The Miami sun beat down on the manicured football field of West Bay High. The stadium was empty, save for a handful of players warming up and a few parents in the stands, sipping iced coffee. Yet, the energy in the locker room was electric, or at least everyone else's was—everyone except Alex.
Alex Castellano, nineteen, leaned against the cold metal lockers, arms crossed, glaring at the floor. He was tall, athletic, and from one of Miami's wealthiest families, but on the field… he was a joke. The ball at his feet seemed foreign, as if it rejected him. His teammates shot glances that ranged from pity to barely concealed annoyance.
"C'mon, Alex," one of them muttered, tossing him a ball. "Try not to trip over it this time."
Alex's jaw tightened. He was sick of hearing it. Sick of losing. Sick of being the rich kid who couldn't play football.
Coach Rivera, a former pro with a reputation for being brutal but fair, blew his whistle sharply. "Warm-ups done. Scrimmage in five." His piercing eyes scanned the team, finally stopping on Alex. "Castellano. You're starting today. Don't embarrass yourself."
Alex felt a flare of anger—he hated being underestimated—but more than anger, there was a pang of fear. Today wasn't just any scrimmage. Scouts from a local club were watching, and Alex needed to prove he belonged on the field.
The whistle blew. The game began.
From the first pass, it was disastrous. Alex misjudged the ball, slipped on the wet grass, and the opposing team intercepted, sprinting toward the goal. He lunged, desperate, but his timing was off—again. The goalkeeper barely had to stretch to block the shot.
"Pathetic," whispered his rival, Jackson Cruz, from across the field. Jackson, the team's star striker, grinned with the kind of smug arrogance only a seasoned player could master. "You really belong on the bench, rich boy."
Alex's fists clenched. That grin… it burned into him. And for some reason, it ignited a spark he hadn't felt before.
Minutes later, Coach Rivera barked orders, frustration clear in his voice. "Castellano, focus! You're not just here to occupy space. Move!"
Alex's heart pounded. His vision blurred, sweat stinging his eyes. And then… something snapped. He didn't know why, but he pushed harder, sprinting faster than he ever had. He tracked a pass, stole the ball from Jackson mid-stride, and for a fleeting second, the stadium seemed to hold its breath.
Then the impossible happened: he tripped.
The ball rolled harmlessly out of bounds, and Alex hit the ground hard. Pain shot through his ankle. The crowd—his teammates—groaned. Jackson laughed.
Coach Rivera shook his head, jaw tight. "Sit. Now."
Alex got up, every muscle screaming, but rage coursed through him. He wouldn't forget this. Not the humiliation. Not Jackson's taunting. Not the feeling of failure gnawing at him.
As he limped to the bench, he caught a glimpse of a figure standing in the shadows near the locker room exit—a man in his forties, lean, with sharp eyes that seemed to pierce right through Alex. The man's lips curved slightly.
"You have potential," the figure murmured, almost to himself. "But you'll have to earn it… and the road won't be easy."
Alex frowned. Who was this guy? And why did his words… feel like a challenge?
He clenched his fists again, determination sparking in his chest. Today had been a disaster. But tomorrow… tomorrow would be different. He would get stronger. He had to.
And deep down, he knew one thing for certain: Jackson Cruz would regret ever laughing at him.