Tristain sat in the cafeteria Monday morning, pushing scrambled eggs around his plate while his mind raced with an idea that was either brilliant or completely insane. Around him, the usual breakfast crowd chatted about weekend plans and upcoming tests, but all he could think about was a conversation he'd overheard between two senior girls the day before.
"Did you see Jake's promposal to Emma? He rented out the whole mini golf course!"
"That's nothing. Remember when Tyler projected that video on the water tower?"
That's when it hit him. If he was going to ask Ayana to prom—really ask her, not just a casual kitchen conversation—he wanted to do it right. Something memorable, something that showed her how much she'd come to mean to him.
Marcus slid into the seat across from him, carrying a tray loaded with what appeared to be half the breakfast line.
"You look like you're planning something," Marcus observed, attacking his pancakes with characteristic enthusiasm.
"Maybe. Can I ask you something?"
"Shoot."
"How would you feel about helping me with a promposal?"
Marcus's fork paused halfway to his mouth. "A what now?"
"A promposal. For Ayana."
"Bro." Marcus set down his fork entirely. "I thought you were going to ask Scarlett."
"Change of plans."
"Ayana? Your host sister Ayana?"
"She's not actually my sister, Marcus."
"Fair point." Marcus leaned back, processing this development. "Okay, I'm in. What did you have in mind?"
For the next twenty minutes, Tristain outlined his idea while Marcus occasionally choked on his orange juice from excitement or disbelief. By the time the bell rang for first period, they had the skeleton of a plan that would require the entire team's cooperation.
"This is either going to be the most romantic thing ever," Marcus said as they gathered their backpacks, "or the most spectacular failure in North Bridgeton history."
"Thanks for the confidence boost."
"Just keeping it real. But seriously, this is going to be epic."
Monday Lunch - The Recruitment Phase
Tristain spent the lunch period moving through the cafeteria like a quarterback reading a defense, systematically approaching each member of the Flight Boys roster with his proposition.
"Let me get this straight," Deshawn said, nearly spitting out his chocolate milk. "You want us to pretend to go see a movie just so you can ask Ayana to prom?"
"It's more elaborate than that," Tristain explained patiently. "We rent out the entire theater for a private screening. I make a video asking her to prom. When it plays on the big screen, you guys reveal the flowers and posters."
"And she'll be there because...?"
"Scarlett's going to invite her. Says she won a contest for a private movie screening and wants to share it with her best friend."
Carlos looked up from his sandwich. "That's actually kind of genius."
"Or kind of crazy," Jaylen added. "What if she says no? In front of all of us? And the flowers? And the posters?"
"Then I'll live with the embarrassment," Tristain said simply. "But I think it's worth the risk."
One by one, each player agreed to participate. Even the normally reserved Jackson Moore seemed genuinely excited about the plan.
"When's this happening?" Davis asked.
"Tomorrow night. Scarlett's setting it up for seven o'clock."
"What movie are we pretending to watch?"
"Something romantic but not obvious. Scarlett suggested the new superhero movie—popular enough that Ayana won't be suspicious."
By the end of lunch, Tristain had his entire roster committed to what Marcus had dubbed "Operation Promposal." All that remained was creating the video and coordinating with Scarlett, who had thrown herself into the project with the enthusiasm of someone planning a military operation.
----
Tristain stood in his bedroom Monday night, facing his phone camera with a level of nervousness he'd never experienced before fourth down plays. He'd written and rewritten his script a dozen times, but now that the moment had arrived to actually record it, his mind was blank.
Marcus sat on the desk chair, serving as director and moral support.
"Just be yourself," Marcus encouraged. "Say what you actually feel about her."
"That's the problem. I don't know how to put it into words."
"Try. What is it about her that makes you want to ask her to prom?"
Tristain sat on the edge of his bed, thinking. "She's smart. Like, really smart. But she doesn't make you feel stupid when she explains things. And she's funny in this quiet way that catches you off guard."
"Good. Keep going."
"She sees people for who they really are, not just what they can do or achieve. And she's been so patient with me, letting me find my place in her family."
"Perfect. Say that."
Tristain took a deep breath and hit record.
"Hi, Ayana. If you're watching this, it means you're sitting in a movie theater right now, probably wondering why the previews are taking so long." He smiled, feeling some of his nervousness fade. "The truth is, there is no movie. Well, there is, but this comes first.
"I wanted to ask you something important, and I wanted to do it in a way that showed you how much you mean to me. These past few months, living in your house, being part of your family—it's changed everything for me.
"You've been patient with my weird football schedule, you've helped me figure out how to belong somewhere new, and somehow you've made me feel like Indiana could actually be home.
"But more than that, you've become my favorite person to talk to. Whether it's about football strategy or molecular biology or whatever random thing is on your mind—I love the way you think about things. I love how you make everything more interesting just by being there.
"So here's my question: Ayana Sayana, will you go to prom with me? And before you answer, you should probably turn around."
He ended the recording and immediately played it back, cringing at his own voice.
"That was perfect," Marcus said firmly. "Don't even think about re-recording it."
"You think it's too much?"
"I think it's honest. And if she doesn't say yes to that, then she's crazy."
---
Ayana followed Scarlett into the Regal Cinemas lobby Tuesday evening, still slightly confused about how her best friend had managed to win a private screening contest she'd never heard of.
"Are you sure about this?" she asked as Scarlett led her toward Theater 7. "Seems too good to be true."
"Trust me," Scarlett said, though her smile seemed forced. "You're going to love this."
They entered the theater to find it filled with familiar faces—at least twenty North Bridgeton students scattered throughout the seats, all chatting casually as if this were a perfectly normal movie night.
"Scarlett," Ayana said slowly, "why are half the football team here?"
"Coincidence?" Scarlett offered weakly.
Before Ayana could respond, the lights dimmed and the screen lit up. But instead of previews, Tristain's face appeared in high definition, wearing the shy smile she'd grown to love.
"Hi, Ayana. If you're watching this, it means you're sitting in a movie theater right now, probably wondering why the previews are taking so long."
Ayana's hands flew to her mouth as understanding dawned. Around her, she could hear whispers and giggles from the other students, but all of her attention was focused on the screen.
As Tristain continued speaking—talking about her family, about belonging, about how she'd become his favorite person to talk to—Ayana felt tears prick her eyes. No one had ever said things like that about her before. No one had ever made her feel so seen, so valued.
"So here's my question: Ayana Sayana, will you go to prom with me? And before you answer, you should probably turn around."
The video ended, and the theater lights slowly brightened. Ayana turned to find every football player in the theater standing, each holding a single yellow rose—her favorite flower, which Tristain had somehow remembered from a conversation weeks ago. Marcus held a poster that read "PROM?" while Deshawn's poster declared "SAY YES TO THE QB!"
But all of that faded into background when she saw Tristain himself, standing in the aisle beside her row, holding a bouquet of yellow roses and looking more nervous than she'd ever seen him.
"So," he said quietly, his voice barely audible over the excited whispers filling the theater. "What do you think?"
Ayana stood slowly, her heart hammering against her ribs. The entire theater was watching, waiting for her answer, but all she could focus on was the boy in front of her who'd somehow managed to see straight into her heart and reflect back everything she'd never known she wanted to hear.
"I think," she said, her voice thick with emotion, "that this is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever done for me."
"Is that a yes?"
Instead of answering with words, Ayana stepped into the aisle and kissed him. It was soft, brief, and completely perfect—their first kiss witnessed by half the football team and immortalized by Marcus, who was definitely taking pictures with his phone.
When they broke apart, the theater erupted in cheers and applause. Tristain handed her the roses with shaking hands, and she realized he'd been more nervous about this than any game situation she'd ever seen him in.
"Yes," she whispered, just for him. "Obviously yes."
As the theater began to empty—the "movie" portion of the evening apparently canceled in favor of celebrating—Scarlett approached them both, her expression a mixture of happiness and something more complicated.
"That was beautiful," she said, and Ayana could hear that she genuinely meant it. "You two are perfect together."
There was something in her friend's tone that made Ayana look at her more closely, but before she could analyze it, Marcus interrupted with demands for group photos and detailed recounting of the entire plan.
Later, as Tristain walked her to her dad's car in the parking lot, Ayana couldn't stop smiling.
"How long were you planning this?" she asked.
"Since yesterday morning. Marcus helped coordinate everything."
"And the yellow roses?"
"You mentioned once that they were your favorite. During that conversation about your mom's garden."
The fact that he'd remembered such a small detail made her chest feel warm and tight. "This was incredible, Tristain. I can't believe you did all this just to ask me to prom."
"You're worth it," he said simply. "You're worth a lot more than this, actually."
They reached the car, but neither of them moved to get in. The parking lot was mostly empty now, the excitement of the evening settling into something quieter and more intimate.
"Can I tell you something?" Ayana said.
"Anything."
"I was hoping you'd ask me. I've been hoping for weeks."
"Really?"
"Really. I kept trying to figure out how to bring it up without being obvious."
"Well, I think we're past the subtle approach now."
They laughed, and Ayana realized that this—standing in a movie theater parking lot with roses in her arms and Tristain's nervous energy finally relaxing into relief—was exactly how she'd wanted to feel about prom. Not stressed about dresses or worried about awkward small talk, but genuinely excited to spend an evening with someone who saw her clearly and liked what he saw.
"Ayana?" Tristain said as she finally moved toward the car door.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you for saying yes."
"Thank you for asking in the most romantic way possible."
---
The hallways of North Bridgeton buzzed with energy Wednesday morning, but it wasn't just about the upcoming weekend. Word of Tristain's elaborate promposal had spread through the school like wildfire, complete with cell phone videos and detailed retellings that grew more dramatic with each iteration.
Scarlett sat in the journalism classroom, reviewing her article about the Flight Boys' upcoming tournament, when Ayana burst through the door carrying what appeared to be a small bouquet of yellow roses.
"Okay," Ayana said, settling into the chair across from Scarlett's desk, "I need to talk to someone about last night, and you're the only person who knows all the details."
"How are you feeling about it?" Scarlett asked, trying to keep her voice neutral.
"Like I'm living in a movie. A really good movie." Ayana's smile was radiant. "I can't believe he remembered that I liked yellow roses. We had that conversation weeks ago, just in passing when Mom was working in the garden."
"He pays attention," Scarlett said simply. And he did—she'd noticed that about him during their interview, the way he absorbed details about people and held onto them.
"The video was perfect," Ayana continued. "Not cheesy or over-the-top, just... honest. He talked about belonging and finding home, and I just..." She trailed off, touching one of the roses gently. "I never thought anyone would see me that way."
Scarlett felt something twist in her chest—a mixture of genuine happiness for her friend and something more complicated. "You deserve that, Ayana. You deserve someone who sees how amazing you are."
"Do you think it's weird? That it's Tristain? My host brother?"
"He's not actually your brother," Scarlett pointed out, echoing what she'd heard Marcus say in the cafeteria. "And honestly? I think you two make sense together."
It was true, even if it hurt to admit. Watching them interact over the past few weeks, Scarlett had seen the way they balanced each other—Ayana's analytical mind complementing Tristain's intuitive approach, his athletic confidence grounding her academic intensity.
"Speaking of making sense," Ayana said, studying Scarlett's expression carefully, "are you okay? You seem a little... off."
Scarlett forced a smile. "Just stressed about the tournament coverage this weekend. Big story, lots of pressure to get it right."
It wasn't entirely a lie. The Chicago tournament would be the biggest sports story she'd covered, with college recruiters and potential national attention. But it also wasn't the whole truth.
"Well," Ayana said, standing to leave, "if you need any help with research or background, let me know. I know you'll do an amazing job."
After she left, Scarlett sat alone in the classroom, processing the conversation. She was genuinely happy for Ayana—her best friend deserved every bit of the joy and romance she was experiencing. But she also couldn't deny the small ache in her chest when she thought about Tristain's thoughtfulness, his attention to detail, the way he'd orchestrated something so perfectly suited to Ayana's personality.
She'd been attracted to those same qualities, had seen glimpses of them during their interview. But clearly, she'd misread the situation entirely.
Her phone buzzed with a text from the editor-in-chief: Need that tournament preview by tonight. Make it compelling—this could be big for the program.
Right. Work. Professional obligations. Something concrete to focus on instead of complicated feelings about promposals and yellow roses.
----
Marcus finished his shift at the warehouse Thursday afternoon and headed directly to the school weight room, still wearing his work clothes. His body ached from four hours of lifting and loading, but the Chicago tournament was two days away, and he wasn't about to let anything compromise his preparation.
He found Tristain already there, working through what looked like a maintenance routine—light weights, lots of stretching, nothing that would tax his arm before the weekend.
"How was work?" Tristain asked, spotting Marcus on the bench press.
"Same as always. Boxes don't get lighter." Marcus pushed through his set, feeling the familiar burn in his chest and shoulders. "You nervous about Saturday?"
"A little. You?"
"Terrified," Marcus admitted. "This could change everything for me. For both of us."
They worked out in comfortable silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts about the weekend ahead. The weight room was nearly empty—most students had gone home hours ago—but neither of them was ready to stop training.
"Marcus," Tristain said during a rest period, "I want you to know something."
"What's that?"
"Whatever happens this weekend, you've earned this opportunity. Not because of me, not because of luck. Because you're talented and you work harder than anyone I know."
The words hit Marcus harder than he'd expected. For months, he'd been thinking of himself as a charity case—the injured receiver riding his quarterback's coattails back to relevance. But Tristain was right. He had worked for this.
"Thanks, man. I needed to hear that."
"I mean it. Those college coaches aren't coming to see me throw passes to myself. They're coming to see what happens when talent meets opportunity."
As they finished their workout, Marcus felt something shift in his mindset. The desperation that had been driving him since his injury was still there, but it was tempered now by genuine confidence. He belonged on that field in Chicago, not as a favor to anyone, but as an elite athlete who'd overcome adversity.
"One more thing," Tristain said as they gathered their gear. "I heard from Coach Taylor today. ESPN is sending a camera crew to cover the tournament."
Marcus stopped walking. "ESPN?"
"Highlight packages for recruiting coverage. National exposure."
The implications were staggering. Not just college coaches, but national media attention. Marcus felt his pulse quicken—partly excitement, partly pure terror.
"That's... huge."
"It's an opportunity," Tristain corrected. "What we do with it is up to us."
As they walked to the parking lot, Marcus thought about the warehouse, about his mom working double shifts, about the recruiting letters that had stopped coming after his injury. Saturday wasn't just a tournament—it was a chance to rewrite his entire future.
"Tristain?" he said as they reached their cars.
"Yeah?"
"Let's go make some noise in Chicago."
----
The entire Flight Boys roster gathered in the North Bridgeton team room Friday after school for their final pre-tournament meeting. Derrick Taylor had transformed the space into what looked like a mission briefing room, complete with a projector displaying tournament brackets and a whiteboard covered in what appeared to be inspirational quotes about aviation.
"Gentlemen," Taylor began, wearing what looked like a vintage Top Gun t-shirt and aviator sunglasses indoors, "tomorrow we embark on our maiden voyage. Destination: Chicago. Mission: dominate the Midwest's finest young aviators. Call sign: Flight Boys Alpha."
He clicked to a slide showing the tournament format. "Thirty-Two teams, full weekend of match ups until the finale, college coaches from across the Midwest. This isn't practice anymore, Flight Boys. This is show time."
The room was unusually quiet. Even Deshawn, normally the team comedian, seemed focused on the magnitude of what lay ahead.
"Let's talk about what we're walking into," Taylor continued. "Warren Central from Indianapolis—undefeated in 7-on-7 play this spring. St. Xavier from Cincinnati—five Division I commits already. Eastmoor Academy from Columbus—fastest receiving corps in Ohio."
He clicked through slides showing highlights from various teams, each one more impressive than the last.
"These teams have been playing together for years. Some of these kids have been teammates since middle school. They know each other's tendencies, trust each other implicitly."
Jaylen Washington raised his hand. "So what's our advantage?"
Taylor grinned. "Glad you asked. Our advantage is that we've got something they don't."
Another click, and the screen showed a highlight reel from their recent practices—perfectly timed throws, acrobatic catches, seamless route combinations.
"Chemistry," Taylor announced. "These other teams have familiarity. We have chemistry. There's a difference."
He turned to face them directly. "Familiarity is knowing your teammate will be in the right spot. Chemistry is knowing he'll be in the right spot before he knows it himself."
Tristain felt the truth of that statement in his bones. Over the past few weeks, his connection with the receivers had developed into something almost telepathic. Route adjustments happened without communication, timing felt natural rather than practiced.
"Now," Taylor continued, "let's talk about the elephant in the room. Media attention."
He clicked to a slide showing various news outlets and recruiting services. "ESPN, Rivals, 247Sports, Scout—they'll all be there. Some of you might get interviewed. Here's how we handle that."
For the next twenty minutes, Taylor walked them through media protocols—stay humble, credit teammates, represent the program well. Standard advice, but delivered with his characteristic theatrical flair.
"Remember," he concluded, "those cameras aren't there to make you nervous. They're there to document greatness. And that's exactly what we're going to show them."
As the meeting broke up, players gradually filed out, chattering nervously about travel arrangements and game plans. Tristain lingered, helping Taylor gather equipment while processing everything they'd discussed.
"You good?" Taylor asked, noting his quiet demeanor.
"Yeah. Just thinking."
"About?"
"All of it. The pressure, the opportunity, what happens if I don't perform."
Taylor sat on the edge of his desk, his usual theatrical energy replaced by genuine seriousness. "Want to know a secret about pressure?"
Tristain nodded.
"It only exists when you're trying to be someone you're not. When you're just being yourself—trusting your preparation, your instincts, your teammates—pressure becomes background noise."
"And if that's not enough?"
"Then you learn something valuable about yourself and come back stronger next time. But based on what I've seen from you these past few weeks? That's not going to be a problem."
---
The North Bridgeton parking lot buzzed with nervous energy Saturday morning as players loaded gear onto the charter bus. Parents snapped photos, coaches reviewed final notes, and the Flight Boys tried to balance excitement with pre-game focus.
Tristain settled into a seat near the back, his mind already shifting into tournament mode. The promposal felt like a lifetime ago—not because it wasn't important, but because it had given him a confidence that extended beyond football. If he could orchestrate something that elaborate and meaningful, he could handle whatever Chicago threw at him.
Marcus dropped into the seat beside him, headphones already in place. "You ready for this?"
"Getting there," Tristain replied. "You?"
"Scared as hell. But the good kind of scared."
As the bus pulled away from North Bridgeton, Taylor stood at the front with a microphone that he'd somehow acquired, launching into what he called his "in-flight entertainment."
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We are now cruising at highway speeds toward our destiny. Flight time to Chicago: approximately three hours. Weather conditions: perfect for football."
The team laughed, and Tristain felt some of the nervous energy settle into focused anticipation. Around him, players were going through their individual preparation rituals—Marcus reviewing route combinations, Deshawn listening to music, Carlos studying defensive coverages on his tablet.
"First-time flyers," Taylor continued, "please note that this aircraft is equipped with the finest young talent Indiana has to offer. In the unlikely event of a confidence emergency, look to your left and right—you'll find teammates ready to elevate your game."
As the Indiana countryside rolled past, Tristain found himself thinking about the journey that had brought him here. From third-string quarterback in Texas to starting for an elite 7-on-7 team heading to a national showcase. The transformation had been remarkable, and not just athletically.
His phone buzzed with a text from Ayana: Safe travels. Can't wait to hear about your first game. Make them remember you.
Another from Tom Sayana: Play smart, trust your teammates, and represent your family well. We're proud of you.
Even one from Scarlett: Good luck today. The whole school is behind you.
As they approached the outskirts of Chicago, the city skyline growing larger ahead of them, Taylor made one final announcement.
"Flight Boys, we are now beginning our descent into greatness. Please ensure your confidence is in the upright position, your game face is secured, and your trust in your teammates is fully engaged."
He paused for dramatic effect. "Chicago doesn't know what's about to hit them."
---
The sports complex outside Chicago was unlike anything Tristain had ever seen. Eight football fields arranged in a perfect grid, each one hosting simultaneous 7-on-7 games. Bleachers surrounded the central field, where the championship games would be played, and banners representing dozens of college programs hung from every available surface.
But what struck Tristain most was the sheer number of people. College coaches with official uniforms and clipboards lined the sidelines. Recruiting coordinators worked the crowds with business cards and questionnaires. ESPN had set up cameras for what their banner advertised as "Future Stars Showcase Coverage."
"Holy..." Marcus breathed, taking in the scene.
"Language," Taylor interrupted, appearing beside them wearing what looked like a World War II bomber jacket. "But yes, this is the big leagues. Everyone you see here has the potential to change your life with a single phone call."
He gestured toward a group of men in Ohio State polo shirts. "That's the Buckeyes' entire recruiting staff. Those guys in Michigan gear? They've signed three Heisman Trophy winners. The man in the Notre Dame windbreaker has personally recruited fourteen NFL first-round picks."
The pressure was suddenly very real. This wasn't just about winning games—it was about performing under the kind of scrutiny that could determine their entire futures.
"Flight Boys," Taylor called, gathering them in a huddle away from the crowds. "I want you to remember something. Those coaches aren't here because they're doing anyone favors. They're here because they need players who can help them win. You belong here not because of charity, but because you've earned it."
He looked each of them in the eye. "Play your game. Trust your preparation. And remember—pressure is a privilege. It means you're good enough for it to matter."
The tournament registration area was a maze of tables, officials, and team representatives. As they checked in, Tristain noticed the careful attention their group was receiving. Whispered conversations, pointing, the subtle positioning of coaches to get better viewing angles.
"Looks like word traveled about your season," Taylor observed, noting the attention. "Good. Let them watch. Let them see what Indiana football looks like when it's done right."
---
The team hotel was a standard business facility, but for most of the Flight Boys, it represented something significant—their first trip as legitimate contenders, their first taste of what elite competition felt like.
As they gathered in the lobby for room assignments, the reality of what lay ahead settled over them. Tomorrow would bring their first games, their first opportunity to prove they belonged among the Midwest's best talent.
"Room assignments are posted," Taylor announced, holding up a clipboard with his characteristic dramatic flair. "Lights out at 11 PM, breakfast at 7 AM, first game at 10 AM. Questions?"
"What if we can't sleep?" Deshawn asked, earning laughter from the group.
"Then you lie there and visualize perfect route running," Taylor replied without missing a beat. "Dreams are just practice for the unconscious mind."
As players collected their keys and headed toward the elevators, Tristain found himself sharing a room with Marcus—a pairing that made sense given their on-field chemistry.
"Can't believe we're here," Marcus said as they settled into their room. The space was simple but clean, with two beds and a view of the parking lot.
"Feels right though," Tristain replied, unpacking his gear. "Like we've been building toward this."
"You nervous?"
"Yeah. But not the bad kind. More like... excited nervous."
Marcus nodded, understanding exactly what he meant. This was the kind of nervousness that came with genuine opportunity—the knowledge that tomorrow could change everything, but also the confidence that they were prepared for whatever came.
"Tristain?" Marcus said as they prepared for bed.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for believing in me. For helping me get back to this level."
"Thanks for trusting me to get you here."
As they settled in for the night, both players aware that sleep would be elusive, Tristain reflected on the journey that had brought them to this point. The promposal felt like a confidence-building exercise—proof that he could execute elaborate plans under pressure. The relationships he'd built in Indiana provided emotional foundation. The team chemistry they'd developed gave him trust in his supporting cast.
Tomorrow would test all of it against the best competition the Midwest had to offer. But tonight, lying in a hotel room in Chicago with his teammate and friend, Tristain felt as ready as he'd ever been for anything.
Outside their window, the city lights stretched toward the horizon, and somewhere out there, Thirty-Two teams were preparing for what would be the most important football of their young lives.
The Flight Boys were ready to take off.