifested in his body overnight.
Ayana appeared in the kitchen, bundled up in a puffy coat and scarf. "Ready?" she asked, not making eye contact.
"You're giving me a ride?" Tristain asked, surprised.
She shrugged. "Mom asked me to. My car or walking through a snowstorm—your choice."
"Definitely the car," Tristain said quickly. "Thanks."
The drive to school was mostly silent, the radio filling the awkward space between them. Tristain stole glances at Ayana as she drove, noticing the intense focus in her eyes as she navigated the snowy roads.
"So," he finally said, "any advice for surviving day one?"
She considered for a moment. "Keep your head down in the hallways. The seniors like to mess with new kids, especially mid-year transfers." She paused. "But you're a football player, so you'll probably be fine. The team sticks together."
"You make that sound like a bad thing," Tristain observed.
Ayana sighed. "Let's just say North Bridgeton has an unhealthy obsession with football, considering how terrible our team is. The players still get treated like royalty, while the academic clubs fight for basic funding."
Before Tristain could respond, they pulled into the school parking lot. Students hurried through the snow toward the main entrance, a sea of winter coats and backpacks.
"Your schedule should be waiting at the main office," Ayana said as they parked. "First door on the right when you enter." Without waiting for a response, she grabbed her bag and headed for the building.
Tristain watched her go, then took a deep breath. "Here goes nothing," he muttered, and stepped out into the cold.
The main office was easy to find, and the secretary—Mrs. Winters, according to her nameplate—greeted him warmly.
"Ah, our new quarterback!" she exclaimed, loud enough for everyone in the vicinity to hear. "Coach Milton has been telling us all about you."
Great, Tristain thought as heads turned in his direction. So much for keeping a low profile.
Mrs. Winters handed him his schedule, a map of the school, and his locker assignment. "Your first class is World History with Mr. Paulson, room 214. Do you need someone to show you around?"
"I think I can manage," Tristain said, eager to escape the growing attention.
As he navigated the hallways, he felt the stares and heard the whispers following him. Word traveled fast in small schools, and it seemed everyone already knew who he was—or at least, who they thought he was: the savior quarterback from Texas, here to turn around their losing team.
The morning passed in a blur of new faces, class introductions, and the awkward shuffle of finding seats in already-established classrooms. By lunchtime, Tristain's head was spinning with information overload.
He entered the cafeteria, tray in hand, scanning for a place to sit. The social geography was pretty spread out yet immediately apparent—jocks at one table, theater kids at another, various cliques clustered
"Yo! Texas!" A familiar voice called out. Lucas Santiago waved from a table near the center of the room, surrounded by what Tristain assumed were other football players.
Relief washed over him as he made his way to their table. At least here was someone he knew, however slightly.
"Guys, this is Tristain Dyce," Lucas announced as Tristain sat down. "The new arm Coach has been hyping all winter."
A chorus of greetings went around the table as Marcus introduced each player—Jordan Wright, the starting running back; Devin Carter, free safety; Mike Tomasino, offensive tackle; and several others whose names and positions blurred together.
"How you liking the frozen wasteland so far?" Jordan asked, a grin splitting his dark face.
Tristain chuckled. "It's definitely cold. Nothing like Texas."
"That's gonna change," Luke said confidently. "Between the new offensive system Coach is installing and a quarterback who can actually throw past the line of scrimmage, we might actually have a shot next season."
The conversation turned to spring training, summer camps, and the upcoming season. Tristain relaxed into it, the familiar football talk washing away some of his new-student anxiety.
As lunch ended, he spotted Ayana across the cafeteria, sitting with a small group of students who had textbooks open beside their trays. She caught his eye briefly, then looked away.
"Dude, you know Ayana Sayana?" Marcus asked, following his gaze.
"She's my host sister," Tristain explained. "I'm staying with her family."
Luke raised his eyebrows. "For real? Man, that's rough. She's hot, but she's like, scary smart. And not exactly a fan of the football team."
"Why not?" Tristain asked.
Jordan snorted. "Because her brother was team captain when we actually won games. Kyle Clark was a beast—defensive end, could've played D1 anywhere. Since he graduated, we've been garbage, and she thinks the school still gives us too much attention."
"She's not wrong," Luke admitted with a shrug. "But hey, maybe you'll change her mind, Texas. Show her not all football players are dumb jocks."
As the final bell rang, Tristain made his way to the team room. Coach Milton was there, waiting with a Royals practice uniform and gear.
"Ready for this?" Milton asked, handing him the navy and silver practice jersey with number 12.
"As I'll ever be," Tristain replied, taking the jersey. As his fingers touched the fabric, he felt that now-familiar hum of energy coursing through him, the QB System responding to the proximity of football equipment.
The locker room filled with players, many of whom Tristain had met at lunch. There were curious glances and a few nods of acknowledgment as he changed into his practice gear.
"Alright, listen up!" Milton called out once everyone was dressed. "As most of you know, we've got a new addition to the team. Tristain Dyce is joining us from Texas, and he'll be competing for the starting quarterback position."
A murmur ran through the room. Competing? That wasn't what Milton had promised him. Tristain's eyes found the coach, questioning.
"Nothing's handed out for free here," Milton continued, meeting Tristain's gaze steadily. "Everyone earns their spot. That said, I expect all of you to welcome him and help him adjust."
As they filed out to the practice field—an indoor facility attached to the gym, given the winter weather—Luke fell into step beside Tristain.
"Don't stress about the 'competing' thing," he said quietly. "Our current QB is Kevin Russo. Decent guy, but his arm's got all the power of a wet noodle. Coach is just being diplomatic."
Tristain nodded, but the coach's words had stung. Had he made the whole trip based on a false promise?
'Whether he scammed me or not I'm gonna dominate' He thought to himself as if it was a given fact