The chocolate bar's sweetness had long faded from Leo's tongue, replaced by the metallic aftertaste of doubt.
It had been a week, and Frank's joke—"award worth less than a vegetarian steak"—echoed in the silent spaces between drills. It wasn't just funny; it was prophetic.
Leo had seen the way the Principal's eyes gleamed whenever he talked about the new gym's hydraulic benches, not the athletes who'd bleed for them.
But that particular worry was a luxury his brain couldn't afford at 7:15 AM on Friday. He stood before the gleaming, terrifying doors of the school library during zero period, a soldier reporting for a battle he'd almost forgotten he was fighting.
Exams.
The calculus final was a landmine on the path to the Griffin Cup. He needed Peter Fletcher's summary notes. His own textbook, untouched for weeks, felt like a artifact from a past life.
The library was a tomb of whispered anxiety and the sharp, clean scent of desperation.
Peter sat at his usual carrel in the reference section, a fortress of textbooks, color-coded binders, and a small monument of empty, neon-colored energy drink cans.
He didn't look up as Leo's shadow fell across his meticulously drawn diagram of a benzene ring.
"Peter."
Peter's pen paused for a microsecond. His eyes, pale and calculating behind smudged glasses, flicked up, then back down. "Leonardo. Shouldn't you be diagramming through-balls or performing corrective lens-based miracles?"
"It's Leo. And I need your calculus summaries. The pre-finals packet."
A slow, oily smile spread across Peter's face, the expression of a spider feeling a vibration on its web.
He leaned back, the chair creaking, and laced his fingers behind his head. "See, that's the fascinating thing about a free market, Leo. Supply and demand. My notes—guaranteed to distill a semester's panic into eight pages of actionable A-grade material—are experiencing peak demand. Especially from… specialized students who may have let their primary academic functions lapse in pursuit of extracurricular football glory."
Leo felt a flare of irritation but smothered it. He reached into his bag and pulled out his own, pristine physics summary—a work of art that had taken him a weekend to create.
"Trade. My physics for your maths. Kevin vouches for it."
Peter glanced at the neat, dense pages and gave a dismissive little wave. "Tempting. But Alicia already bartered me her and her friend's physics and sociology notes." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "But I'm not unreasonable. I'm willing to negotiate for a… unique asset."
Leo's stomach tightened. He knew the school's brutal calculus: two scholarship students were quietly culled per grade after finals. With his mind orbiting football for a month, he was a prime contender.
The Principal could still axe him from the program even if he scored the winning goal in the Griffin Cup. His football future depended on his academic present. "What do you want?"
Peter's smile widened. He pointed a finger, not at Leo's bag, but at his face. "Your spectacles."
Leo took an involuntary step back, his hand coming up to touch the sturdy frame. "What?"
"The design is classic. Substantial. And the initials inside… D.R." Peter closed his chemistry book with a soft thump. "Sentimental value, I'm sure. I'd have to change the lenses, of course. My prescription is for genius, not goalkeeping. But it seems a fair trade. My notes for them. A guaranteed ticket to stay in the scholarship program and keep playing your game."
The air in the library felt suddenly thin. The glasses were his father's final gift, the conduit to the system, the literal lens through which he saw his new world. They were not a bargaining chip.
Anger, cold and clear, washed over him. He saw the greed in Peter's eyes, the petty power trip. This wasn't about glasses; it was about proving he could take something precious from the kid who was suddenly getting attention Peter would never receive.
Leo's shoulders slumped in a show of defeat. He sighed. "Fine. But if I'm giving these up, I need fuel to process your notes."
He reached past Peter, snatched the bag of gourmet chips from the desk, and tore it open, taking a loud, crunching bite. He talked with his mouth full. "A snack seems fair. Start handing over the notes."
Peter's smirk vanished. "The glasses first."
Leo swallowed, gave a slow, disappointed shake of his head, and turned to leave. "Enjoy your benzene, Peter. Guess I'll have to pass calculus the old-fashioned way."
"You little—!" Peter's hissed curse followed him out.
He pushed through the library doors, the morning light harsh after the dim interior. He could faintly hear Peter raining curses on him
The bag of chips felt flimsy in his hand, a pathetic trophy. He was adrift. No notes. A calculus final looming. The specter of academic failure was now a real, breathing monster.
"Leo! Hey!"
He looked up. Max was power-walking across the quad, his face uncharacteristically serious. "Arkady just texted the group. Emergency session. Field. Now."
The calculus monster vanished, replaced by the immediate, electric pull of the pitch. "Now? But training was postponed."
Max fell into step beside him. "I think it's an emergency team meeting. Something's up."
They broke into a jog. The Friday morning school grounds were mostly empty, a ghost town before the storm of the final period. When they burst onto the field, a scene was already assembled.
Thirteen players stood in a loose cluster—the survivors of Arkady's slaughterhouse.
King, notably absent all week, was still not there, but his presence was a phantom limb; the coach still counted him in.
In one brutal week, Arkady had forged a skeleton crew into the shape of his perfect weapon: a 4-3-3 formation. He'd assigned a sub for each outfield line.
Only the goalkeeper slot remained unsettled, waiting for the legendary Diaz, whose flight, according to grumbling from Miller, had now been canceled twice.
As they waited under the gray morning sky, a new figure ambled onto the track surrounding the field.
He was taller than Leo, with a casual, languid grace. Smooth brown hair fell in artful disarray. He had the face of a guy who'd never had to try hard for anything—clean, handsome, with a hint of permanent, amused boredom.
He wore a simple, expensive-looking white t-shirt, baggy, distressed jeans that screamed curated effortlessness, and pristine, gold-accented Air Force 1s.
The scent of expensive, woody cologne arrived a moment before he did. Designer sunglasses were pushed up into his hair.
He raised a hand in a lazy wave. "Big M! You still holding down the fort with these kids?"
Miller, who had been meticulously tightening his goalkeeper gloves, looked up.
A complex emotion—part rivalry, part resigned familiarity—flashed across his face. "Yo! Little D! 'Bout time you dragged your diva ass back to civilization."
Miller and Diaz met with a hard, clapping handshake that was more a test of strength than a greeting. They were peers, but Miller's denser, older-brother physique made Diaz look like a sleek, visiting celebrity.
Leo watched, fascinated. Then Thomas broke from the group, a huge grin splitting his face. "Couz!"
Diaz's cool mask cracked into a genuine, bright smile. "Tommy!" They embraced in a back-slapping hug.
Max and Leo exchanged a stunned glance. Cousins? The web of connections in this town was tighter than they'd imagined.
Before the shock could fully register, Coach Arkady arrived. He strode onto the pitch in a forest green tracksuit—Leo was beginning to suspect the man owned one in every color of the military spectrum.
Arkady's presence immediately siphoned the casual energy from the air.
He went straight to Diaz, not with a smile, but with a assessing stare. They shook hands, the grip lasting a second too long, a silent contest of wills.
"Diaz Jerónimo. Your file makes for... interesting reading. Reflexes noted as 'preternatural' for your age. I look forward to testing that notation."
He paused, then pointed his chin directly to where Leo stood. "with our most… unpredictable striker."
For one dizzying, glorious second, Leo's heart soared. Arkady had called him his striker. The unpredictable striker.
The recognition was a bolt of pure sunlight. He imagined it—Miller or Diaz in goal, Arkady shouting, Thomas and Max on the wing, and him, Leo Reed, the focal point, the finisher. The next Ronaldo. The system's ultimate weapon.
The fantasy shattered like glass.
A single word, cold and absolute, cut through the moment from behind him.
"Move."
Leo turned. King Vance stood there, already in his immaculate training kit, his hair perfect, his expression one of serene, unquestioned authority. He hadn't been at tryouts all week. He'd been… preparing.
A jolt went through him, as if he'd touched a live wire. The air left his lungs. The earlier warmth of Arkady's acknowledgment turned to ice in his veins.
Leo automatically shifted aside, clearing a path to the coach. King didn't brush past him; he flowed through the space Leo vacated, as if Leo were merely an inconveniently placed curtain.
King walked up to Diaz and offered a hand. "Diaz. Long time."
Diaz's celebrity cool returned, but his smile was more genuine than the one he'd given Arkady. "King. Heard you've been showing 'em what football looks like."
They shook, a quick, familiar clasp, and shared a low chuckle that was a vault of private history from which Leo was permanently locked out.
Leo felt the world drop out from under his feet. He'd been thrown into a bottomless pit of cold darkness. He could hear Max groan.
King's week-long absence wasn't neglect; it was confidence. He didn't need tryouts. His spot was carved in stone by Arkady. The midfielder turned unpredictable striker.
Now, the brutal arithmetic was undeniable. Strikers: King. Thomas. Max. Frank. Him. Five players for three starting spots and one bench slot in Arkady's 4-3-3.
Leo had ground for a week. He'd perfected the Croqueta until it was smooth, drilled his shooting until his instep was bruised, pushed his stats up decimal by painful decimal. He'd fought to impress Arkady, to earn a sliver of a chance.
King had simply arrived.
And with that arrival, the question hanging over Leo wasn't about being the star anymore. It was a far more desperate, gut-wrenching calculation:
One of them would have to replace king and another would be benched.
Leo adjusted his glasses. Do I have what it takes to be neither?