Marcus Walker's alarm blared at 5:15 AM, same as every morning. He silenced it before it could wake his mother, who'd worked a double shift at the hospital last night. The small two-bedroom apartment was quiet as he moved through his morning routine—protein shake, stretch, light weights for his reconstructed knee.
As he laced up his running shoes, his phone buzzed with a text.
"Already at the field. Bring the cones today. -TD"
Marcus smiled to himself. Three weeks since Tristain Dyce had arrived at North Bridgeton, and already the transfer had established himself as the hardest worker on the team. The guy was relentless—first to arrive, last to leave, constantly pushing for more reps, more film study, more everything.
And it was working. With each practice, each early morning session, Tristain's game was evolving. The accuracy had always been there, but now his movements were becoming more fluid, his decision-making even sharper.
Marcus grabbed his gear bag and the speed cones, taking one last look at the college recruitment letters pinned to his bulletin board—letters that had stopped coming after his injury. Their faded logos and enthusiastic promises felt like artifacts from another life.
"Not done yet," he whispered to himself. It had become his mantra since rehabilitation began.
Outside, the morning air carried the promise of another scorching Indiana summer day. Marcus jogged toward the school, ignoring the familiar ache in his left knee. The doctors had cleared him months ago, but some days the joint still felt foreign, as if it belonged to someone else.
As North Bridgeton's football field came into view, Marcus spotted a solitary figure running through dropback drills at midfield. Even from a distance, there was no mistaking Tristain's distinctive movements—the precise footwork, the quick setup, the smooth release.
"You're early," Marcus called as he approached.
Tristain looked up and grinned. "Couldn't sleep."
It had taken Tristain nearly two weeks to adjust to the QB System—the templates, the assimilation percentages, the skills transfer. At first, Tristain had thought it was some elaborate metaphor or visualization technique. But the evidence was becoming harder to ignore.Not to mention he even spoke to the spirit of Manziel himself.
"Ayana still giving you fits?" Marcus asked, dropping the cones at the 30-yard line.
"Nah not really were cool she's just adjusting just like me," Tristain replied, wiping sweat from his brow. " But anyway scrambling feels more natural, but sometimes there's this... resistance. Like my body's fighting itself."
Marcus nodded, though he couldn't truly understand what Tristain was experiencing. The idea of having to completely change a playstyle you've been using all your life sounds impossible. Yet he'd witnessed the transformation firsthand—Tristain's increasing confidence on rollouts, the improvisational flair that appeared in flashes.
"Coach Milton's noticed," Marcus said as they began setting up the cones for route drills. "Heard him tell Lawson yesterday that the offense might need 'adjustments' to maximize your skill set."
Tristain paused, a cone in hand. "What about Kevin? He's still taking first-team reps."
"For now," Marcus said, giving Tristain a knowing look. "But the players see what's happening. Even Kevin knows it's just a matter of time."
"And plus knowing Coach Milton and our OC Lawson they'll try to make a decision quickly out of consideration for both you and Kevin."
"What do you mean?" Tristan questioned as he caught a cone
"Coach isn't the type of guy to make a decision last minute when it could impact either of you guys like this since it's both of your guy's last year. He wants to keep your options open, plus he can start sprinting forward once the decision is final." Marcus explained
'Well most teams although they do off season weights they dont start training like us until the spring or start scrimmaging and going full pads until near the summer so it gives either of us time to transfer.'Tristain thought to himself
They fell into their routine—Marcus running routes while Tristain delivered pass after perfect pass. There was a rhythm to their work now, a silent communication that had developed over weeks of these early sessions. Marcus would adjust a route with just a hand signal, and Tristain would respond with a perfectly timed throw to the new location.
After an hour of work, they took a water break on the sideline bench. Marcus studied his new quarterback, noticing the subtle changes in his physique—broader shoulders, more definition in his arms, the result of Coach Milton's specialized training program.
"Can I ask you something personal?" Marcus said.
Tristain raised an eyebrow. "Sure."
"Why'd you really come here? To North Bridgeton, I mean." Marcus watched Tristain's expression carefully. "Coach says it was for playing time, but there had to be better options than a 2-8 team in the middle of nowhere, Indiana."
Tristain was quiet for a moment, staring out at the empty field.
"I had other offers," he finally said. "Schools with better records, bigger programs. But none of them felt right." He turned to face Marcus. "When Coach Milton called, he didn't promise me anything except a fair shot. Said the best player would play, period. After three years of politics at Southfield, that's all I wanted."
"And your parents were cool with it? How did that convo go?"
A shadow crossed Tristain's face. "Right before I left Texas, although it took some convincing, I just wanted to tell them that I at least want to say I took the opportunities I could and have no regrets."
Marcus nodded slowly. "Well, whatever, your changing things around here. People are starting to believe again."
"Including you?" Tristain asked.
"I'm getting there," Marcus admitted. He hesitated, then added, "I've got one more shot at this—at getting noticed, at playing at the next level. If you can help with that, I'm all in."
The distant sound of car doors slamming interrupted their conversation. Other players were beginning to arrive for the team's morning weight session.
"We should head in," Tristain said, gathering his equipment.
As they walked toward the field house, Marcus felt a strange mix of hope and anxiety. For years, he'd carried the weight of his family's expectations, the pressure of being their way out of poverty. Now, unexpectedly, some of that burden felt shared—distributed across a partnership that neither of them had anticipated but both desperately needed.
"Hey," Marcus said as they reached the locker room door. "Whatever the situation is, whatever it becomes—we're in this together, right?"
Tristain met his gaze, determination evident in his eyes. "All the way."
----
Coach Brad Milton paced the length of the classroom, periodically glancing at the game film projected on the screen. Twenty pairs of eyes followed his movement, players sitting straighter when his gaze passed over them.
"Execution," he said, letting the word hang in the air. "Football is about execution. Not talent. Not potential. Execution."
He stopped the film, freezing on a frame showing North Bridgeton's offense from last season, players scattered and disorganized as a play broke down.
"This," he said, pointing at the screen, "is what 2-8 looks like. Undisciplined. Unprepared. Unacceptable."
Milton clicked to the next clip—this one from yesterday's practice. Tristain Dyce dropping back, scanning the field, then threading a pass between two defenders to hit Marcus Santiago in stride.
"And this," Milton continued, his voice lowering, "is what champions look like. Precise. Purposeful. Prepared."
He turned to face the team fully. "We're 8 months out from our season opener against Westside. 8 months to decide who we want to be."
Milton's eyes scanned the room, lingering briefly on Kevin Russo, then moving to Tristain. The contrast between them was striking—Kevin fidgeting nervously, Tristain sitting perfectly still, eyes locked on the screen, absorbing every detail.
"Dyce, Russo—stay after. Everyone else, weight room in ten minutes."
As the room emptied, Milton settled into a chair facing his two quarterbacks. This conversation had been coming for days, and he'd rehearsed it repeatedly in his mind.
"8 months," he repeated. "That's how long I have to name a starter for game one."
Kevin shifted in his seat. "Coach, I've been running with the ones all year. I know the system inside and out."
"You do," Milton acknowledged. "Three years in the program, and nobody works the playbook harder than you, Kevin. I respect that."
Relief flashed across Kevin's face, quickly replaced by wariness as Milton turned to Tristain.
"But what I've seen from Dyce these past three weeks can't be ignored. The arm talent, the processing speed, the leadership qualities—they're exceptional."
"So what are you saying, Coach?" Kevin asked, a defensive edge creeping into his voice.
Milton leaned forward, choosing his words carefully. "I'm saying both of you will get equal reps with the first team starting tomorrow. Game-like situations, full competition. May the best man win."
Kevin's jaw tightened, but he nodded stiffly.
"That's all I've asked for," Tristain said quietly.
"One more thing," Milton added as they stood to leave. "Whatever happens, this team needs both of you. We win together or lose together. Understood?"
Both quarterbacks mumbled agreement, then headed for the door with the stiff formality of boxers who'd just received their instructions before a fight.
When they had gone, Milton remained seated, rubbing his temples against the building pressure. He hadn't mentioned the other factor in his decision—the mysterious evolution in Tristain's game that defied conventional development timelines.
Milton had coached for twenty-three years, worked with future Division I athletes and even a couple who'd made NFL rosters. He knew how players developed—the gradual progression, the plateaus, the incremental improvements that accumulated over months and years.
What he was seeing from Tristain Dyce didn't fit that pattern. It was as if the kid was downloading new abilities overnight, skills appearing fully formed that hadn't been there days before.
The scrambling was the most obvious example. In early practices, Tristain had moved like a traditional pocket passer—functional mobility but nothing special. Then suddenly, he was extending plays, making defenders miss, throwing accurately on the run.
Milton pulled out his notebook, flipping to the page where he tracked Tristain's progress. The list of abilities had grown steadily:
Exceptional anticipation (present from arrival)
Elite short/mid-range accuracy (present from arrival)
Quick release (present from arrival)
Pocket presence (improving rapidly)
Scrambling ability (emerging - source unknown)
Throwing on the run (emerging - source unknown)
Deep ball accuracy (emerging - source unknown)
Below this list, Milton had written a single question: Natural development or something else?
He closed the notebook with a sigh. Whatever was happening with Tristain Dyce, Milton intended to ride it as far as it would take them. After three consecutive losing seasons, North Bridgeton was due for a change in fortune. If that change came in the form of a mysteriously gifted transfer quarterback, so be it.
Rising from his chair, Milton gathered his materials and headed for the weight room, where his team awaited instruction. Along with the X's and O's, he'd need to manage the human dynamics of the coming quarterback competition—Kevin's wounded pride, the team's shifting loyalties, Tristain's growing confidence.
It was the kind of challenge that had drawn him to coaching in the first place. And for the first time in years, Brad Milton felt the stirring of genuine excitement about the season ahead.
---
The Sayana family dinner table was quiet except for the clinking of silverware against plates. Mrs. Sayana had prepared her famous pot roast, but Tristain was too preoccupied to fully appreciate it. Coach Milton's announcement of the quarterback competition had dominated his thoughts all day.
"You're awfully quiet tonight, Tristain," Mrs. Sayana observed, passing him the bread basket. "Everything okay at school?"
Tristain forced a smile. "Yes, ma'am. Just thinking about practice."
Mr. Sayana looked up from his plate with interest. "Brad Milton finally making it official between you and the Russo boy?"
Tristain nodded. "Starting tomorrow. Equal reps with the first team."
"About time," Mr. Sayana said, reaching for his water glass. "Anyone with eyes can see you're the better quarterback."
"Tom," Mrs. Sayana admonished gently. "Kevin Russo is a fine young man who's worked very hard for that team."
"I'm not saying he isn't," Mr. Sayana replied. "Just that Tristain here has something special. The whole town's talking about it and plus Russo has had his chance already."
Tristain shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The last thing he wanted was to be at the center of town gossip. Back in Southfield, football had been just one of many things happening at a large school. Here in North Bridgeton, it seemed to consume the community's attention.
"I just want to earn my spot," Tristain said diplomatically. "Kevin knows the system better than I do."
"But you're learning fast," Tom responded. Tyler had started dropping by practices to watch since Tristain's arrival and spread rumors. "That throw you made yesterday during seven-on-seven—the back-shoulder fade to Marcus—that was next-level stuff."
The QB System pulsed at the mention of the throw, as if recognizing its own contribution. Tristain had felt it activate during that rep, Johnny Manziel's trademark improvisational sense guiding his feet as he escaped pressure, then his arm as he delivered the ball with perfect touch.
[SLOT 1: JOHNNY MANZIEL - SCRAMBLING ABILITY - 34% ASSIMILATED]
The text flashed briefly across his vision—a reminder of his progress and the distance still to go. At this rate, he might reach 100% by early August. And then what? The System had hinted at a second card for slot two , but Tristain had no idea what that might mean or how it would manifest or the conditions for it to happen.
"Earth to Tristain," Ayana said, waving a hand in front of his face. "You zoned out there for a second."
"Sorry," Tristain mumbled. "Just tired from practice."
Mrs. Sayana gave him a concerned look. "You're pushing yourself too hard with those early morning sessions. Growing boys need their rest."
"I'm fine, Mrs. Sayana," Tristain assured her. "I just need to stay focused for the next few weeks. Once the season starts—"
A knock at the front door interrupted him. Mr. Sayana rose to answer it, returning moments later with a visitor that made Tristain sit up straighter.
"Look who I found on our doorstep," Mr. Clark announced.
Scarlett Clarke stepped into the dining room, a textbook clutched to her chest. "Sorry to interrupt dinner," she said, her eyes briefly meeting Tristain's before darting away. "Ayana texted that she had my AP Chem notes?"
Ayana snapped her fingers. "Right! I meant to bring them home from the library. They're in my backpack upstairs."
As Ayana disappeared to retrieve the notes, Mrs. Sayana smiled warmly at Scarlett. "Have you eaten, dear? There's plenty left."
"Oh, no thank you, Mrs. Sayana. I already ate." Scarlett shifted her weight from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable with the attention. "I just needed those notes for tomorrow's test."
An awkward silence fell over the room. Tristain found himself studying Scarlett properly for the first time. She was pretty in a different way than Ayana—warm brown skin, braids pulled back in a simple style, intelligent eyes that seemed to notice everything. If Ayana was explosive she'd be seen as warm and gentle.
"You're in AP Chemistry?" Tristain asked, immediately regretting how lame the question sounded.
Scarlett nodded. "And AP Physics, AP Calculus, and AP Literature, same classes as Ayana basically."
"Scarlett's our school smarty pants alongside Ayana they've been inseparable since kids," Mrs. Sayana explained proudly. "Aiming for Early acceptance to MIT already."
"Mrs Sayana," Scarlett protested, a blush creeping into her cheeks as she shrunk her shoulders.
"It's nothing to be modest about," Mrs. Sayana insisted. "And how many times do I have to tell you to call me Lisa."
Ayana returned with a folder, saving Scarlett from further embarrassment. "Here you go, feel free to text me if you have questions."
"Thanks for letting me borrow your brain a bit," Scarlett said with a small smile, taking the folder. She turned to leave, then hesitated, glancing back at Tristain. "Good luck with the quarterback competition. The team could use some positive change."
Before Tristain could respond, she was gone, leaving him with a strange sense that he'd just failed some kind of test.
"Interesting girl, our Scarlett," Mrs. Sayana remarked, a knowing look in her eye as she observed Tristain's expression. "Not easy growing up as one of the few Black families in North Bridgeton, but she's never let anything hold her back."
Ayana's knuckles whitened around her fork. Here we go again, she thought bitterly. Mom's practically gift-wrapping Scarlett for him. She glanced at Tristain, studying his reaction as he watched Scarlett with newfound interest. He was seeing her properly for the first time—her warm brown skin, her braids pulled back in that simple style, those intelligent eyes taking everything in.
Of course he notices her now, Ayana thought, a knot forming in her stomach. Everyone does eventually. She'd spent three years establishing herself as the serious academic who didn't get distracted by trivial things like attractive football players, and yet here she was, burning with jealousy while her mother sang Scarlett's praises.
'What is wrong with me, why am i feeling this way' She thought to herself feeling frustrated
Tristain nodded, his mind replaying Scarlett's parting words. The team could use some positive change. It wasn't just encouragement—it was an expectation, one more person looking to him to transform things.
The pressure was building from all sides—Coach Milton, the team, the Sayanas, the town, and now even a random school girl. Everyone wanted something from him, needed something from him.
And the strangest part? For the first time in his football life, Tristain believed he might actually be able to deliver.
---
Scarlett Clarke walked quickly down Maple Street, clutching Ayana's chemistry notes to her chest. The evening air was thick with humidity, promising a thunderstorm before morning.
Why did I say that? she chastised herself. "Good luck with the quarterback competition"? As if he needs my validation.
'Stupid, stupid stupid' she thought while hitting her head against the textbook
She hadn't meant to speak to Tristain at all. The plan had been simple: retrieve Ayana's notes and leave. No conversation, no lingering glances, no acknowledging the strange pull she felt toward the new quarterback.
Yet there she'd been, offering encouragement like some football groupie. It was embarrassing.
Scarlett turned onto Elm Drive, her house just three blocks away. The modest two-story colonial looked welcoming with porch lights already on against the gathering darkness. Unlike the Sayanas' sprawling home in the new development, the Clarke house (the extra 'e' a point of family pride) had stood in North Bridgeton for three generations.
Her father's car wasn't in the driveway—school board meeting tonight, she remembered. As principal of North Bridgeton Elementary, Dr. Clarke took his community responsibilities seriously.
Inside, Scarlett found her mother in the study, grading papers. Dr. Josephine Clarke looked up from her work, reading glasses perched on the end of her nose.
"Did you get your notes?" she asked.
"Yes, but..." scarlett hesitated, then sank into the armchair across from her mother's desk. "I made a fool of myself."
Her mother removed her glasses. "I doubt that very much."
"I said something to the new quarterback. Something encouraging about the team."
"And this is embarrassing because...?"
Scarlett sighed. "Because I don't care about football. Because I've spent years establishing myself as a serious academic who doesn't get distracted by trivial things like sports. Because I have MIT waiting in the fall."
Her mother studied her with the perceptive gaze that had intimidated generations of college students. As head of the English Department at the local university, Dr. Clarke had a reputation for seeing through pretense.
"Is it the sport you find trivial, or just the attention it receives?" she asked quietly.
Scarlett considered this. "The disproportionate attention, I suppose. The way the whole town shuts down for games while the debate team competes in national championships with barely a mention in the school paper."
"Understandable," her mother agreed. "But that doesn't explain why you're upset about offering encouragement to a fellow student."
"He's not just a fellow student," Scarlett said, then immediately regretted the admission.
Her mother's eyebrow arched with interest. "Oh?"
"I just mean—he's different. Everyone's talking about him like he's going to single-handedly turn the football program around."
"And you think he can't?"
Scarlett shrugged. "I've seen him practicing. Early mornings when I go to school for quiet study time with Ayana. He's... determined. Focused in a way most high school boys aren't."
"Reminds me of someone else I know," her mother said with a smile.
"It's not the same."
"Isn't it? Dedication is dedication, whether it's applied to academics or athletics."
Scarlett didn't have a ready response for that. She'd never considered that the drive she applied to her studies might be similar to what athletes experienced on the field.
"He's staying with the Sayanas," she said after a moment. "Did you know that?"
Her mother nodded. "Lisa mentioned it at a book club. Said he's very polite, keeps to himself mostly. Haitian family, I believe she said."
"Haitian?" This was new information.
"Yes, his parents sent him to live with the Sayanas while they handle some family matters in Texas. Lisa says he speaks Creole with his mother when they talk on the phone."
Scarlett absorbed this detail, adding it to her mental file on Tristain Dyce. It made her see him in a slightly different light—not just the football transfer, but someone navigating multiple cultural spaces, trying to find his place.
"Well," she said, standing up, "it doesn't matter anyway. Our paths rarely cross except when I'm at the Sayanas'."
Her mother smiled knowingly. "If you say so, dear."
As Scarlett headed upstairs to study, she found herself wondering about Tristain's story—what had really brought him to North Bridgeton, what he hoped to achieve here, whether he felt as out of place as she sometimes did despite her deep roots in the community.
Not that it matters, she reminded herself firmly. In a year, she'd be headed to MIT and the future she'd planned since freshman year. North Bridgeton—and its new quarterback—would be firmly in her past.
Yet as she opened her textbook, Scarlett couldn't shake the image of Tristain Dyce's surprised expression when she'd wished him luck, or the strange feeling that their paths would cross again, and soon.
---
The locker room hummed with pre-practice energy—players slamming lockers, lacing cleats, adjusting pads. Kevin Russo sat in front of his locker, methodically taping his wrists, a ritual unchanged since freshman year.
Three lockers down, Tristain prepared with quiet focus, reviewing play cards from a small notebook between equipment adjustments. The contrast in their preparation styles mirrored their play—Kevin all technique and routine, Tristain a blend of preparation and instinct.
"Big day today, boys!" Coach Lawson called as he entered the locker room. "Full competition, live bullets. Let's see what you've got!"
Kevin finished his taping and stood, rolling his shoulders to settle his pads. Three years as a starter—three years of dedication, of learning every nuance of Milton's system, of representing North Bridgeton with pride despite the losses—and now it all came down to this: a competition with a transfer who'd been here less than a month.
It wasn't fair. But then, Kevin had learned long ago that football, like life, rarely was.
He crossed to where Tristain was studying formations. "Hey," he said, keeping his voice neutral. "May the best man win today."
Tristain looked up, surprised by the gesture. "Yeah, thanks man. You too."
Kevin nodded stiffly before heading toward the field, his complicated feelings churning beneath the surface. The truth was, he didn't hate Tristain Dyce. How could he? The guy worked hard, kept his head down, never bragged or showboated.
No, what bothered Kevin wasn't Tristain himself—it was what he represented. Change. Uncertainty. The suggestion that three years of Kevin's dedication might not be enough.
As the team filed onto the field, Kevin noticed how several players—Marcus Walker chief among them—gravitated toward Tristain during warm-ups. There was an energy around the transfer, an expectancy that Kevin had never generated despite his best efforts.
Coach Milton stood at midfield, clipboard in hand, his expression unreadable. "First team offense, first team defense, on the field. Russo, you're up first."
Kevin jogged to the huddle, feeling the weight of the moment. This was his team. His senior season. His last chance.
"Pro right tight, 52 mesh, on one," he called, selecting a play he knew like the back of his hand.
The offense broke the huddle, lining up against a defense that looked unusually energized. Kevin recognized the coverage immediately—Cover 2, with the strongside linebacker showing blitz. He made his protection adjustment, then took the snap.
The play unfolded exactly as designed—Kevin hit his drop point, progressed through his reads, and delivered a clean throw to the tight end cutting across the middle. Fundamentally sound, just as Coach Milton had taught him.
"Good execution," Milton called. "Switch quarterbacks, same personnel."
As Kevin jogged off, he passed Tristain heading in. Their eyes met briefly, mutual respect mingled with competitive fire.
From the sideline, Kevin watched as Tristain stepped into the huddle with easy confidence. The team seemed to stand a little straighter, listen a little more intently.
"Same play," Milton instructed. "Pro right tight, 52 mesh."
Kevin expected a similar result—the play was straightforward, designed for consistent, modest gains. What he didn't expect was what happened next.
As Tristain took the snap and dropped back, the defense switched its look, rolling to Cover 3 and bringing pressure from the blind side. It was a deliberate curveball from the defensive coordinator, testing the transfer's ability to adjust.
In Kevin's experience, this would typically result in either a coverage sack or a hurried, incomplete throw. But Tristain reacted differently.
He sensed the pressure before it arrived, rolling out the pocket to the right while keeping his eyes downfield. When the primary read was covered, he didn't force it. Instead, he found Marcus on an out route sprinting towards the right sideline, delivering the ball with perfect timing and velocity.
What should have been a five-yard gain became twenty as Marcus turned upfield, moving the chains with ease.
"That's what I'm talking about!" Coach Milton shouted, genuine excitement breaking through his usual stoic demeanor. "Reading the defense, extending the play, making something happen!"
The offense returned to the huddle energized. Kevin felt something cold settle in his stomach as he watched. It wasn't just that the throw had been good—it was the way Tristain had made it look effortless, the way the team responded to the success.
The rest of practice continued in similar fashion. Kevin executed the offense as designed—clean, competent, safe. Tristain did the same but added moments of improvisation and brilliance that left the defense frustrated and the offense celebrating.
By the time Milton called the final play, the direction of the competition was clear to everyone watching. Kevin Russo was a good high school quarterback. Tristain Dyce had the potential to be great.
As the team huddled for final instructions, Kevin found himself standing directly across from Tristain. The transfer's expression wasn't triumphant or smug—just focused, perhaps even a little surprised by his own performance.
In that moment, Kevin made a decision. He could fight this change, make it ugly, divide the team in his final season. Or he could accept the reality of what was happening and find a different way to leave his mark on North Bridgeton football.
"Good practice," he said to Tristain as the huddle broke, extending his hand.
Tristain looked momentarily startled before shaking it firmly. "Thanks. You too. Your knowledge of the system is incredible."
The acknowledgment was genuine, not patronizing, and Kevin appreciated it more than he expected to. "Three years of Coach Milton will do that to you," he replied with a small smile.
As they walked toward the locker room, Kevin made another decision—one that would have been unthinkable that morning.
"Listen," he said, lowering his voice. "There's some wrinkles to Milton's offense that aren't in the playbook. Adjustments we've developed over the years. If you want, I could show you sometime."
Tristain stopped walking, turning to face Kevin fully. "Why would you do that?"
Kevin considered the question seriously. "Because as of right now this is my last season playing football, ever. I'm going to Purdue for engineering next year, no athletic scholarship. So if I'm not going to be the one leading this team on the field, I at least want to help make sure we win, I want to finish what I started and be part of what this team is becoming."
Understanding dawned on Tristain's face. "I'd appreciate that. A lot."
"Don't thank me yet," Kevin warned with a wry smile. "Milton's full playbook is a monster and it seems like it's growing. We've got 8 months before the opener, and you've barely scratched the surface."
As they continued toward the locker room, Kevin felt a strange sense of relief wash over him. The pressure of being "the guy" was lifting, replaced by a new purpose. He might not be North Bridgeton's starting quarterback when the season began, but he could still contribute to turning the program around.
And maybe, just maybe, that would be legacy enough.
---
Tristain lay on his bed in the Sayanas' guest room, staring at the ceiling as thunder rumbled outside. The promised storm had arrived, rain lashing against the windows in rhythmic waves.
Today's practice replayed in his mind—the reads he'd made, the throws he'd delivered, the way the team had responded. It had been his best performance since arriving at North Bridgeton, and he knew exactly why.
The QB System had never been more active, more integrated with his natural abilities. He'd felt Johnny Manziel's improvisational instincts merging with his own decision-making, creating something greater than the sum of its parts.
[SLOT 1: JOHNNY MANZIEL - SCRAMBLING ABILITY - 36% ASSIMILATED]
The text appeared briefly, confirming what he'd already sensed—the assimilation was accelerating. At this rate, he might reach 50% months ahead of schedule. And then what?
The System had hinted at a second slot opening, but beyond that, Tristain had no idea what to expect. Would he get to choose the next quarterback template? Would it be assigned based on need? Would the additional assimilation strain his body further?
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from his mother.
"Bonjou, pitit mwen.(Hello my child) How did practice go today?"
Tristain smiled at the mix of Creole and English, a linguistic pattern that had defined his childhood. His parents had always emphasized their Haitian heritage, even as they built new lives in Texas.
"Really good," he typed back. "Coach had us competing for the starting spot. I think I have a chance."
The response came quickly: "Ou toujou genyen yon chans.(you still have your chance) You always have a chance. God didn't bring you this far to leave you."
Her faith had always been a constant, unwavering even when Tristain's own had faltered during the long seasons on the bench at Southfield.
"How's Grand-mère doing?" he asked, changing the subject.
"Better. The doctors say she might leave the hospital next week. Your father and I will stay until she's settled at home."
Relief washed over Tristain. His grandmother's sudden illness had been the official reason for his parents sending him to Indiana while they returned to Haiti. The unofficial reason—giving him space to pursue a fresh football opportunity without the pressure of their expectations—remained unspoken between them.
"Give her my love," he replied. "Tell her I'm making new connections here."
It wasn't just coach-speak. Today had felt like a turning point in more ways than one. Kevin's unexpected olive branch. Coach Milton's growing investment in his development. The team's increasing responsiveness to his leadership.
And then there was Ayana Clarke, whose brief encouragement had lingered in his thoughts far longer than it should have.
Another text arrived, this one from Marcus: "Film study tomorrow morning? Coach gave me the key to the classroom."
Tristain responded immediately: "I'm there. 6 AM?"
"Make it 5:30," came the reply. "We've got ground to make up."
Tristain set his alarm, then returned to his contemplation of the ceiling. The path ahead was taking shape—the quarterback competition, the season opener against Westfield, the chance to transform North Bridgeton's football fortunes.
For the first time since the QB System had activated, Tristain felt like he understood its purpose. It wasn't just about making him a better player or winning games. It was about connections—the kind that changed lives, that created opportunities, that built futures.
As the storm intensified outside, Tristain closed his eyes, listening to the rain against the windows. Whatever came next—with the System, with the team, with this small Indiana town that was slowly beginning to feel like home—he was ready for it.