His surroundings were eerily quiet this early in the morning. Tristain's footsteps echoed through the marble corridor as he wandered through the exhibits. He didn't know where he was but, he found himself standing in a dimly lit room the tour guide had called "Cautionary Tales: The Hall of Famous Busts." The walls were lined with jerseys, helmets, and memorabilia of players who had flamed out spectacularly after being drafted high or showing tremendous promise in college.
"Every single one of these guys was can't-miss," a voice said from behind him.
Tristain turned to see a man with a familiar face—thinning hair, scruff, and eyes that had once held the confidence of a god. Johnny Manziel stepped from the shadows, hands in the pockets of his designer jeans.
"Johnny Football," Tristain breathed, unable to hide his surprise.
Manziel chuckled, a hollow sound that didn't reach his eyes. "Nobody calls me that anymore, kid." He gestured to the exhibits around them. "You know why I come here every year? To remind myself that talent isn't enough. These guys—Ryan Leaf, JaMarcus Russell, Todd Marinovich—they all had the arm, the vision, the pedigree. What they didn't have was discipline."
Tristain glanced at a case displaying Manziel's own Browns jersey. "Is that why you're... you know..."
"In this room instead of the main hall?" Manziel finished with a wry smile. "Yeah. Cautionary tale number forty-seven. The Heisman Trophy winner who partied his way out of the NFL."
Manziel approached a glass case containing his Heisman. "What most people don't understand is that being a bit better than everyone else feels like flying. Like you're Neo in The Matrix and everything slows down while you're moving at normal speed. It's intoxicating." He tapped the glass. "And when you feel like a god on the field, it's easy to think you're untouchable off it."
He turned to face Tristain. "I saw you're getting a fresh start. North Bridgeton, right?"
Tristain's eyes widened. "How did you—"
"I've been watching, in fact we all have," Manziel said. "you've got the goods but need the right stage."
Manziel's eyes sharpened, studying Tristain. "Here's some free advice: Don't waste it. That gift you have—that extra fifteen percent—it's enough to take you anywhere you want to go for now, but only if you're willing to put in the other eighty-five percent in sweat will you join those monsters in the main hall."
With that, he gave Tristain a nod and walked away, disappearing into the Hall of Fame's main gallery before he slowly vanished into dust, leaving Tristain alone with the ghosts of wasted potential.
BEEP
BEEP
BEEP
The alarm blared at 5:15 AM, jolting Tristain from the dream in cold sweat. He fumbled for his phone in the unfamiliar darkness of the Clarks' guest bedroom. Three days in Indiana, and he still wasn't used to the early risings that Coach Milton demanded.
'What the actual hell' Tristan thought to himself
"Morning workout in thirty," read the text from an unknown number—probably one of his new teammates.
"This system thing has a lot more to it than i thought" Tristan muttered to himself
Tristain dragged himself out of bed, muscles still sore from yesterday's session. He pulled on a shirt, shorts, and the workout gear Coach Milton had provided. The North Bridgeton Royals logo—a purple crown on a silver lion—still felt foreign on his chest.
Mrs. Clark was already in the kitchen when he came downstairs, a protein smoothie waiting for him on the counter.
"Big day today?" she asked, nursing her own coffee.
Tristain nodded, downing half the smoothie in one gulp. "Full school day, then afternoon practice. Coach wants to see where I fit in the system."
"Brad Milton's system is... intense," Mrs. Clark said carefully. "When our Tyler played for him, he'd come home exhausted every day. But he said it was worth it."
Tristain finished his smoothie and grabbed his bag. "Thanks for breakfast, Mrs. Sayana. I should head out—Coach hates tardiness."
The morning air bit at his face as he jogged the half-mile to school, his breath forming clouds in the January cold. The campus came into view—brick buildings arranged in a horseshoe, smaller than Southfield but with an impressive athletic complex attached to the east side.
The weight room was already buzzing when he arrived. Twenty-odd players in various stages of their workouts nodded or grunted acknowledgments as he entered. Coach Milton stood in the center, clipboard in hand, barking instructions.
"Dyce! You're with Walker on bench today. Four sets, progressive weight."
Tristain scanned the room, unsure who Santiago was.
"Over here, new guy."
Tristain turned to see a tall, lean player motioning him toward a bench press station. Walker had to be at least 6'3", with broad shoulders and the rangy build of a receiver. Despite the cold, he wore a sleeveless shirt that revealed arms corded with muscle and a nasty surgical scar running down his left knee.
"Marcus Walker," the player said, extending a hand. "Heard you're supposed to be our savior."
Tristain shook his hand, noticing the calluses. "Just looking for a chance to play."
Marcus snorted. "Aren't we all." He gestured to the bench. "You first. I'll spot."
Tristain settled onto the bench, gripping the bar. The weight wasn't intimidating—he'd been lifting since freshman year—but he felt Marcus's eyes on him, evaluating every movement.
"So," Marcus said as Tristain pushed through his first set, "you left a state championship team to come to our 2-8 dumpster fire. Either you're crazy, or you weren't playing much."
Tristain racked the bar, sitting up to catch his breath. "Three years on varsity. Three years on the bench."
"Behind who?"
"Jason Reynolds."
Marcus's eyebrows shot up. "The Reynolds kid? The one getting D1 offers as a junior? Damn." He added more weight to the bar. "Your turn again."
As Tristain started his second set, Marcus continued. "Coach says you've got the goods, though. Says you see the field differently."
Tristain pushed through the pain of the heavier weight, focusing on his form. "I guess we'll find out," he managed between reps.
"Guess we will," Marcus agreed. "Because I've spent three years running routes for quarterbacks who couldn't hit water if they fell out of a boat. So if you're even half as good as Coach thinks, we might actually win some games my senior year."
They finished their sets in relative silence, the intensity in the room building as Coach Milton moved between stations, adjusting techniques and pushing players beyond what they thought they could handle.
"Alright, listen up!" Milton called out as the session wound down. "Classroom session at lunch. Film study on Dyce so you all know what we're working with. Afternoon practice, full pads, three-thirty sharp." His eyes found Tristain. "Dyce, my office before first period."
As the team dispersed to the showers, Marcus fell in step beside Tristain. "Word of advice? Coach is gonna test you today. Hard. Don't let him see you sweat."
"Thanks," Tristain said, genuinely appreciative.
Marcus shrugged. "Don't thank me yet. You still gotta prove yourself to the rest of us."
First period English with Mrs. Hendricks was a blur of introductions and trying to figure out where the class was in "The Great Gatsby." Second period Pre-Calculus wasn't much better—Tristain had been in the middle of a different unit at Southfield.
By third period American History, rumors about the new quarterback had spread throughout the school. Whispers followed him down the hallway.
"That's him—the transfer from Texas..."
"Coach Milton recruited him personally..."
"Heard he was third-string on a championship team..."
Tristain kept his head down, focusing on finding his classes and making mental notes of the material he'd need to catch up on. It wasn't until lunch that he finally had a moment to breathe.
He entered the field house classroom where Coach Milton had scheduled the film session, surprised to find it already half-full of players munching on sandwiches and protein bars.
"Dyce! Front and center," Milton called from the projector.
Tristain made his way to the front, conscious of the eyes on him. He spotted Marcus in the back row, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"Gentlemen," Milton began, "as you know, we've had a... challenging season. Two and eight doesn't cut it. Not at North Bridgeton, not anywhere. Which is why I've made some changes heading into spring ball."
He clicked a button, and the screen behind him lit up with footage—Tristain's highlight reel from Southfield practices.
"This is Tristain Dyce, our new quarterback. What you're watching is scout team footage against a state championship defense."
The room fell silent as the video played. Tristain recognized the clips—reads he'd made against the first-team defense during practice, throws into tight windows, plays where he'd outmaneuvered senior linebackers.
"Look at the anticipation," Milton narrated, freezing a frame where Tristain had released the ball before the receiver's cut. "The vision. The pocket presence."
Another clip showed Tristain scrambling, keeping his eyes downfield, then throwing across his body to hit a receiver in stride.
"This is arm talent you can't teach," Milton continued. "But it's the mental processing that sets him apart. Tristain sees things before they happen."
The final clip showed Tristain in a Southfield intrasquad scrimmage, making an adjustment at the line, then delivering a perfect pass into double coverage.
Milton stopped the video. "Questions?"
A stocky lineman raised his hand. "If he's so good, why wasn't he starting?"
Milton nodded, as if he'd been expecting this. "Politics. Sometimes the best player isn't the one on the field. Which is why I've told Tristain what I'm telling all of you now: at North Bridgeton, the best player plays. Period. No matter who your daddy is, no matter how much money your family donates."
His eyes swept the room. "Spring practice starts today. Every position is open. Every. Single. One." His gaze lingered on Tristain. "Including quarterback."
The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the practice field as Tristain jogged out for his first official practice as a Royal. He'd spent the last class period studying Milton's playbook, trying to commit the terminology and concepts to memory.
The team was already running drills when he arrived—linemen hitting sleds, receivers running routes, defensive backs working on backpedals. Coach Milton stood in the middle of it all, his whistle hanging around his neck like a weapon.
"Dyce! Get warmed up with Walker," Milton shouted. "I want to see that arm in action."
Tristain spotted Marcus on the sideline, tossing a ball with another receiver. He jogged over, forcing confidence into his stride.
"Coach wants us to warm up," he said.
Marcus tossed the ball to his teammate and grabbed his helmet. "Let's see what you've got, Texas."
They moved to an empty section of the field, starting with simple routes—slants, outs, curls. Tristain's throws were on target, but he could feel himself holding back, still getting a feel for Marcus's speed and tendencies.
After a few minutes, Marcus stopped. "Don't patronize me," he said, eyes narrowing.
"What?"
"You're throwing like you're afraid I'll drop it. Like I'm some charity case." Marcus stepped closer, lowering his voice. "I saw your film. Those windows you were hitting were a lot tighter than what you're giving me. So either Coach Milton oversold you, or you're not showing your real stuff."
Tristain felt heat rise in his face. "I'm just getting warmed up."
"Then warm up faster," Marcus challenged. "Because I need to know if you're for real."
Something in Marcus's intensity struck a chord. This wasn't just about football for him; it was deeper than that.
"Run a deep post," Tristain said, finding his command voice. "Full speed. No holding back."
Marcus nodded once, then jogged to the line of scrimmage. Without a countdown, he exploded off the line, eating up yardage with long strides. His cut was sharp and sudden, breaking at a 45-degree angle toward the goal posts.
Tristain didn't think. He just threw.
The ball left his hand in a tight spiral, the kind of throw he'd always been capable of but rarely had the chance to showcase. It arced high against the January sky before dropping perfectly as Marcus stretched out his hands.
The ball hit Marcus's fingertips just as he crossed the goal line, a pristine connection that drew whistles from nearby players who had stopped to watch.
Marcus jogged back, tossing the ball to Tristain with newfound respect in his eyes. "Now that's what I'm talking about."
Coach Milton's whistle cut through the moment. "Gather up! Team period!"
As the players huddled around, Milton outlined the practice plan. "Offense versus defense. Live tackling. Let's see who wants it more."
He turned to Tristain. "Dyce, you're with the twos. Kevin has earned the right to start with the ones today." He nodded toward a stocky senior whom Tristain recognized as the incumbent quarterback.
Disappointment flashed through Tristain, but he nodded. "Yes, coach."
As the team broke to their respective sides, Marcus fell in step beside Tristain. "Kevin's all arm, no brain," he said quietly. "Don't worry about it."
"I'm not worried," Tristain replied, surprising himself with his own confidence. "I just need to show what I can do."
"That's the spirit," Marcus chuckled. "And heads up—I'll be rotating between the ones and twos today. Coach likes to spread the talent around, see how different combinations work."
The first-team offense took the field, Kevin barking out signals with the confidence of a senior who'd been in the system for years. The play was a simple pitch and catch to the tight end, executed cleanly if not spectacularly.
When the second team's turn came, Tristain stepped into the huddle, looking at the unfamiliar faces around him. "Twins right, 62 mesh, on one," he called, choosing a quick-hitting play he felt comfortable with.
The mesh concept was a simple one—a play action with two receivers crossing over the middle,running back running to sidelines to stay in the flats, and the Tight End running a corner, creating natural separation from defenders. But as Tristain was about to take the snap and drop back, he saw the defense had anticipated it, dropping a linebacker into the throwing lane.
Instead of forcing it, Tristain looked at Marcus near the left sideline and yelled and put him on a deep dig. He quickly snapped the ball, faking the hand off he dropped back, looked off the safety, and found Marcus—who had apparently broken open on the backside dig route.
The throw was perfect, as he rotted his hips and zipped it, hitting Marcus in stride between defenders. He turned upfield for a twenty-yard gain before being pushed out of bounds.
Coach Milton blew his whistle. "Better," he acknowledged with a nod to Tristain. "But let's see how you handle pressure."
The next few plays Milton sent blitzes from every angle, testing Tristain's ability to recognize and react. Some plays worked, others didn't, but Tristain felt himself settling into a rhythm, that familiar sensation of the game slowing down around him.
On his final rep of the period, Milton called an all-out blitz—seven defenders charging at the snap. Tristain recognized it immediately, changing the protection at the line.
"52's the mike! 52's the mike!" he shouted, redirecting his blockers.
The snap came, and true to form, the defense brought the house. Tristain stood tall in the pocket as it collapsed around him, his eyes locked downfield where Marcus was streaking past his defender on a fade route.
Just as a blitzing linebacker broke through, Tristain ducked under the linebackers bear hug and hopped to the right before he released the over shoulder ball with perfect touch, dropping it over the defender's outstretched hands and into Marcus's breadbasket forty yards downfield.
The team erupted in cheers and helmet slaps as Marcus high-stepped into the end zone. Even Kevin, watching from the sideline, gave a reluctant nod of acknowledgment.
Coach Milton blew his whistle three times, signaling the end of the period. "Not bad, Dyce," he said, trying to sound unimpressed and failing. "Not bad at all."
----
"Dyce, right?" the man said. "I'm Coach Reeves, QB coach. Let's see what you've got."
The next hour was a series of drills designed to assess Tristain's mechanics, arm strength, and decision-making. He worked alongside Kevin Russo, a stocky senior with a friendly demeanor but, as Marcus had indicated, limited arm talent.
As Tristain dropped back for his first throw—a simple 10-yard out route—he felt the QB Systems change to his body. Strength coursed through his arm, and suddenly he could sense how to shift his weight, how to use his hips to generate torque, how to release the ball with just the right touch. It wasn't complete—the 15% assimilation meant his execution was still choppy at times, not fully integrated—but it was enough to make a difference.
The ball came out with more zip than he'd ever managed before, hitting the receiver's hands perfectly in stride.
Coach Reeves raised his eyebrows. "Again," he said.
Tristain threw another, then another, each one delivered with increasing confidence. It wasn't just the physical ability—he could feel a tactical awareness growing within him, an understanding of how to read defenses that went beyond what he'd been coached before.
After the individual drills, they moved to seven-on-seven work, with Tristain and Kevin alternating series. Here, the limitations of the partial assimilation became more apparent. When Tristain tried to scramble like Manziel, his body sometimes didn't respond the way he expected. His instincts said one thing, but his muscles—only partly reconfigured by the System—couldn't always execute. The result was occasional awkward movements, unnecessary sacks that drew confused looks from coaches and teammates.
Still, the raw talent was undeniable. His throws had velocity and accuracy that Kevin simply couldn't match, and despite the integration issues, his new mobility added a dimension to the offense that clearly excited Coach Milton and the Offensive Coordinator, who watched from the sidelines with growing interest.
As practice wound down, Milton called for one final competitive drill—a two-minute situation with the offense needing a touchdown to win. Kevin went first, moving the team about thirty yards before throwing an interception on fourth down.
Then it was Tristain's turn. As he jogged onto the field, the QB System flared inside him, stronger than before. The text flashed across his vision again:
[SLOT 1: JOHNNY MANZIEL - SCRAMBLING ABILITY - 17% ASSIMILATED][ASSIMILATION INCREASING WITH PRACTICE]
Seventeen percent. The number had gone up just from the day's work. The realization sent a surge of excitement through Tristain as he stepped into the huddle.
"Alright guys," he said, meeting each player's eyes. "I know I'm new here, but I need you to trust me. We're scoring on this drive."
The confidence in his voice—partly his own, partly the System's
----
Practice ended with conditioning—gassers that left everyone gasping for breath in the cold air. Tristain pushed through the burning in his lungs, determined not to show weakness on his first day.
As the team finally broke for the locker room, Marcus hung back, walking alongside Tristain.
"That last throw," Marcus said, shaking his head. "The way you dropped it in the bucket. I haven't had a ball like that since..." He trailed off, a shadow crossing his face.
"Since when?" Tristain prompted.
Marcus sighed. "Since before I tore my ACL last season. I was having a breakout year—thirty catches, six touchdowns in just five games. Had D1 scouts starting to notice. Then boom—one bad plant on a crosser route, and my season's over. My future too, maybe."
The vulnerability in his voice surprised Tristain. "But you're back now, right? I saw you out there today—you looked good."
"I'm at maybe eighty percent," Marcus admitted. "Doctor says I'll get the rest back with time, but time's the one thing I don't have. Senior year is my last shot."
They reached the locker room doors, but Marcus paused before entering. "Look, I know you came here for a fresh start. To prove yourself. Well, I need that too." His eyes met Tristain's, intense and determined. "I need a quarterback who can get me the ball. Who can help me show those scouts what they missed. I need that edge you've got to fill the 20%."
Tristain realized in that moment that this was about more than football for Marcus. It was about escape, about a future beyond North Bridgeton.
"Where are you from originally?" Tristain asked.
"Southside projects," Marcus replied without emotion. "Single mom working two jobs. Dad's been in and out of prison since I was three. Football's my only ticket out." He gestured to the school around them. "The only reason I'm even at this school is because Coach Milton saw me playing in a park when I was fourteen and arranged a hardship transfer."
The weight of Marcus's words hung between them. Tristain thought about his own journey—the frustration of sitting behind Jason, the opportunity that had fallen into his lap. He'd thought he had it rough, but his struggles paled in comparison.
"I need you," Marcus said simply. "And you need me. Together, we can put this program on the map. Get us both where we need to go."
Tristain extended his hand. "Partners?"
Marcus clasped it firmly. "Partners."