The final whistle had been a release for the Oasis Academy girls' team, a victory punctuated by shared groans and the sweet ache of exhaustion.
In the humid cave of the locker room, the air was thick with the smell of sweat, deep heat, and strawberry shampoo.
"Has anyone seen my silver hairpin? The one with the little football on it?" Daisy asked, already on her knees, patting the damp tiled floor.
Panic, small but sharp, pricked at her. It was a gift from her grandmother.
Her teammates, a whirl of damp hair and towels, called out their negatives as they dressed.
Chloe, pulling on a hoodie, shrugged. "It'll turn up, Dais! C'mon, the college guys have the field booked next, we gotta clear out."
"You go ahead," Daisy said, peering under a bench cluttered with discarded tape rolls. "I'll catch up. I just had it after the match."
With a wave and fading chatter about summer plans, the last of her friends disappeared, their cleats clacking down the hall.
The heavy metal door swung shut, muffling the sound. The locker room fell into a heavy, humid quiet, broken only by the drip of a distant showerhead.
Daisy sighed, the post-game euphoria evaporating into mild frustration. She stood, brushing her knees, and moved to the long shelf by the foggy mirrors.
She was still in her pleated skirt and a simple white singlet, her green training top clutched in her hand like a security blanket.
The door swung open with a soft, almost hesitant creak.
"Forgot something?" Daisy asked without turning, assuming it was Jess coming back for a water bottle.
"Not really," a male voice replied, low and unfamiliar. "But looks like we found something nice."
Daisy's blood turned to ice water in her veins. She spun around, instinctively clutching the training top to her chest.
Two college-age boys stood just inside the door, blocking the only exit. They wore matching grey tracksuits from the local community college, their builds lean and predatory.
Their smiles weren't friendly; they were lazy, possessive smirks that didn't reach their eyes. They'd been watching.
"This is the girls' locker room," Daisy said, her voice trembling despite her effort to sound firm, to sound like her mother, like her coach.
"Empty now," the taller one said, taking a deliberate step forward. His friend mirrored him, fanning out to cut off any angle to the door. "C'mon, let's play a little. We saw you on the field. You're very beautiful." His gaze was a physical crawl over her skin.
"Get out!" Daisy cried, her voice cracking. She backed up until her shoulders hit the cold, unforgiving metal of the lockers with a soft clang. The space, so vast a moment ago, shrank to the few feet between her and them. "Leave me alone!"
The taller one reached out, not to grab, but to touch—a mock-casual gesture aimed at her bare arm.
Daisy squeezed her eyes shut, a scream building in her throat, raw and terror-stricken.
THWACK!
The sound was one of perfect, violent finality. Not a punch, but something heavier, denser. A sickening, wet crunch of impact, followed by the hollow thud of a body hitting tiles.
Daisy's eyes flew open.
The taller boy was on the floor, unconscious. His eyes were rolled back, seeing nothing.
His friend whirled around, the smirk obliterated by pure shock. "What the—?"
He didn't finish.
A standard-issue school basketball, thrown with impossible, blurring speed and unerring accuracy, filled his vision. It connected squarely, brutally, with the bridge of his nose.
BOOM.
The sound was different—deeper, wetter. The second boy didn't cry out. He made a choked, gurgling sound as blood immediately sheeted down his face, over his lips and chin.
He stumbled back, legs buckling, and collapsed in a heap beside his friend.
Silence, thicker and more profound than before, descended.
Standing in the doorway was Rin Tanaka. He wasn't even breathing heavily. His expression one of profound, almost artistic boredom, as if he'd just completed a tedious but necessary chore.
He didn't look at the ball or the boys. He simply pulled a small, pristine handkerchief from his pocket and meticulously wiped each finger of his right hand, as if removing a trace of something distasteful, before turning to Daisy.
He glanced dispassionately at the two unconscious forms on the floor, then his dark eyes flicked to Daisy.
"Where's Jess?" he asked, his voice flat, devoid of concern or alarm.
Daisy stammered, her whole body vibrating with aftershocks. "S-She… she went to class. With the others."
Rin nodded once, a sharp, economical motion. "Okay. He turned and walked out without another word, the door sighing shut behind him.
Daisy stood frozen, locked in the tableau of violence. The adrenaline crash hit her like a wave, leaving her knees weak and her mind reeling. Five seconds. Ten. The coppery tang of blood mixed with the sterile smell of cleaner.
Move.
The instinct was primal. She scrambled into her shirt, fumbling with the buttons, her fingers numb and clumsy. She shoved her feet into her sneakers, not bothering with the laces.
Her eyes darted wildly, and there, glinting under the bench where she'd first looked, was her silver football hairpin. She snatched it up, the metal cold and reassuring in her palm.
She took one last, horrified glance at the two motionless forms—one silent, one making a wet, snoring sound through the blood—and fled.
She caught up to Rin halfway down the main corridor, where the normal world of lockers and class notices resumed.
He walked with his usual gliding, effortless pace, as if he were on a casual stroll, as if he hadn't just potentially given two men life-altering concussions in a deserted locker room.
"Rin! Wait!" she called, her voice thin and shaky in the bustling hallway.
He didn't stop, but his stride slowed by a fraction, an almost imperceptible allowance.
She fell into step beside him, her own breaths still coming in short gasps. "Th-thank you," she managed, the words feeling inadequate. "I… I hate those college boys. They're always lurking around the fields after our practices."
Rin gave a slight, noncommittal shrug of one shoulder. He offered no reassurance, no 'it's okay.' He just kept walking.
Emboldened by the desperate gratitude and a burning curiosity that cut through the shock, Daisy pressed on.
The question that had simmered since Hal's field, since she saw the look in Leo's eyes after being excluded, spilled out.
"Why… why didn't you and King include Leo in the tournament team? After what he did at the challenge pitch? And today, I heard he even held his own against King in the tryouts today. He tied the scrimmage!"
Rin stopped walking.
He turned his head slowly to look at her, his dark eyes finally focusing with a sharp, analytical intensity that made her feel like a specimen under glass.
All traces of boredom were gone, replaced by a cold clarity.
"He's not good enough," Rin stated. The words were clean, precise, and utterly final, like a surgeon's incision leaving no room for argument.
"It's simple." He studied her flushed, earnest face, the concern for another boy bright in her eyes. A faint, almost invisible line of distaste tightened near his mouth. "I don't know why that concerns you."
He held her gaze for a moment longer—a look that wasn't angry, but dismissive in a way that was far more chilling—then turned and continued down the hall.
He was absorbed back into the stream of students, leaving Daisy standing alone in the middle of the bustling corridor.
The coldness of his dismissal didn't wilt her; it solidified, hardening in her stomach into a knot of pure, defiant conviction. She watched his retreating back until he turned a corner and vanished.
She whispered the words to the empty space he left behind, her voice now low, firm, and sure.
"I'm sure Leo would surpass every single one of your expectations."
───────────
The world came back in pieces: the sterile smell of antiseptic, the hum of fluorescent lights, the stiff starch of sheets.
Leo blinked up at the pockmarked ceiling tiles of the school clinic. The leaden fatigue was still there, a dense blanket over his limbs, but the sharp, panicked edges had receded.
Hunger, a deep, hollow, roaring thing, had taken its place. It felt like his stomach was trying to digest his own spine.
"Ah, you're back with us," a calm voice said. Nurse Shonda, a no-nonsense woman with kind eyes and a perpetual clipboard, appeared beside the bed.
She placed a tray on the rolling table and swung it over him. "Your body crashed because it's running on empty. Here. Eat. Slowly."
The tray held a plate of baked fish in a lemon-butter sauce, a mound of buttery mashed potatoes, steamed green beans, a roll, and a small carton of orange juice.
It was a simple school cafeteria meal, but to Leo, it looked like a royal feast.
He'd never gotten food from the cafeteria. It was a luxury his budget, meticulously calculated for groceries at home, had never allowed. Not economical, his mind, ever the calculator supplied automatically.
But now… Nurse Shonda told him the Assistant Coach had said the school would cover meals for training days.
A new line in his mental ledger. His uncle's voice, gruff and practical, echoed in his head: "If someone offers to pay for your food, boy, you eat well. It might be the last time they do."
He didn't need telling twice. He pushed himself up, wincing at the protest in his muscles, and attacked the food. He used the fork to cut a piece of fish, dipping it into the small cup of tartar sauce he'd requested on a whim.
He paused. He'd never actually tasted tartar sauce.
His father had been deathly allergic to shellfish, so mayonnaise-based condiments were banned from their house—a precaution that became habit, then tradition, then just another absence after he was gone.
It was a flavor from a parallel life.
He ate it. Creamy, tangy, with a faint brine and the crunch of pickle. A completely new data point. He took a second, eyes closed, to just relish it, the novelty cutting through the fog of exhaustion.
Then he continued, methodically clearing the plate, soaking up the sauce with the roll, draining the juice carton. With every bite, warmth and a sense of solidity returned to his core.
The million-dollar feeling wasn't from money; it was from calories, efficiently delivered.
Nurse Shonda watched from her desk, a small smile playing on her lips. "I said slowly, Mr. Reed. And drink water, not just juice." She came over, took the empty tray, and handed him a paper cup with two iron supplements and a large cup of water.
"Take these. You're anemic. Exhaustion, poor diet, overexertion—the holy trinity of teenage athlete collapse."
Leo took the pills, swallowing them with the water. It was cool and blessedly bland.
The nurse shook her head, tucking the clipboard under her arm. "I don't know why you soccer boys treat your bodies like rental cars with no insurance. Especially you strikers. All fire, no engine maintenance."
She nodded toward the empty bed by the window. "Mr. Vance was in that bed more times than I can count few years ago. Dehydration, muscle tears, exhaustion. A walking accident. He's better now. Maybe you should ask him how he improved. Learn from him."
Leo's fingers tightened around the empty paper cup, crushing it with a soft crinkle. The idea was so ludicrous it felt like a physical insult. Learn from the person who wanted to erase him? The water in his stomach turned to ice.
The clinic door burst open, the silence shattered.
"Leo! Dude!" Max and Kevin tumbled in, faces etched with concern.
"Hey, hey! One visitor at a time, and quietly!" Nurse Shonda admonished, but her tone was more exasperated than angry.
"Sorry, Nurse Shonda," Max said, flashing a quick, charmingly apologetic grin. He hurried to Leo's bedside, Kevin right behind him.
Kevin's eyes were wide. "You never told us you were an internet celebrity, man."
Leo, mouth still full of the last bit of roll, blinked in confusion. "Wha?"
"This." Max shoved his phone into Leo's line of sight.
On the screen, on a short-form video platform, was a clip.
Grainy, shot from a distance, but unmistakable. It was him, in his hoodie, outside Hal's Sports Gear.
The thug lunging. Leo ducking, twisting, the football falling from the sky. The impossible, shoulder-launched shot that CLANGED into the distant metal trash bin with the precision of a missile strike.
The caption read: KID TURNS STREET FIGHT INTO TRICK SHOT GOAL?? (●__●) #football #soccer #streetsoccer #viral
Leo's heart stuttered. He remembered the kids in the lot, the stunned silence. Someone had been filming their game.
He looked at the view count. His brain, so good with numbers, short-circuited for a second.
1.3 Million views.
"One…" he breathed, the number not computing. "Million?"
"It's blowing up!" Kevin said, vibrating with second-hand excitement. "The comments are going crazy—some people think it's fake CGI, others are saying you're a secret freestyle prodigy!"
Max sat on the edge of the bed, his expression a mix of awe and sheer amusement. "A trash can, Leo? You scored a worldie on a trash can? And you didn't lead with this story?"
Before Leo could even begin to formulate a response, Nurse Shonda was ushering them out. "Alright, show's over. He needs rest, not a fan club meeting. Out, out."
Max clapped Leo's shoulder. "Get better, trash-can champion." Kevin gave him a thumbs-up, and they were herded out, their excited whispers fading down the hall.
Silence seeped back into the clinic. Leo slowly lay back down, the springs of the old bed creaking under him.
He stared at the ceiling again, but now a slow, utterly delighted smile spread across his face, etching lines of pure joy into his exhausted features.
A million people had seen a moment of pure, system-driven chaos and called it magic. They'd seen the glasses-on genius, however misinterpreted.
He wasn't just a kid in a clinic bed anymore. He was the kid in the video.
And somewhere out there, in the vast, noisy digital world, people were watching.