Chapter 13: Exposures Tuesday - Scarlett's POV
Scarlett Clarke had always prided herself on seeing what others missed. It was a skill that served her well in debate—catching the subtle inconsistencies in opponents' arguments, the tells that revealed when someone was stretching the truth. So when she watched Tristain Dyce through her camera lens during Monday's track practice, she found herself captivated by the pure athleticism on display.
She sat in the stands now, editing photos for the school paper, genuinely impressed by the shots she'd captured. There was something almost artistic about the way Tristain moved—fluid, purposeful, like his body was designed for speed.
"Still documenting the quarterback?" Ayana dropped onto the bleacher beside her, holding two bottles of water.
"Getting some great action shots," Scarlett corrected, accepting the water gratefully. "The paper wants a full spread on spring sports."
"Uh-huh." Ayana pulled up her own tablet, where she'd been reviewing her biochemistry notes. "Find anything interesting in your 'documentation'?"
Scarlett glanced at her best friend, noting the teasing edge in her voice. Ayana had been in a surprisingly good mood about Tristain lately—the initial awkwardness of having a host brother seemed to be fading into something that looked almost... fond.
"His form is really impressive," Scarlett said carefully. "You don't usually see that level of technical precision from someone who's primarily a football player."
"Maybe he's just naturally gifted." Ayana shrugged, but there was something in her tone—a protective quality that Scarlett had noticed creeping into conversations about Tristain. "Some people are good at everything they try."
They sat in comfortable silence, each focused on their own work. Below them, the track team was finishing their workout, players gradually dispersing toward the locker rooms. Tristain jogged past the stands, and Scarlett felt that familiar flutter in her chest—part attraction, part something more complicated.
The problem was, she'd started noticing the way Ayana watched him too. The way her friend's eyes followed Tristain's movements, the subtle smile that crossed her face when he succeeded at something. It was the same expression Ayana got when she was genuinely pleased about something important.
"Marcus wants me to ask him to prom," Scarlett said suddenly, testing the waters.
Ayana's response was immediate—a slight stiffening, a barely perceptible frown. "Marcus wants you to ask Tristain to prom?"
"He thinks I have a crush." Scarlett felt heat rise in her cheeks while watching Ayana's reaction carefully. "Which is... complicated."
"Why complicated?"
The question came out a little too quickly, with a little too much interest. Scarlett felt her heart sink slightly. She'd suspected, but now she was almost certain.
"Because I think someone else might be interested in him too," Scarlett said gently.
They looked at each other for a long moment, understanding passing between them without words. Ayana's cheeks flushed slightly.
"That's ridiculous," Ayana said, but her voice lacked conviction. "He's my host brother. It would be weird."
"Would it, though?"
Ayana didn't answer, which was answer enough.
Before the conversation could get more awkward, Scarlett's phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number:
Unknown: Hey, it's Tristain. Marcus gave me your number. Could we talk sometime? About the interview thing?
Scarlett stared at the message, her emotions churning. Part excitement, part disappointment, part guilt about her best friend sitting right next to her.
"Who is it?" Ayana asked, though her tone suggested she already knew.
"Tristain," Scarlett said quietly, showing her the phone.
Ayana's expression was carefully neutral. "The interview. Right."
Scarlett typed back: When and where?
The response came almost immediately: Tomorrow after school? Library?
"He wants to meet tomorrow," she told Ayana.
"Perfect. You can get your story." Ayana's voice was bright, but Scarlett could hear the effort it took.
As they packed up their things, Scarlett found herself in an impossible position. She genuinely liked Tristain—his quiet confidence, his thoughtfulness, the way he seemed to see past surface-level interactions. But she also loved Ayana like a sister, and the last thing she wanted was for a boy to come between them.
Especially when she was starting to suspect that Tristain might be developing feelings for Ayana too.
---
Marcus Walker sat in the passenger seat of his mom's beat-up Honda Civic, watching the warehouse district roll past through rain-streaked windows. The GPS said they were five minutes from his destination—a distribution center where he'd be spending the next four hours unloading trucks for $11 an hour.
"You sure about this, baby?" his mom asked for the third time, her voice carrying that familiar mix of pride and worry. "Your knee's barely healed, and you're already doing double practices..."
"I'm sure, Ma." Marcus adjusted the elastic sleeve around his left knee—a constant reminder of the ACL tear that had derailed his recruitment. "We need the money."
She didn't argue because they both knew it was true. His father's child support was sporadic at best, and his mom's job at the nursing home barely covered rent and utilities. The recruiting letters that used to flood their mailbox had stopped coming after his injury, replaced by medical bills and physical therapy appointments.
But that was before Tristain.
"This quarterback really as good as you say?" his mom asked, pulling into the warehouse parking lot.
"Better." Marcus grabbed his work gloves from the dashboard. "Coach says colleges are already sniffing around. If he has a good spring and summer, schools might start looking at his receivers too."
It was a long shot—banking his future on another player's success—but it was the only shot he had left. His ACL was fully healed, his speed was back to 95%, but nobody cared about a receiver with no quarterback to throw to him. Tristain changed that equation.
"Just don't put all your eggs in one basket," his mom said gently. "Keep your grades up, keep your options open."
"I will." Marcus kissed her cheek. "Pick me up at seven?"
"I'll be here."
As she drove away, Marcus stood in the parking lot for a moment, letting the reality of his situation settle over him. Six months ago, he'd been fielding calls from Power Five programs. Now he was about to spend his afternoon moving boxes to help pay for groceries.
The warehouse foreman, a thick-set man named Jimmy, greeted him at the loading dock. "You're Walker, right? The football player?"
"Yes, sir."
"Heard you're pretty good. My nephew plays at Lawrence North—says you torched them for three TDs sophomore year."
"Different lifetime," Marcus said with a rueful smile.
"Well, this ain't football, son. In here, we move fast, we move safe, and we don't complain. You good with that?"
"Yes, sir."
For the next four hours, Marcus lost himself in the rhythm of physical labor—lifting, carrying, stacking, repeat. His knee held up fine, which was a relief, and the work actually felt good in a way that surprised him. There was something honest about moving boxes, something uncomplicated that his life had been lacking.
During his break, he checked his phone to find a group text from the 7-on-7 crew:
Davis: Taylor wants us at the field Saturday 8 AM sharp. Flight Boys first practice!
Deshawn: 8 AM on a Saturday? This dude's crazy
Tristain: I'll be there
Carlos: Ride or die with the QB1
Marcus smiled and typed back: Count me in
The Flight Boys—their 7-on-7 team name that Taylor had chosen because "we're going to help you all take off." The 7-on-7 circuit was their ticket—a chance to showcase their skills in front of college coaches who wouldn't normally give North Bridgeton a second look. And with Tristain throwing the ball, Marcus knew they had a real shot at making some noise.
His phone buzzed again, this time with a direct message from Tristain:
Tristain: How's the job going?
Marcus was surprised by the question. Most of his teammates didn't even know he was working, and those who did usually didn't bring it up.
Marcus: Not bad. Honest work.
Tristain: Respect. My dad worked construction before he got his engineering degree. Said it taught him more about character than college ever did.
The message hit Marcus unexpectedly. He'd assumed Tristain came from money—the way he carried himself, the confidence, the fact that he could afford to transfer schools. But maybe there was more complexity there than he'd realized.
Marcus: Hoping I don't have to do this forever
Tristain: You won't. We're going to make some noise this summer. Get you back on college radars.
The certainty in Tristain's text was both reassuring and motivating. Marcus had seen enough of Tristain's practice performances to believe in his ability completely.
"Walker!" Jimmy's voice cut through his thoughts. "Break's over!"
Marcus pocketed his phone and returned to work, but Tristain's message stuck with him. There was something about his new quarterback that made people believe in possibilities they'd previously written off.
As he loaded another pallet of boxes, Marcus found himself thinking about recruiting videos, highlight reels, and second chances. If Tristain was half as good as he seemed to be becoming, this summer could change everything.
For both of them.
---
On Wednesday the library after school hours had a different energy—quieter, more intimate, with golden afternoon light filtering through tall windows. Tristain found Scarlett at a corner table in the periodicals section, laptop open, surrounded by neat stacks of newspapers and academic journals.
"Researching?" he asked, sliding into the chair across from her.
"Always." She gestured to the materials around her. "Working on a piece about academic achievements in athletics. You'd be amazed how many student-athletes are genuine scholars."
"Find anything interesting?"
"Lots of inspiring stories. Kids who excel in the classroom and on the field." Scarlett closed her laptop and pulled out a small digital recorder, but something seemed different about her demeanor—more professional, more distant than their previous conversations. "Mind if I record this? It makes transcription easier."
"Sure." Tristain settled back in his chair, wondering if he'd done something to make her uncomfortable.
"Start with the basics. How does a third-string quarterback from Texas end up setting records at North Bridgeton?"
The interview proceeded smoothly enough, but Tristain couldn't shake the feeling that Scarlett was holding something back. Her questions were thorough and thoughtful, but she seemed to be maintaining careful professional distance.
When she asked about his journal-keeping habit, her smile was genuine but brief. When he complimented her approach to journalism, she accepted it graciously but moved quickly to the next question.
"I think I have what I need for the article," she said finally, turning off her recorder and closing her notepad.
"When will it run?"
"Next week's edition. I'll send you a draft before publication—make sure I didn't misrepresent anything."
As they packed up their materials, Tristain felt like he was missing something important. The easy rapport they'd built during their previous conversations seemed muted, replaced by something more complicated.
"Scarlett?" he said as they reached the library entrance.
"Yeah?"
For a moment, he'd been thinking to ask her to prom. The words had been forming, the question had felt natural. But something in her expression—a kind of resigned professionalism—made him hesitate.
"Thanks for the interview. I appreciate you taking the time."
"Of course. It's my job."
As they walked toward the parking lot, Tristain found himself thinking not about Scarlett, but about the conversation he'd had with Ayana that morning. The way she'd wished him luck before he left for school, the genuine warmth in her voice when she'd asked about his day.
Maybe he'd been focusing on the wrong person entirely.
---
Tristain arrived at North Bridgeton's practice field at 7:45 AM to find Derrick Taylor already setting up equipment while wearing what appeared to be a vintage Michigan State jersey, aviator sunglasses, and basketball shorts that had definitely seen better days.
"You must be Dyce," Taylor said, extending his hand. The former Michigan State receiver looked every bit the part of an elite trainer, but his setup suggested someone with... unique organizational methods. He had a boombox playing 90s hip-hop, a cooler full of energy drinks, and what looked like a homemade motivational poster featuring a bald eagle carrying a football.
"Good things, I hope," Tristain replied, trying not to stare at the poster.
"Outstanding things." Taylor's grip was firm, assessing. "Milton says you're special. We'll see if he's right. Also, hope you like Red Bull because I bought a case and we're not leaving until it's empty."
Other players began arriving—Marcus looking focused and determined, Deshawn bouncing with nervous energy, Carlos and Jaylen chatting quietly. The entire receiving corps was there, plus several defensive backs who'd volunteered to provide coverage.
"Alright, Flight Boys!" Taylor called once everyone had gathered, striking what appeared to be a superhero pose. "Welcome to elite-level training. This isn't high school practice anymore. We're going to push your limits, demand perfection, and prepare you for college-level competition. Our first tournament is in Chicago in three weeks, and we're going to make some noise!"
He gestured to the setup around them—precision route-running cones, timing devices, multiple camera angles, and a whiteboard with what looked like airplane diagrams.
"Everything we do today gets recorded, analyzed, and critiqued. By the end of summer, you'll have highlight reels that showcase not just your athletic ability, but your football intelligence. Also, I've named all the routes after aircraft because we're the Flight Boys and I think it's cool."
The first hour focused on route precision. Taylor ran each receiver through their patterns individually, making minute adjustments while occasionally making airplane noises for emphasis.
"Walker," he called to Marcus, "your 'Boeing 747'—that's our comeback route—breaks at 18 yards, but you're settling at 16. At this level, two yards matters. We're flying planes here, not paper airplanes. Run it again."
Marcus ran the route again, this time breaking at exactly 18 yards and presenting a perfect target for the quarterback.
"Better! Like a smooth landing at O'Hare! Dyce, hit him with the 'Red Baron special'!"
Tristain dropped back and delivered a strike that hit Marcus in the chest at the precise moment he turned. The timing was perfect.
"That's what we're looking for!" Taylor nodded approvingly while making exaggerated pilot gestures. "Precision creates separation. Separation creates opportunities. And opportunities create scholarships which create money which creates happiness!"
They worked through each receiver's route tree systematically. Deshawn's speed routes ("F-16 Fighters"), Carlos's possession patterns ("C-130 Cargo Planes"), Jaylen's slot precision ("Stealth Bombers"). Tristain found himself processing their subtle differences—how Marcus needed the ball delivered with more velocity, how Deshawn preferred it slightly in front to maintain his momentum.
"Your processing speed is impressive," Taylor commented during a water break, offering Tristain a Red Bull. "Most quarterbacks take weeks to learn their receivers' preferences. You're picking it up faster than a fighter jet on afterburners."
"Good coaching," Tristain replied modestly.
"Good instincts," Taylor corrected, striking another inexplicable pose. "Coaching can teach technique. Instincts are gifts from the football gods, and the football gods apparently like you."
The second hour moved to competitive drills—7-on-7 scrimmages with defensive backs providing coverage. Taylor had set up a sophisticated down-and-distance system with specific scenarios.
"Alright, Flight Boys, time for combat missions!" Taylor announced, consulting a clipboard covered in stickers of various aircraft. "Red zone drill. Offense at the 20-yard line, four downs to score. Defense, make them earn it. First drive coming up!"
DRIVE 1: 1st and 10 at the 20-yard line
Tristain jogged to the huddle, feeling the familiar pre-snap calm settle over him. "Trips right, 'Boeing 747' on one," he called, using Taylor's route terminology. "Marcus, you're reading the safety. If he jumps the slot, comeback at 15. Deshawn, clear out the corner with speed—full F-16 mode."
At the line, Tristain surveyed the defense. Single safety high, corners in press coverage. The linebacker was cheating toward Marcus, anticipating the primary route.
"Omaha!" Tristain called, alerting his receivers to the hot route adjustment.
SNAP: The ball came back clean. Tristain took a three-step drop, eyes immediately finding the safety. The safety rotated toward the trips formation, exactly as Tristain had read. Marcus broke his route off at 15 yards, finding the soft spot in coverage. Tristain planted his back foot and delivered a strike that hit Marcus in the chest for a 15-yard gain.
"Beautiful read!" Taylor called, doing what looked like the airplane dance. "Defense, you telegraphed that rotation like a crop duster! Offense, perfect execution!"
1st and Goal at the 5-yard line
"Four verticals, 'Blue Angels formation' on two," Tristain called in the huddle. "Find the hole in coverage and sit down. Trust your spots."
SNAP: Four receivers released vertically. The defense was playing man coverage with a safety over the top. Tristain identified the linebacker covering Jaylen in the slot—a clear mismatch. He pump-faked toward Marcus to freeze the safety, then delivered a perfect touch pass over the linebacker's head to Jaylen for an easy touchdown.
"TOUCHDOWN FLIGHT BOYS!" Taylor screamed, actually running around with his arms extended like airplane wings. "That's how you exploit mismatches! Linebacker on a slot receiver is like bringing a bicycle to a Formula 1 race!"
DRIVE 2: 2nd and 12 at the 35-yard line (after a holding penalty)
The defense had adjusted, bringing pressure and playing more aggressive coverage. Tristain needed to find a way to convert the long down and distance.
"Gun trips left, 'Stealth Bomber' concept on one," he called. "Jaylen, you're the primary. Marcus, 'Red Baron' at 18. Deshawn, 'Fighter Jet' seam if they bring pressure."
SNAP: The defense showed blitz. Tristain recognized it immediately—two linebackers were coming, leaving only five in coverage against four receivers. He identified the hot route: Deshawn running a seam up the middle where the linebacker had vacated.
Tristain caught the snap, took a quick one-step drop, and fired a strike to Deshawn just as the pressure arrived. Deshawn caught the ball in stride and outran the safety for a 35-yard touchdown.
"STEALTH MODE ACTIVATED!" Taylor yelled, now wearing what appeared to be a pilot's helmet he'd produced from somewhere. "That's how you beat the blitz! Quick recognition, quick release, trust your receiver to make the play!"
DRIVE 3: 3rd and 8 at the 45-yard line (situational pressure)
This time, Taylor had instructed the defense to disguise their coverage. They were showing one look pre-snap but would rotate to something different after the ball was snapped.
"This is chess, not checkers!" Taylor called out. "Defense is going to try to trick you. Trust your reads and adjust!"
Tristain came to the line seeing Cover 2 safety alignment but noticed the linebacker's alignment was unusual—too deep for run support, suggesting a rotation was coming.
"Trips right, 'Top Gun' concept on one," he called. "Be ready for the coverage change!"
SNAP: Exactly as Tristain suspected, the defense rotated to Cover 3, with the linebacker dropping to cover the underneath zone. But the rotation left Marcus with single coverage on the outside. Tristain waited for Marcus to clear the linebacker's zone, then delivered a back-shoulder throw that hit Marcus perfectly at the 25-yard line for a 20-yard gain.
"READ AND REACT!" Taylor shouted, now somehow wearing aviator goggles. "That's veteran quarterback play! You just out-thought a defense that thought they were being clever!"
Final Drive: 2-minute drill - Down by 4, 80 yards to go, one timeout
"Alright, Boys," Taylor announced dramatically, "this is Top Gun time. Maverick and Goose territory. Ice Man level cool. You need a touchdown to win, and you've got 2 minutes to make it happen."
Tristain felt completely in his element. The pressure, the precision required, the need to elevate everyone around him—it all felt like home.
"Here we go," he said in the huddle. "Quick game to start, then we take our shots. Stay confident, run everything full speed. Trust each other."
First Down — 1st and 10 at the 20
In the huddle, he called it out: "Trips right. Gun spread. Y-slat on one."
Carlos, bouncing lightly on his toes, leaned closer.
"You see how that corner's been leaning outside? I'll snap it quick inside."
Tristain gave a quick nod.
"Say less."
They lined up. The defense played off, giving cushion. Tristain took the snap, rocked back, and snapped his wrist forward. The ball zipped out on a low laser—a perfect slant into Carlos's gut.
Carlos felt it thump into his hands.Man, that ball comes out clean. Like a freakin' pitching machine.
He tucked it and turned upfield, slipping between two defenders for eight yards.
From the sideline, one of the freshmen wideouts let out a low whistle.
"Bro… Dyce's release is so fast. It's pretty."
Second Down — 2nd and 2 at the 28
Tristain bounced in place, scanning the defense.
Linebackers cheating inside. Flats are soft. Terrell's got space.
"Spread left. Halfback option," he called.
Terrell clapped his gloves.
"Feed me."
Snap. Quick read. Tristain faked a glance deep, then checked it down to Terrell in the flat.
Terrell caught it waist-high and exploded upfield, muttering,
"Get off me, man!"
He stiff-armed a DB and churned ahead for twelve yards, helmet bobbing as he ran. Players on the sideline erupted, slapping each other's helmets.
Marcus, jogging alongside Tristain, gave him a grin.
"Dude… that ball was gone before Terrell even turned around."
Tristain laughed, breathless.
"Timing, bro. Timing."
First Down — 1st and 10 at the 40
Tristain wiped his palms on his jersey.
All right. Let's give Marcus some love. Trust your guy. Throw it where only he can get it.
"Doubles right. Back-shoulder fade," he called, catching Marcus's eyes.
Marcus smirked.
"Let's eat."
Snap. Tristain dropped back, scanning just long enough to freeze the safety. Then he released the ball—a silky smooth flick, the spiral tight and shimmering in the sun.
From Marcus's perspective, it felt like slow-motion.Ball's already in the air… damn, that's pretty. Just where I wanted it.
Marcus planted, swiveled back toward the sideline, and snatched the pass an inch off the DB's fingertips. His cleats scraped the turf as he tapped his toes inbounds, picking up eighteen yards.
A chorus of "OHHHH!" rolled across the sideline.
1st and 10 at the 22-yard line, 45 seconds remaining: This was it. Red zone, final shot.
"Four verticals, 'Final Flight' concept," Tristain called. "Find your window and sit down. I'll find you."
SNAP: Four receivers released vertically. The safety rolled late toward Marcus, leaving Jaylen in single coverage against a linebacker who was clearly overmatched. Tristain stepped up in the pocket, avoided a rush, and delivered a strike that hit Jaylen perfectly in stride at the 8-yard line.
TOUCHDOWN.
The offensive players celebrated while Taylor performed what could only be described as an elaborate victory flight pattern around the field.
"FLIGHT BOYS TOUCHDOWN!" he screamed. "That was college-level execution! The timing, the reads, the route precision—all of it! Chicago is going to know our names!"
As the session broke up, Tom Sayana approached Tristain near the equipment bags, having watched the entire practice from the sideline.
"That was impressive," he said simply. "I can see why the coaches are excited."
"Thank you, Mr. Sayana. Means a lot that you came out."
"Ayana wanted to come too, but she had SAT prep. Said to tell you she's proud of you."
The comment hit Tristain unexpectedly. Having Ayana's support, even secondhand, felt significant in a way that surprised him.
"How are you adjusting to everything?" Tom asked. "The pressure, the attention—it's a lot for someone your age."
"Some days are harder than others," Tristain admitted. "But I've got good people around me."
Tom nodded approvingly. "That's wise. Success is easier to handle when you don't try to carry it alone."
As Tristain gathered his gear, he reflected on the morning's success. The 7-on-7 session had gone better than he could have hoped. His connection with the receivers was developing rapidly, and Taylor's... unique coaching style was somehow incredibly effective.
But more than the football success, he found himself thinking about Ayana's message of support, delivered through her father. There was something about knowing she was proud of him that felt more meaningful than the touchdowns and perfect throws.
Sunday Evening - Ayana's POV
Ayana found Tristain in the kitchen Sunday evening, making what appeared to be a very elaborate sandwich. His hair was still damp from a shower, and he moved with the loose, satisfied energy of someone who'd had a successful day.
"How was the 7-on-7 session?" she asked, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl while trying to sound casual.
"Really good. Your dad seemed to enjoy it." Tristain glanced up with a smile that made something flutter in her chest. "The coach is... unique."
"Dad said he was wearing aviator goggles and making airplane noises?"
"Among other things. But he's effective. The whole team is buying into his system."
Ayana settled onto a bar stool, closer than strictly necessary but not obviously so. "Marcus looked happy when he left. Like, genuinely happy. Haven't seen that from him in a while."
"He's got a lot of talent. Just needed the right opportunity to show it."
There was something about the way Tristain talked about his teammates—generous, thoughtful, always crediting others—that made Ayana's feelings even more complicated. She'd started this living arrangement skeptical of football culture, but Tristain was proving to be nothing like her preconceptions.
"Dad said you had some incredible throws today," she said, genuinely curious about the details.
Tristain's face lit up as he described the session—the route combinations, the coverage reads, the way everything had clicked with the receivers. As he talked, using his hands to demonstrate throwing motions, Ayana found herself captivated not just by his obvious passion for the game, but by his intelligence about it.
"You really love this, don't you?" she said when he finished.
"Yeah," he admitted. "More than I expected to when I transferred. It's not just the playing—it's the problem-solving aspect. Every play is like a puzzle with multiple solutions."
"That's... actually really cool." And she meant it. "I never thought about football that way."
"Most people don't. They see the hits and the celebration, but miss the chess match happening on every snap."
They sat in comfortable silence while Tristain finished assembling his sandwich. This felt like the most relaxed conversation they'd had since he'd arrived—no underlying tension, no awkward host-family dynamics.
"Can I ask you something?" Ayana said, her heart rate inexplicably accelerating.
"Sure."
"Are you planning to ask anyone to prom?"
The question came out more direct than she'd intended. Tristain looked up from his sandwich, something shifting in his expression.
"I was thinking about it," he said carefully. "Why?"
"Just curious. Scarlett mentioned that Marcus was pushing you to ask someone."
"Marcus has a lot of opinions about my social life," Tristain said with a laugh. Then, more seriously: "What about you? Anyone asking you?"
"A few people. Haven't decided yet."
They looked at each other for a moment, and Ayana felt the air in the kitchen change. There was something unspoken but significant happening, a possibility hovering between them that neither seemed ready to voice.
"Ayana?" Tristain said quietly.
"Yeah?"
"Would you want to go to prom? With me, I mean."
The question was tentative, uncertain, and absolutely what she'd been hoping to hear. Her chest filled with warmth.
"Are you asking because Marcus told you to?" she said, echoing what she'd imagined Scarlett might say.
"No. I'm asking because I want to."
"Okay," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "But I'm picking the outfits."
"Deal."
Before either of them could say anything else, her parents entered the kitchen, returning from their evening walk.
"How's our quarterback doing?" her mom asked, ruffling Tristain's hair affectionately.
"Good, Mrs. Sayana. Just refueling."
"That sandwich is bigger than your head," her dad observed. "Growing boy needs fuel, I guess."
"Speaking of growing," her mom said, settling at the counter, "we should probably start planning for prom. Suit rental, dinner reservations, pictures..."
Ayana felt her cheeks warm as her parents looked between her and Tristain with knowing expressions.
"Did we miss something?" her dad asked with a grin.
"Tristain asked me to prom," Ayana said, unable to keep the happiness out of her voice.
Her parents exchanged a look that was part surprise, part 'we saw this coming.'
"Well," her mom said warmly, "that's wonderful. We'll need to coordinate with your parents, Tristain—"
"They're in Texas," Tristain said, his expression shifting slightly. "But we can figure something out."
"Video call maybe? Or could they visit?" her dad suggested.
"We'll work it out," Tristain said, but something in his tone suggested the topic made him uncomfortable.
Before anyone could probe further, Ayana jumped in. "We should probably focus on the basics first. Like making sure Tristain knows how to slow dance without stepping on my dress."
"I'll try my best," Tristain said with a laugh that seemed relieved by the subject change.
Later, as they headed upstairs for the night, Ayana caught Tristain's arm gently in the hallway.
"Hey," she said. "Thanks for asking me. I was hoping you would."
"Really?"
"Really. You're..." she paused, searching for the right words. "You're not what I expected when Mom said we were hosting a football player."
"Good different or bad different?"
"Definitely good different."
They stood in the hallway for a moment, close enough that Ayana could smell his soap, could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. The moment felt charged with possibility, but also gentle—nothing rushed or presumptuous.
"I should probably let you get some sleep," Tristain said finally. "Big week ahead."
"Yeah. You too."
As she headed to her room, Ayana felt like she was floating. The guarded, slightly suspicious interaction of a few weeks ago had given way to something that felt natural and right. Tristain was finding his place—not just on the football team or in the school, but in her life specifically.
And for the first time since he'd arrived, she was completely okay with that.
In fact, she was more than okay with it.
Meanwhile, down the hall, Tristain lay in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking about biochemistry discussions and SAT prep sessions and the way Ayana's eyes lit up when she talked about Northwestern. He was thinking about how she'd defended his intelligence to her friends, how she'd wished him luck through her father, how she'd looked when she said yes to prom.
He was thinking that maybe the most important integration happening in his life had nothing to do with the QB System at all.