Tristain sat cross-legged on the bed in the Sayanas' guest room, a notepad balanced on his knee. The digital clock on the nightstand read 11:37 PM, but sleep was the furthest thing from his mind. He'd been at North Bridgeton for just over a week now, and with each practice, each film session, each throw, he could feel something building—potential, yes, but also pressure.
His phone buzzed with a text from his mother.
"Kijan ou ye, pitit mwen? How are you settling in?"
Tristain smiled at the familiar Creole. His mother always slipped back into her native tongue when checking in on him, a small connection to their Haitian roots that felt especially important now that they were separated.
"I'm good, Manman. Working hard. Miss you guys."
He sent the text and turned back to his notepad. At the top of the page, he'd written "GOALS BEFORE SEPTEMBER" in block letters. Below it was a blank space that had been staring at him for the past twenty minutes.
The QB System pulsed gently within him, a constant reminder of its presence. The Johnny Manziel template had stabilized at 19% assimilation—small improvements each day, but still far from complete integration. He could feel the potential it offered, the glimpses of mobility and improvisational ability that had surprised even him during practices.
But what was the endgame? What did he want to achieve before the season officially started?
Tristain closed his eyes, picturing Marcus's determined face, Coach Milton's evaluating gaze, the uncertain looks from his new teammates. They all needed something from him, but what did he need from himself?
When he opened his eyes again, clarity had settled over him. He began to write:
GOALS BEFORE SEPTEMBER:
Master Milton's playbook – complete understanding of every concept, protection, and audible.
Improve throwing mechanics – work with QB coach on footwork and release.
Build chemistry with receivers, especially Marcus – at least 3 extra sessions per week.
Develop scrambling ability – reach 50% Johnny Manziel system assimilation.
Film study – 1 hour daily, focus on reading defenses at pre-snap.
Strength training – add 10 lbs of muscle.
Leadership – learn every teammate's name, story, and motivation.
He stared at the list, then added one final item:
Win starting job and earn team's respect – non-negotiable.
His phone buzzed again. This time it was Marcus.
"Coach approved our request for field access. 6 AM tomorrow good for you?"
Tristain replied immediately: "I'll be there."
He set the notepad aside and lay back on the bed, mind racing with possibilities. This wasn't just about proving himself anymore. It was about transformation—becoming the quarterback this team needed, the leader they deserved. The System was just a tool. The real work would come from him.
As sleep finally began to claim him, Tristain made a silent promise to himself: By September, North Bridgeton wouldn't just have a new quarterback. They'd have a new team identity. And it would start with him.
Coach Brad Milton rubbed his tired eyes as he reviewed the practice footage for the third time that evening. His office at North Bridgeton High was small but functional, the walls covered with playbooks, schedules, and photos of teams past. A half-eaten sandwich sat forgotten on his desk as he focused on the screen before him.
"Rewind that again," said Offensive Coordinator Jack Lawson, pointing at the screen. "That throw at the 37-minute mark."
Milton clicked back, pausing as Tristain dropped back in the pocket, then delivered a perfect strike between two defenders.
"That's the fourth time he's hit that tight window today," Lawson said, shaking his head in disbelief. "The ball placement is uncanny for a kid his age."
Milton nodded, pulling up a legal pad where he'd been jotting notes all week. Under "DYCE - STRENGTHS," he'd already written:
Exceptional accuracy and ball placement
Quick release
Processes information at elite level
Anticipates throwing windows before they open
Poise under pressure
Natural leadership quality
High football IQ
"He's not like most high school quarterbacks," Milton said, leaning back in his chair. "Usually with the talented ones, you're coaching around limitations—great arm but can't read a defense, or mobile but inaccurate. With Dyce, the foundation is solid. The processing and accuracy are already there."
"Which means we don't have to dumb down the offense," Lawson added, excitement evident in his voice. "We can actually expand it."
Milton advanced the footage to another play, this one showing Tristain escaping a collapsing pocket, scrambling to his right, and completing a throw on the run.
"That's new," Milton said, tapping the screen. "That wasn't on his Southfield tape."
"He's showing dual-threat potential I didn't expect," Lawson agreed. "Not blazing speed, but enough mobility to extend plays. It's like he's developing new skills in real time."
Milton flipped to another page in his notes, where he'd written "DYCE - WEAKNESSES":
Still learning our terminology and system
Inconsistent mechanics when throwing on the run
Hesitates when scrambling opportunities present
Arm strength good but not elite for deeper shots
Still building chemistry with receivers
Occasionally over-analyzes instead of playing instinctively
Needs to add muscle to frame
"He's raw as a scrambler," Milton noted. "You can see he wants to run, but his body doesn't always cooperate. It's like his mind knows what to do but his muscles haven't caught up yet."
"That's coachable," Lawson said. "What about the arm strength?"
"Good enough for high school, even good for most college situations," Milton replied. "But if we're going to push for state, if he's going to have a shot at D1, he needs more zip on those deep outs and post routes."
Milton closed the laptop and leaned forward, elbows on his desk. "Here's what fascinates me, Jack. This kid is the opposite of your typical quarterback bust. The things that usually sink prospects—poor decision-making, accuracy issues, inability to read defenses—those are actually his strengths."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning we don't need to build an offense that hides his weaknesses. We just need to refine what's already there and develop what's emerging." Milton stood up, stretching his back. "Most coaches spend their careers waiting for a quarterback with Dyce's mental makeup. The physical tools can be developed."
"So what's the plan?" Lawson asked.
Milton smiled, the kind of smile that had preceded three state championships at his previous school. "We push him. Hard. Extra film sessions, specialized workouts, one-on-one coaching time. And we pair him with Walker as much as possible—their connection is already something special."
"Kevin's not going to like losing his starting spot," Lawson warned.
"Kevin's a good kid, but Dyce has something you can't coach," Milton replied, tapping his temple. "And I didn't come to North Bridgeton to go 2-8 again."
He turned off the office light as they prepared to leave. "Mark my words, Jack. By September, we're going to have a completely different team. And it all starts with number 12."
Ayana Sayana adjusted her position on the uncomfortable metal bleachers, squinting against the morning sun. It was barely 7 AM, but the football field was already alive with activity. She'd come early to work on a chemistry lab report, thinking the stands would be quiet, only to find Tristain Dyce and Marcus Walker running drills on the dew-covered field.
She opened her notebook but found herself watching the pair instead of reviewing molecular structures. There was something mesmerizing about their synchronized movements—Marcus sprinting complex routes while Tristain delivered pass after perfect pass.
From her vantage point, she could study Tristain properly for the first time since he'd arrived at North Bridgeton. He was tall—about 6'2"—with a lean, athletic build that spoke of speed more than power. His deep brown skin glistened with sweat in the early light, and when he removed his helmet between reps, she could see his twists held up by headband and the sharp angles of his face—high cheekbones and a strong jawline that hinted at his Haitian heritage.
What struck her most, though, was the fluidity of his movements. There was a grace to the way he dropped back, set his feet, and released the ball—like a dancer who knew every step by heart.
"He's good, isn't he?"
Ayana turned to find Tyler Wilson settling onto the bleacher beside her. As a former manager and a recent North Bridgeton graduate, Tyler still came around occasionally to help with practices.
"I wouldn't know," Ayana replied, trying to sound uninterested. "Football's not really my thing."
Tyler laughed. "Could've fooled me. You've been watching them for fifteen minutes and haven't turned a page in your notebook."
Ayana felt heat rise to her cheeks but refused to acknowledge the observation. "Is he really that good?"
"Yep. Coach has taken him under his wing," Tyler said. "He's pretty quiet, keeps to himself mostly. Studies the playbook like it's going to vanish tomorrow."
Down on the field, Tristain was now working on rollout passes, moving outside the pocket before throwing. Ayana noticed a hesitation in his movement, a slight awkwardness that contrasted with his otherwise smooth mechanics.
"What's he doing now?" she asked, curiosity overcoming her pretense of disinterest.
"Working on his mobility," Tyler explained. "Coach wants to utilize him as a dual-threat this year. The interesting thing is, that wasn't his game at his old school. He was a pure pocket passer there."
"People can change," Ayana said, watching as Tristain stumbled slightly while trying to throw on the run, then immediately reset and tried again with better results.
"It's more than that," Tyler said, lowering his voice even though no one else was around. "There's something different about him. I've been around football my whole life, watched hundreds of quarterbacks. The way he processes the game, the way he sees things before they happen—it's special."
Tristain and Marcus had moved on to red zone drills now, working on timing routes in the compressed space near the goal line. Even from a distance, Ayana could see the intensity on Tristain's face, the absolute focus as he placed balls exactly where only his receiver could catch them.
"He's not like the other football guys, is he?" she asked, almost to herself.
Tyler shook his head. "No, he's not. And that's exactly what this team needs."
As if sensing their conversation, Tristain glanced up toward the bleachers. His eyes met Ayana's briefly, and he offered a small, almost shy wave before returning to his drills.
Ayana waved back before she could stop herself, then quickly looked down at her chemistry notes, pretending to be absorbed in electron configurations. But her mind was elsewhere, calculating a different kind of equation—one involving a determined quarterback, a struggling football team, and the unexpected sense that something transformative was taking root at North Bridgeton High.
Tristain's lungs burned as he completed his final sprint of the morning, collapsing onto the cool grass beside Marcus. They'd been at it for nearly two hours now, pushing each other through route combinations, timing drills, and conditioning work.
"You're getting better," Marcus said between heavy breaths. "That last series—the way you escaped the pocket and hit me on the sideline—that was next level."
Tristain nodded, too winded to speak. The QB System had flared during that sequence, Johnny Manziel's improvisational instincts momentarily syncing perfectly with his own movements. For a few glorious seconds, his body had done exactly what his mind intended, moving with a fluidity that felt almost supernatural.
[SLOT 1: JOHNNY MANZIEL - SCRAMBLING ABILITY - 21% ASSIMILATED]
The text flashed across his vision briefly before fading away. Another 2% increase in just a week. It was working.
"We should head in," Marcus said, checking his watch. "First period starts in forty-five minutes."
As they gathered their equipment, Tristain noticed a figure descending from the bleachers—a girl with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, books clutched to her chest.
"Who's that?" he asked, nodding in her direction.
Marcus followed his gaze and grinned. "Ayana Sayana. Chemistry genius, debate team captain, and general overachiever. Way out of your league, QB."
Tristain rolled his eyes. "I already know and wasn't asking like that"
"You mean Tyler, don't worry he's graduated he won't go for your girl," Marcus teased, slapping him on the shoulder. "Just remember—we've got goals this season. No distractions."
Tristain nodded, but found his eyes drifting back to Ayana as she walked toward the school building. She moved with purpose, chin high, seemingly unbothered by the early hour or the weight of her textbooks.
No distractions, he reminded himself, refocusing on the day ahead. He had a playbook to master, mechanics to refine, and a team to win over. The blueprint was clear. Now it was time to build.
As they headed toward the locker room, Tristain realized something important: for the first time since arriving at North Bridgeton, he felt like he truly belonged. Not just as a transfer student or a potential starting quarterback, but as someone with a clear purpose.
The season might still be months away, but in Tristain's mind, it had already begun. And he was determined to make every day count.