Morning sunlight spilled across the field as Tristain jogged toward the fieldhouse, his breath visible in the lingering early April chill. Inside, several of his receivers were already stretching, Marcus orchestrating the informal workout like the captain he was.
"There's the man!" Deshawn called, mouth half-full of chocolate donut. "Thought you might've overslept after your track superstar session yesterday."
Tristain set down his bag, hiding his fatigue with a smile. The previous night had been rough—vivid dreams of Andrew Luck and restless sleep as the QB System processed its evolution. "And miss quality time with you guys? Never."
Carlos Rodriguez, a senior known for his reliable hands and precise routes, tossed him a football. "Torres working you hard, huh? You looked wiped after that long jump practice."
"Nothing compared to what Milton's got planned for us next week," Tristain replied, spinning the ball in his hands. .
As he scanned the fieldhouse, Tristain took mental note. Six receivers present: Marcus, Deshawn, Jaylen Washington, Carlos, sophomore Elijah Foster, and Terrell Jenkins. Two tight ends as well—Jackson Moore and Corey Phillips. A so lid turnout for a canceled practice morning.
"So what's the plan, QB1?" Jaylen asked. At 5'9", the slot receiver was the smallest of the group but possessed the quickest feet and best hands on the team.
Tristain considered this, pleasantly feeling like a leader. After years as a benchwarmer at Southfield, being the decision-maker still felt new. "Let's start with simple timing routes. Get the connections down before we try anything fancy."
As they spread out across the fieldhouse floor, Marcus approached. "You good? You seemed off at track yesterday."
"Yeah," Tristain replied. "Just tired. Still adjusting to the two-sport schedule."
Marcus nodded, accepting the explanation at face value. "Takes a toll. Let me know if you need to dial it back."
For the next hour, Tristain worked methodically with each receiver, learning their preferences, tendencies, strengths and where they liked the ball. Every throw released from his fingertips with smooth—tight spirals cutting through the air with a satisfying 'fwoosh', hitting targets with pinpoint accuracy.
The ball seemed magnetized to his receivers' hands, the smack of leather against palms echoing through the fieldhouse. Marcus thrived on back-shoulder throws along the sideline, the ball arriving just as he turned, positioned perfectly where only he could reach it.
Deshawn's speed made him lethal on deep routes he was a living deep threat, requiring Tristain to anticipate the exact moment his stride would break open space behind defenders.
While Jaylen could turn a five-yard slant into a touchdown with his elusiveness after the catch, his quick feet dancing around imaginary defenders. Carlos ran the most precise routes, and was a good sperator.
While Elijah's 6'4" frame and basketball background made him a red-zone weapon despite his sophomore inexperience, truthfully he had the most potential and could be the programs future.
The tight ends added another dimension: Jackson with his veteran savvy, Corey with his raw athleticism. Tristain filed away each observation, building a mental catalog that would translate to the field.
During a water break, his phone buzzed with a text from Coach Milton:
Coach Milton: How you and the boys doing?
Tristain: Good. Working on timing with different routes.
Coach Milton: Alright Building chemistry takes time. Make sure you get home footage to review later.
Tristain: Will do.
"Coach checking up on us?" Marcus asked.
"Always." Tristain tucked his phone away. "Let's run the option package next. The one Kevin and I have been developing."
Kevin Russo had arrived quietly during their water break, clipboard in hand. Though he'd lost the starting job, the senior had transformed his disappointment into a new role—combining his three years of system knowledge with Tristain's physical talents to create specialized packages.
"I've been tweaking the run-pass option looks," Kevin said, showing Tristain diagrams he'd sketched. "Playing off your mobility while keeping the defense honest."
As they resumed practice, implementing Kevin's concepts, Tristain felt a sudden, sharp pain lance through his temple. He staggered slightly, managing to disguise it as a misstep.
[SLOT 2: ANDREW LUCK - PROCESSING ABILITY - INTEGRATION INITIATED]
The text flashed across his vision, followed by another wave of pain that radiated from his head down his spine. Tristain gritted his teeth, forcing himself to remain upright as the System began incorporating the second template without his conscious decision.
Not now, he thought desperately, fighting to maintain his composure. Not here.
"You alright?" Kevin asked, noticing his momentary stumble.
"Fine," Tristain managed, though his vision swam momentarily. "Just... slipped."
The pain receded to a dull throb, but Tristain could feel something changing—neural pathways rewriting themselves, new information flooding his consciousness. The Luck template was activating, merging with his existing football understanding. His head felt like it was being split open from the inside, each pulse bringing both agony and clarity.
He shook it off, rejoining the session with new determination. "Let's run that again. I think I see something."
Despite the internal chaos, Tristain found himself perceiving the field differently—identifying leverage points, recognizing potential mismatches, anticipating rotation patterns. The pain was excruciating but the results immediate; football concepts that had once seemed complicated now appeared self-evident.
The ball snapped into his hands, and time seemed to slow. His mind processed the simulated defense with newfound clarity, identifying the optimal target before his drop-step was complete.
He didn't just see Marcus breaking open; he understood precisely why he was open, how the coverage had created the opportunity, and what counter the defense would likely employ next time.
In a fluid motion, Tristain's arm delivered a perfect strike that hit Marcus in stride, the ball arriving exactly where it needed to be—away from the imaginary defender, allowing Marcus to maintain full speed.
The leather spiraled tightly through the air, cutting a precise arc that seemed to bend physics to Tristain's will, nestling perfectly into Marcus's outstretched hands with a satisfying smack. Not a single wasted motion or moment of hesitation—just pure quarterback instinct translated into physical perfection.
"Damn," Kevin said from the sideline. "That's different."
Tristain felt it too, though he couldn't explain it to anyone. The Manziel template had enhanced his physical abilities and improvisational instincts. The emerging Luck template was now adding a dimension, the chess match happening pre- and post-snap.
As practice continued, the integration process intensified. Each decision triggered small bursts of pain behind his eyes and brain, each new pattern recognition sending tingles down his spine.
But the results were undeniable—quicker reads, better anticipation, enhanced command of the entire offensive framework.
By the time they finished, Tristain's shirt was soaked with sweat, his body exhausted not just from physical exertion but from the neurological transformation happening within. The team, however, was buzzing with excitement.
"Whatever you did differently today," Jaylen said as they packed up, "keep doing it. That was perfect I mean i don't think we dropped a ball cause of you."
"Seriously," Elijah added, the normally quiet sophomore unusually animated. "That throw you made on the corner route? Perfect right where I like it."
As the others filed out, Kevin lingered behind. "I've run that offense for three years," he said quietly. "Never saw it quite like you did today."
Tristain nodded, unsure how to respond without revealing his secret.
"It's like you're seeing things before they happen," Kevin continued. "Reading defensive leverage points, anticipating rotation adjustments." He shook his head with a mixture of admiration and resignation. "You're going to take this team places, Dyce."
After everyone left, Tristain sank onto a bench, finally allowing himself to acknowledge the full intensity of what was happening. The System's dual integration was accelerating, the templates merging with his natural abilities to create something beyond what either Manziel or Luck had been individually.
[SLOT 1: JOHNNY MANZIEL - SCRAMBLING ABILITY - 50% ASSIMILATED] [SLOT 2: ANDREW LUCK - PROCESSING ABILITY - 3% ASSIMILATED]
The percentages flashed across his vision, confirming what he already felt. The integration had begun, ready or not, and he would bear the burden alone. No one else could know—no matter how much the isolation weighed on him. This was his secret to carry.
---
The morning of North Bridgeton's first track meet dawned clear and warm, a perfect April day for competition. Tristain arrived early with the team, the nervous energy of athletic competition familiar yet different in this new context.
Coach Torres gathered them for final instructions as buses from Westfield and Riverside High Schools pulled into the parking lot. "Remember, this is our first meet of the season. Focus on qualifying times and personal bests, not just winning. For some of you seniors, this is your last first meet. Make it count."
Tristain caught several seniors exchanging glances, the weight of "lasts" settling on their shoulders—last season, last meet, last chance to make their mark before graduation loomed.
As they dispersed to prepare for their events, Tristain felt the QB System's dual templates pulsing within him. The integration process had accelerated overnight, each percentage point accompanied by intense headaches and occasional muscle spasms as his brain practically reconfigured.
During a particularly painful moment at 3 AM, he'd stumbled to the bathroom to find blood trickling from his nose—a physical manifestation of the internal transformation.
"Dyce!" Torres called. "You're in the second heat for the 200, after the girls' events. Long jump qualification starts in thirty minutes."
Tristain nodded, beginning his stretching routine. Across the track, the Riverside and Westfield teams were doing the same, athletes eyeing their competition with measured interest.
"Don't look now," Marcus muttered beside him, "but you're getting some serious attention from lane four."
Tristain glanced over to see a group of Riverside girls stealing looks in their direction. One of them, a tall sprinter with braided hair, smiled when their eyes met, her gaze lingering a moment longer than casual curiosity would warrant. She whispered something to her teammates that caused a ripple of laughter and more glances his way.
"Focus, Walker," Tristain said, though he couldn't help returning a small smile.
"Just saying, track meets have unexpected benefits." Marcus grinned. "Track star and quarterback is a deadly combination for your social life."
Throughout the morning, Tristain moved between events with calm nerves. The long jump qualification went smoothly—his third attempt qualifying him for finals with a respectable distance that surprised even Torres.
Between events, the North Bridgeton team created an unexpectedly festive atmosphere, challenging each other to impromptu contests while waiting their turns.
It started with Deshawn performing a backflip after his successful 100-meter qualification, drawing cheers from the crowd. Another teammate immediately pulled out his phone, recording for TikTok as Deshawn struck a victory pose. Within minutes, a small crowd gathered, phones raised to capture the spontaneous celebration.
Not to be outdone, Marcus grabbed a football from his bag, challenging Tristain to a one-on-one route running drill on the grassy area adjacent to the track.
"You be the receiver this time," Marcus insisted, spinning the football in his hand. "Let's see those hands, quarterback."
Tristain hesitated, then grinned. "You're on."
What started as a simple challenge quickly attracted attention as Tristain showcased unexpected receiving skills. His feet danced along the sideline, body contorting to make a difficult catch while keeping both feet inbounds.
The small audience erupted in cheers, phones recording his every move. Soon, athletes from all three schools were joining in, the track meet transforming into something more like a festival between competitive events.
A tall, broad-shouldered guy from Westfield—Ryan Thompson—approached Tristain after watching him make a diving catch. "Nice hands for a quarterback," he said, offering a dap up. "You play receiver before?"
"Just messing around," Tristain replied, daping. "You throw?"
Ryan nodded. "Starting QB at Westfield. Heard about you transferring to North Bridgeton. Milton got himself a good one."
"We'll find out next season," Tristain said with a friendly competitiveness.
"Season opener," Ryan reminded him. "Westfield at North Bridgeton. You better bring it."
"Count on it."
The exchange was interrupted by a girl from Riverside—the same sprinter who'd smiled earlier. "Are you guys doing one-on-ones?" she asked. "Some of us want in. I've played flag football since I was ten."
"Tasha's the best athlete at Riverside," Ryan said with obvious admiration. "Multi-sport star."
"Let's make it co-ed then," Marcus suggested, clearly happy with this development. "1 on 1s."
As the impromptu football session expanded, Tristain found himself at the center of a growing inter-school social event. A circle formed around the one-on-one matchups with people filming for Tiktok, with Tristain alternating between quarterback and receiver.
Each throw he delivered seemed to defy normal physics—perfect spirals that hit targets in stride, no matter the distance or angle.
"Is this normal?" Tristain asked Torres as he prepared for the 200-meter race.
Torres shook his head, smiling despite himself. "No, but I'm not complaining. Team morale is through the roof."
When Tristain's heat for the 200 meters was called, he settled into the blocks beside Tyler Reed and Westfield's top sprinter, Jackson Miles—a senior with legitimate college prospects. The starter's instructions faded into background noise as Tristain focused on the track ahead.
The gun fired, and Tristain exploded from the blocks—each muscle firing in perfect sequence, his stride length and arm motion calibrated for efficiency. The curve unwound before him, and he found himself neck-and-neck with Miles at the straightaway.
In that moment, something within him seemed to surge, sending a spike of pain through his temples even as it accelerated his processing speed. Time appeared to slow, each heartbeat stretching as Tristain analyzed his body position, identified inefficiencies, and made micro-adjustments to his form.
He crossed the finish line a half-step ahead of Miles, fighting to remain upright as the pain and exertion caught up with him.
"22.1 seconds!" Torres shouted, rushing over. "District qualifying with room to spare!"
As Tristain caught his breath, he became aware of the attention focused on him from all sides—coaches from other schools making notes, fellow athletes reassessing the new competition, and more than a few admiring glances from female athletes.
With his six-foot-two frame, warm brown skin, and features that balanced strength and sensitivity, Tristain had never lacked for attention. His twists fell perfectly around his eyes, some longer strands framing his strong jawline and highlighting his expressive dark eyes. The hairstyle complemented his athletic build, creating a look that turned heads without him trying.
"Dude, you've got fans," Deshawn teased, nodding toward a group of Riverside sprinters. "The new transfer quarterback who's also breaking track records? You're basically a show character."
Tristain rolled his eyes, though he couldn't help noticing that among the onlookers was Ayana, camera in hand. Unlike her usual analytical expression, her face held something softer, a hint of color in her cheeks when their eyes met.
Behind her, partially obscured but definitely present, Scarlett watched with a more complex emotion—curiosity mixed with something that might have been suspicion.
After a quick water break, Tristain was approached by Tasha from Riverside. Up close, he could see the intensity in her athlete's eyes, tempered by a playful smile.
"That was impressive," she said, nodding toward the track. "You make it look easy."
"Trust me, it wasn't," Tristain replied honestly, still feeling the System's painful adjustments.
"So you're the quarterback everyone's talking about?" she asked. "The one who's supposed to turn North Bridgeton around?"
"That's the rumor. Reality might be different."
"Humble. I like that." She glanced over at the ongoing football drills. "You want to team up for the next round? Show these guys how it's done?"
Tristain considered the offer, aware of Scarlett and Ayana still watching from the sidelines. "Sure. Fair warning though—I might make you look bad."
Tasha laughed. "Oh, it's like that? Game on, quarterback."
The long jump finals provided another opportunity for Tristain to showcase his progress. His final jump—a personal best by nearly a foot—secured second place behind Westfield's senior jumper, an impressive showing for his first-ever competition.
As the meet concluded, the impromptu football sessions resumed, this time with athletes from all three schools participating.
What had started as a simple one-on-one challenge had evolved into a multi-school mini-camp, with quarterbacks, receivers, and defensive backs having fun and doing backflips.
Ryan from Westfield approached Tristain again as they took a break. "You should come to our quarterback camp this summer," he said. "My dad runs it. College coaches attend."
"I'll think about it," Tristain replied, genuinely interested in the opportunity for exposure.
"Here." Ryan handed him a phone. "Put your number in. I'll text you the details."
As Tristain entered his contact info, he noticed a text notification pop up on Ryan's phone—a girl's name with a heart emoji. Ryan quickly pocketed the phone, but not before Tristain caught Tasha's name on the screen.
"You and Tasha?" Tristain asked with a knowing smile.
Ryan shrugged, trying to appear casual. "Working on it. you know how it is."
"Actually, I don't," Tristain admitted.
Ryan gave him a skeptical look. "Really? With half the girls at this meet watching your every move? Including that photographer from your school who hasn't lowered her camera since you started running."
Tristain glanced over to where Ayana was indeed still taking photos, her lens trained in their general direction. When she realized he'd noticed, she quickly pretended to be photographing something else.
"That's just for the school paper," Tristain said, though he wasn't entirely convinced himself.
"Sure it is," Ryan laughed. "Well, if you're not interested, maybe introduce me to your photographer. She's cute."
Something protective flared in Tristain, surprising him with its intensity. "I think she's busy," he replied, more curtly than intended.
Ryan raised an eyebrow but didn't push further. "Thought so. Anyway, I'll text you about that camp."
Ayana Sayana framed another shot through her telephoto lens, capturing the moment Tristain effortlessly caught a one-handed pass between two Westfield defenders. From her position in the stands, she had the perfect vantage point for photography—and for observation without being obvious.
"You've taken about fifty pictures of him," Scarlett commented beside her, reviewing the shots she'd already captured for the school paper.
"I'm documenting the whole meet," Ayana replied defensively. "He's just... photogenic."
"Uh-huh." Scarlett's skepticism was palpable. "And the fact that he keeps taking off his shirt during these football drills has nothing to do with it?"
Ayana refused to acknowledge the bait, though she couldn't deny that Tristain's athletic physique made for compelling photographs.
What interested her more, however, were the moments when he seemed to change—subtle shifts in his posture and movement that didn't quite match his previous patterns.
"There's something different about him today," she said finally. "Not just athletically. It's like he's... processing things differently."
Scarlett followed her gaze to where Tristain was now discussing something with the Westfield quarterback, his hands moving to illustrate some technical point. "You've been watching him too closely. It's getting weird."
"Says the girl who memorized his class schedule."
"For tutoring coordination!" Scarlett protested, though a slight blush betrayed her.
Ayana smiled knowingly. "You know, for someone who claims to be above the whole 'athlete worship' thing, you sure pay a lot of attention to Tristain Dyce."
Scarlett's blush deepened. "I appreciate curiosity in unexpected places. That's all."
"Right. And the way you keep asking about him living at my house has nothing to do with personal interest."
"I'm simply being thorough in my understanding of the new student dynamic," Scarlett replied primly, though her eyes remained fixed on Tristain as he laughed at something the Riverside girl said.
Ayana followed her gaze. "She's flirting with him."
"Obviously." Scarlett's tone was dismissive, but her grip on her notepad tightened slightly. "Everyone flirts with the quarterback. It's practically a high school requirement."
"But not you, of course."
"Of course not." Scarlett finally turned away, pretending to check her camera settings. "I have standards."
"Mm-hmm." Ayana returned to her photography, zooming in on Tristain again. There it was—that momentary wince of pain when no one was looking, quickly masked when attention returned to him.
Something was happening with Tristain Dyce. Something he was hiding from everyone. And despite her better judgment, Ayana found herself increasingly curious to figure out what it was.
By late afternoon, the track meet was officially complete, with North Bridgeton securing a surprising second place overall behind Westfield. While waiting for the buses they continued there football fun
Tristain found himself at the center of it, alternating between quarterback and receiver, showcasing skills that even he hadn't fully realized he possessed.
The Manziel template provided the physical tools, while the emerging Luck template—now at 8% integration according to the System's internal metrics—offered tactical insights that made every repetition a learning opportunity.
But the integration was taking its toll. Each percentage point came with intense headaches that radiated from his temples down his spine, sometimes sending sharp pains through his limbs as neural pathways reconfigured.
He'd learned to mask the discomfort, to push through it like any athletic pain, but the cumulative effect was exhausting.
During a brief break, as Tristain sat catching his breath on the long jump pit edge, Coach Torres approached.
"Quite the showcase you're putting on," Torres said, offering a water bottle. "Forget qualifying times—at this rate, you'll be seeded for state in your first season."
"Just applying what you've taught me, Coach," Tristain replied modestly.
Torres studied him with the keen eye of a veteran coach. "I've been doing this a long time, Dyce. Seen all kinds of athletes—natural talents, hard workers, technical masters."
He paused. "What you're doing... it's different. The way you're processing information, adapting techniques on the fly—it's like watching someone who's been training for years."
The observation hit uncomfortably close to the truth, and Tristain forced a casual shrug.
"I just learn fast," he said carefully.
"Clearly." Torres didn't press further, but his expression suggested he wasn't entirely convinced. "Just be careful. Bodies have limits, even exceptional ones. Push too hard, too fast, and something gives."
As Torres walked away, Tristain felt the System pulse within him, as if acknowledging the warning. He closed his eyes, focusing inward, and saw the updated status:
[SLOT 1: JOHNNY MANZIEL - SCRAMBLING ABILITY - 51% ASSIMILATED] [SLOT 2: ANDREW LUCK - PROCESSING ABILITY - 8% ASSIMILATED]
The pain had been worth it—progress on both templates, with the physical demands of track and the mental challenges of quarterback development feeding both simultaneously. But Torres was right. There were limits, and he was approaching them faster than expected.
In the bathroom mirror, Tristain noticed a trickle of blood from his nose. He quickly wiped it away, stuffing toilet paper against the bleeding.
No one could know what was happening to him—not his coaches, not his friends, not even Marcus who he trusted. The QB System was his burden, his advantage, his secret. And it would remain that way, no matter how isolating that decision might be.
As he exited the bathroom, he nearly collided with Tasha from Riverside.
"There you are," she said. "We were wondering if you'd disappeared."
"Just needed a minute," he replied, forcing a smile. "It's been a long day."
"Well, we're exchanging numbers—planning a beach trip for spring break. Some of the Westfield and North Bridgeton track teams are going. You should come."
"Sounds fun," Tristain said, genuinely appreciating the normalcy of the invitation amid his internal struggle.
He followed her back to the group, where Ryan, Marcus, and several others from the three schools had gathered. As phone numbers were exchanged and social media accounts followed, Tristain allowed himself to enjoy the moment of connection—to feel ,that he was just another high school athlete without the weight of supernatural transformation inside him.
His phone buzzed with a group text from the senior football players:
Carlos: Senior sunset next Friday at Eagle Point. Last one before graduation. Mandatory for all players.
Jackson: Who made you social director?
Carlos: I did. And Coach approved. Team bonding before spring game.
Marcus: @Tristain you in? Freshmen and transfers get special initiation 😈
Deshawn: Don't scare him. It's just a tradition. Seniors watch the sunset, talk about the season ahead.
Tristain: I'm in.
Kevin: Bring your playbook. We'll go over install for spring game.
Carlos: Always the coach, Russo
Kevin: Someone has to keep you knuckleheads focused
Marcus: This is why we love you, man
The exchange reminded Tristain of the sentimental element amid all the System's enhancements. These upcoming seniors—Carlos, Jackson, Kevin, and others—were entering their final season, their last chance to leave a legacy.
While the freshmen coming up behind them were wide-eyed and eager, ready to establish their own identities within the program.
And Tristain stood between them—a junior transfer with supernatural abilities, trying to bridge generations while hiding his secret. The responsibility was daunting.
As the track meet's winding celebrations continued, Tristain noticed both Scarlett and Ayana watching him from the center of the field, each with a different expression but similar intensity. Of all the people in his new life, they seemed most attuned to him, most likely to notice the inconsistencies in his development.
They see too much, he thought, averting his gaze. Another complication in an increasingly complex integration.
The QB System pulsed again, sending another wave of pain through his temples, a reminder that this transformation was just beginning. Whatever awaited him—the spring football showcase, the senior sunset, the eventual season and championship goal—would test not just his enhanced abilities, but his mental too.