Mid-February had settled over North Bridgeton, bringing with it gray skies and temperatures that couldn't quite decide between winter's chill and spring's promise. Six weeks had passed since Tristain's arrival, three since Coach Milton's official announcement of the quarterback competition—a competition that, while not formally decided, had a clear unofficial winner. Six months remained until the season opener against Westfield.
Assistant Coach Dan Reeves stood on the sideline of the indoor practice facility, a lukewarm coffee clutched in his weathered hands as he tracked Tristain Dyce's movements across the field. Seventeen years of coaching high school football had taught Reeves to spot talent, but it hadn't prepared him for this—development that defied natural progression.
"Fifty-two's the mike!" Tristain called out, adjusting protection at the line. The defense shifted, trying to disguise coverage, but Tristain spotted it immediately. "Walker! naked right! naked right!"
The ball snapped under the center's grip, spiraling into Tristains hands as he entered his Three-step drop.
His eyes flickered briefly, reading the defense. A rush of defenders surged forward, bodies crashing against each other.
Feeling the pressure closing in from his blindside, he instinctively steeped up in the shrinking pocket. Cocked his shoulder back, pivoted his hips, while using his torso to extend his arm like a whip where he launched a laser of a tight spiral into Marcus in stride twenty yards downfield.
Kevin Russo stood beside Reeves, clipboard in hand, no longer just the displaced starter but evolving into something like an unofficial quarterback coach.
"He's recognizing pattern-match coverage now," Kevin noted, genuine admiration in his voice. "Three weeks ago, they were fooling him with that look."
Reeves nodded. "It's like watching a college quarterback. The processing speed—"
"The arm talent," Kevin added.
"The leadership," Reeves finished, watching as Tristain gathered the offense for adjustments. "Coach Milton thinks we might actually have a shot at the conference this year."
Kevin's expression remained neutral. "If he keeps improving at this rate, maybe more than that."
Coach Milton blew his whistle, ending the rep. "First team defense, dial up something he hasn't seen! Make him think!"
Reeves took another sip of coffee. "How's he doing with the full playbook?"
"Absorbing it like a sponge," Kevin replied. "We spent three hours Sunday breaking down the option package. By Monday morning, he was teaching it to the running backs."
"And you're okay with all this?" Reeves asked carefully. "Being the mentor instead of the starter?"
Kevin was quiet for a moment, watching Tristain adjust a receiver's route with patient hands. "I fought it at first," he finally admitted. "But some things you can't fight. He's got something... different. Something we need."
"Generational talent," Reeves murmured.
"Maybe," Kevin said. "Or maybe he just wants it more than anyone I've ever seen."
Deshawn Harris tossed a basketball toward Tristain as they exited the field house after practice. "Yo, new QB! You coming to Davis's place tonight or what? Call of Duty tournament. Five bucks buy-in."
Tristain caught the ball with one hand, spinning it on his finger—a move that felt surprisingly natural. "That the thing Marcus mentioned?"
"Yeah, tradition during off-season. Just the guys hanging out. Davis's parents have that basement setup with the big screen." Deshawn retrieved the ball, dribbling it casually. "You play basketball?"
"A little. Not organized or anything."
Jamal Williams, a junior cornerback with quick feet and quicker wit, nudged Tristain's shoulder. "Well, some of us are hooping at the rec center Saturday morning. You should come. Show us if Texas boys can hoop."
"I might take you up on that."
"Might?" Deshawn laughed. "Man, you've been here almost two months and all you do is practice, study film, and hide at the Sayanas'. Time to actually live in Bridgeton, not just play football here."
Marcus emerged from the field house, gym bag slung over his shoulder. "Leave him alone. Some of us are actually committed to turning this program around."
"Says the guy who's also coming to game night," Jamal retorted.
Marcus noded like a sage. "Even soldiers get leave time. Besides, I need that five bucks from each of you."
As they headed toward the parking lot, Coach Torres—North Bridgeton's track and field coach—intercepted them, his attention focused on Tristain.
"Dyce! Got a minute?"
Tristain stopped. "Yes, sir?"
"Been watching you at practice. That acceleration you've developed—" He whistled appreciatively. "Spring track season starts next month. We could use someone with your speed for the 200 meters, maybe 4x400 relay."
"I don't know, Coach. I'm pretty focused on football—"
"Milton and I already talked about it. He thinks it would be good for your explosiveness. Plus, college scouts love dual-sport athletes." Torres grinned. "Just come to one practice. Tuesday after school. See if you like it."
Tristain hesitated, then nodded. "I'll think about it."
As Torres walked away, Deshawn raised his eyebrows. "Damn, QB. Two months in and you're getting recruited for everything."
"It's just track," Tristain said, uncomfortable with the attention.
"Just track, just football, just changing the whole culture," Jamal said, mimicking Tristain's tone. "No biggie."
Marcus intervened, sensing Tristain's discomfort. "Alright, enough. Davis's place at seven, right?"
"Seven," Deshawn confirmed. "Bring your five bucks and your excuses for when I destroy all of you."
Davis Wilson's basement was exactly what Tristain had expected—sports memorabilia covering the walls, oversized sectional sofa, gaming setup that most teenagers would envy, and a mini-fridge stocked with sodas and snacks.
"Parents are upstairs, but they're cool as long as we keep it down," Davis explained, handing out controllers. A linebacker with broad shoulders and an even broader smile, Davis had been one of the first teammates to welcome Tristain without reservation.
Jamal claimed the best spot on the couch. "So Texas, you any good at this, or are your skills limited to real football?"
Before Tristain could answer, Deshawn laughed. "Man's been here six weeks and has Coach Milton rewriting the playbook. Don't challenge him unless you're ready to lose."
As they settled in, conversation flowed easily between rounds—about school, about Coach Milton's brutal conditioning program, about girls they were interested in. For the first time since arriving in North Bridgeton, Tristain felt like just another teenager, not the quarterback everyone was counting on.
During a break, Davis grabbed sodas from the mini-fridge. "So what's it like living with Ayana Sayana? Half the guys in this room have had a crush on her at least once since middle school."
"She's..." Tristain searched for neutral words. "Focused. Smart. Not really interested in football."
"Or football players," Jamal added with a dramatic sigh. "Tried asking her to homecoming last year. Shot down before I finished the sentence."
"That's because you led with 'yo, brainiac,'" Deshawn said, throwing a chip at him. "No game whatsoever."
The conversation shifted to Jamal's notorious dating failures, giving Tristain a moment to observe these new friends. Davis, he'd learned, came from a comfortable middle-class family—father in insurance, mother a nurse at the local hospital. Deshawn lived with his single mother, who worked two jobs to keep him in the better school district. And Jamal, despite his class clown reputation, carried a fierce intelligence that put him in all AP classes alongside Ayana and Scarlett.
"Alright, next round," Marcus announced, bringing Tristain's attention back to the game. "Loser has to run extra sprints tomorrow."
"That's abuse of power," Davis protested. "Team captain can't make that call."
"Watch me," Marcus grinned, his competitive nature extending well beyond the football field.
Eventually, as the tournament wound down (with Marcus indeed victorious), conversation turned to the upcoming track season.
"You should do it," Davis told Tristain as they cleaned up the basement. "Track, I mean. I did shot put freshman year. It's good cross-training."
"Plus," Deshawn added with a sly grin, "Scarlett Clarke's on the team. Hurdles. Those legs, man."
Jamal smacked the back of Deshawn's head. "Show some respect. Girl's got a 4.5 GPA and you're out here objectifying her."
"I'm appreciating athletic excellence," Deshawn protested, rubbing his head. "Same as I do with Tristain's arm."
Tristain felt his cheeks warm slightly at Scarlett's name. "I didn't know she ran track."
"State qualifier last year," Marcus confirmed. "She and Ayana both. They're like the academic-athletic power duo of North Bridgeton."
"Speaking of which," Jamal said, checking his phone, "there's a study group Saturday afternoon at Westbridge Coffee. AP Calc and English mostly. You should come, Texas. Might help with that Macbeth essay Lawton assigned."
Tristain raised an eyebrow. "How'd you know about that essay?"
"I sit two rows behind you, man. Pay attention." Jamal said with a depressive aura. "Plus, Scarlett mentioned you were working on it this morning in the library."
Something in Tristain's expression must have changed, because Davis let out a low whistle and a shit eating grin. "Oh, so it's like that?"
"It's not like anything," Tristain said quickly. "We were just at the same table."
"Uh-huh," Deshawn grinned. "Just like Ayana 'just happens' to be around when someone mentions you."
"Both of them?" Marcus shook his head with disbelief. "Man's been here six weeks and already caught in a love triangle. This is why we can't have nice quarterbacks, fellas."
Tristain grabbed his coat, eager to change the subject. "I've got to head back. Early film session tomorrow."
"With Marcus, we know," Davis said. "You two are worse than the coaches."
As goodbyes were exchanged and Tristain prepared to walk the few blocks to the Sayanas' house, he felt a strange mix of belonging and disorientation. These were becoming his friends, this was becoming his city, but sometimes it still felt like he was playing a role rather than living his life.
Later that night, as he walked the quiet streets of North Bridgeton, Tristain's phone buzzed with a video call.
"Manman," he answered, smiling as his mother's face appeared on screen.
(How are you)"Kijan ou ye, pitit mwen?" she asked, her Creole flowing naturally.
(Im good))"Mwen byen," he replied, though the words felt slightly stiff from disuse. "I was just hanging out with some guys from the team."
(Really that's great)"Wi? Sa se bon!" Her face brightened. "You are making friends then?"
"Yeah, I think I am."
They talked for a few minutes about his grandmother's improving health, about his father's work with the community clinic in Port-au-Prince, about his sister's latest achievements in Texas. As they spoke, Tristain found himself switching between English and Creole, sometimes mid-sentence—a linguistic transition that reflected his position between worlds.
"You remember what day is coming?" his mother asked.
Tristain nodded. "Emma's Birthday. Feb 18th."
"Perhaps you can share some of our culture with your new friends," she suggested. "The Sayanas might enjoy learning how we celebrate."
"Maybe," Tristain said, though he wasn't sure how to introduce that part of himself to North Bridgeton. Football was universal. Haitian traditions were something he'd have to translate.
As he ended the call and continued walking, Tristain felt the QB System pulse again, this time with a different quality—not the competitive flare from earlier, but something steadier, more grounding. It was as if the System itself was responding to this expansion of his life beyond football.
[SLOT 1: JOHNNY MANZIEL - SCRAMBLING ABILITY - 41% ASSIMILATED]
The text flashed briefly across his vision—three percent higher than the previous week. Making progress was getting harder and harder.
'Maybe joining the track team will make it accelerate faster and maybe…. I can meet Johnny Football again or possibly someone else.'Tristain thought to himself
The next morning, Tristain arrived early at school to finish his English essay in the library. He found a quiet corner table, only to realize Scarlett Clarke was already there, surrounded by calculus worksheets.
"Sorry," he whispered, about to find another spot.
"It's fine," she replied without looking up. "Library's for everyone."
Tristain hesitated, then sat across from her. They worked in silence for several minutes before Scarlett finally glanced up.
"Macbeth?" she asked, nodding toward his copy of the play.
"Yeah. Essay on ambition and its consequences."
A slight smile touched her lips. "somehow fitting for someone changing North Bridgeton's football expectations."
Before Tristain could respond, Ayana appeared at their table, surprise flickering across her face at finding them together.
"There you are," she said to Scarlett. "I've been texting you. We need to finalize our science fair project today."
Her eyes met Tristain's briefly. "Morning," she added, the word oddly formal.
"Morning," he replied, equally stiff.
Scarlett looked between them, her observant eyes missing nothing. "I'll be right there," she told Ayana. "Just finishing these proofs."
As Ayana walked away, Scarlett gathered her papers, then paused. "Some of us are studying for midterms this weekend. Saturday afternoon at Westbridge Coffee. You're welcome to join if you want help with Macbeth."
"I might have basketball in the morning, but after..."
Scarlett shrugged, feigning indifference. "Up to you. Ayana will be there too. She's better at Shakespeare than I am."
With that, she left, leaving Tristain to wonder if he'd just been invited or simply informed of existing plans.
He returned to his essay, but his concentration was scattered. For weeks, his focus had been singular—master the playbook, improve his mechanics, integrate the QB System, win the starting job. Now, life in North Bridgeton was expanding beyond those boundaries, becoming complex in ways that had nothing to do with football.
Game nights with teammates. Morning basketball at the rec center. The track team possibility. Study sessions with Scarlett and Ayana. His Haitian heritage and how much of it to share.
He'd come to North Bridgeton for a fresh start, for the chance to be more than a benchwarmer. What he hadn't expected was how that fresh start would extend to every aspect of his identity—not just who he was on the field, but who he might become off it.
That evening, Tristain added notes to the journal he'd started keeping since the QB System activated:
Life in Bridgeton - 6 weeks in
Davis, Deshawn, Jamal - game night Thursdays
Basketball Saturday mornings - rec center
Track team? Coach Torres thinks I should. Milton approves
Study group - Scarlett, Ayana, others? Saturday
Emmas BirthDay - Feb 18 - share with Sayanas?
Tristain realized that despite the supernatural element now integrated with his athletic career, the most transformative part of coming to North Bridgeton wasn't happening on the field at all.
It was happening in all the spaces where football didn't define him, where he was just Tristain—not a quarterback, not a transfer, not a vessel for someone else's athletic gifts.
Just himself, finding his rhythm in a world that was growing larger every day