Smallville High — Locker Room
The scent of turf and leather and nervous sweat clung to the air in the Smallville Crows' locker room like a second skin. The muffled roar of the crowd outside already reverberated through the cinderblock walls — a dull, pulsing thunder that made the lockers rattle and the overhead fluorescent lights flicker with each wave of sound. Friday night under the lights. This was what every high school football player lived for.
Hadrian Kent stood at the mirror, his broad shoulders filling out the crimson-and-gold jersey as he adjusted his shoulder pads with methodical precision. The golden CROWS lettering stretched clean across his chest, and the big white number 7 — Quarterback — gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights. At six-foot-three with the kind of natural athleticism that made everything look effortless, he had the easy confidence of someone who'd been throwing perfect spirals since he could walk.
His emerald green eyes, reflected back at him in the scratched metal mirror, glinted with quiet intensity. There was something almost otherworldly about those eyes — like they could see through defensive schemes and into the very soul of the game itself.
"You're doing that thing again," came a dry voice from behind him.
Hadrian glanced over his shoulder to see his twin brother, Neville, sitting on the bench with his black hair still damp from the shower. Where Hadrian was all easy grace and natural charisma, Neville was built like a battering ram — six-foot-two of pure muscle and determination. His pale green eyes, so different from Hadrian's vivid emerald, were calm but sharp as he taped his wrists with practiced ease.
"What thing?" Hadrian asked, tugging his gloves on.
"That brooding Superman thing you do in mirrors," Neville said, not looking up from his wrist tape. "Very dramatic. Very... you."
Hadrian snorted. "I don't brood."
"Right. And I don't run through defensive lines like they're made of tissue paper," Neville said, his pale green eyes flicking up with just a hint of amusement. "Face it, brother. You've got that whole 'tortured hero' thing down to an art form."
"I'm not tortured," Hadrian protested, though his lips twitched with the ghost of a smile.
"No, just ridiculously photogenic and unnaturally good at everything," Neville deadpanned, flexing his fingers to test the wrap. "Must be rough."
Across the room, the noise and energy of their teammates filled the space — guys laughing too loud, slamming locker doors, clapping each other's helmets, the usual pre-game ritual of controlled chaos. But even in the midst of all that noise, there was an undercurrent of tension. Riverton High was undefeated this season, and they were coming to Smallville looking for blood.
That's when Ethan Michaels made his entrance.
Their Center strode up between the Kent twins like he owned the joint — and honestly? He kind of did. At six-foot-four and built like a brick wall, Ethan cut through the noise and dropped onto the bench next to Neville with the kind of easy charisma that made him a natural leader. His deep brown eyes sparkled under the overhead lights, and he already had his helmet tucked under one powerful arm.
"You two look like you're about to walk into a gladiator pit," Ethan said, his rich baritone carrying over the chatter around them. "And judging by the crowd out there, you might not be wrong."
Hadrian arched a brow and tugged on his gloves, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. "Good. That's exactly the vibe I'm going for."
"Confidence looks good on you, QB," Ethan said with a grin. "But let's talk about what happens when Riverton's defense decides to introduce you to the turf. They've got a linebacker who's been making quarterbacks cry all season."
"Let them come," Hadrian said, his emerald eyes gleaming. "I didn't spend all summer working on my footwork just to hide in the pocket."
Neville didn't even look up as he finished wrapping his last wrist and set the tape aside. "We are perfectly calm," he murmured in that clipped way of his. "You, on the other hand, should worry more about snapping clean tonight. I'd rather not spend the first quarter fishing the ball off the ground because you got cute with the hike."
Ethan laughed — a deep, warm sound that somehow managed to cut through the pre-game tension. He clapped Neville's shoulder hard enough to make his pads creak. "There he is," he said. "Knew you had some sass buried under all that broody British thing you got going on."
Neville finally looked up at him, expression deadpan. "Our mother is Scottish."
"Same thing," Ethan shot back, grinning wider.
"Tell that to Mom and see how long you survive," Hadrian said, chuckling.
That actually earned the faintest smirk from Neville as he stood, adjusting his chin strap. "She'd probably make you run laps until you could properly distinguish between a Highland accent and a London one."
"Worth the risk," Ethan said, but his grin softened into something a little more knowing as he leaned back against the lockers, studying them both. The easy banter was good, but he could read the signs. The way Hadrian's hands lingered on his gloves a little too long. The way Neville flexed his fingers yet again after the tape.
"You boys nervous?" he asked.
It wasn't mocking. Not really. More like an older brother calling them on something he already knew.
Hadrian snorted softly and shook his head — but didn't quite meet Ethan's gaze. "Nervous?" he said, his tone low and even. "Not even a little."
Neville just muttered, "Hmph," and busied himself with his cleats.
Ethan arched an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Yeah, okay," he said, his voice laced with quiet amusement. "First game under the lights, full house out there, Riverton coming in hungry for an upset — sure. Totally calm. Y'all are practically Buddhist monks right now."
"I've been throwing touchdowns since I was twelve," Hadrian said, but there was something in his voice that suggested he was trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.
"And I've been running through people since I was ten," Neville added, finally looking up. "This is just another game."
"Right," Ethan said, nodding sagely. "Just another game. That's why Hadrian's been adjusting those gloves for the past five minutes, and why Neville's taped his wrists twice."
Both twins froze, caught.
"We're thorough," Hadrian said after a moment.
"Meticulous," Neville agreed.
"Nervous," Ethan concluded with a knowing smile. "And you know what? Good. Means you care. Means this matters to you."
He stood up, his imposing frame casting a shadow over both of them. "But here's the thing — nervousness is just energy looking for a place to go. And in about ten minutes, we're going to walk out of that tunnel and onto that field, and all that nervous energy is going to turn into something beautiful."
Hadrian finally met his gaze, and for a moment, something passed between them — an understanding, a recognition of what they were about to do.
"Tell you what, big man," Hadrian said, his voice gaining strength. "You keep Riverton's D-line off me long enough to throw, and I'll show you calm."
"Now that's what I like to hear, QB," Ethan said, reaching out to slap the back of Hadrian's helmet. "Let's go light these guys up."
Neville rose as well, his black-and-gold gloves already flexing into fists. "I'll do my part," he said quietly, but there was steel in his voice now. "You do yours."
"That's the plan, boys. That's the plan."
Around them, the locker room was starting to empty as players headed toward the tunnel. The noise outside was growing louder, more insistent. Somewhere down the hall, Coach Thompson's whistle shrilled, and the roar of the stadium crowd swelled like a living thing.
"You hear that?" Ethan asked, tilting his head toward the sound.
"Sounds like thunder," Hadrian said, his emerald eyes lighting up with something that hadn't been there before — not nervousness, but anticipation.
"Sounds like home," Neville added, and for once, his usually serious expression cracked into something approaching a smile.
The three of them exchanged a quick look — a silent, wordless agreement that spoke of hours of practice, of shared dreams, of the kind of brotherhood that only came from bleeding and sweating together in pursuit of something bigger than themselves.
Then they were moving, grabbing their helmets and heading toward the tunnel, side by side, their cleats echoing in rhythm against the concrete floor. The roar of the crowd grew louder with each step, and the butterflies in their stomachs transformed into something else entirely — something electric and alive and utterly unstoppable.
Whatever nerves lingered didn't matter now.
This was their field.
This was their night.
And tonight?
It was time to prove that the Kent twins and their unshakeable center were more than just small-town heroes. They were legends in the making.
The tunnel stretched ahead of them, dark and promising, with the lights of the field gleaming like stars at the end. And as they walked toward that light, toward the roar of the crowd and the promise of glory, one thing became crystal clear:
Smallville was about to witness something special.
—
The Tunnel
The Smallville Crows crowded together in the narrow tunnel like caged lions, their crimson-and-gold uniforms a wall of color and muscle under the harsh overhead lights. The muffled roar of the crowd was deafening now, a living thing that shook the concrete walls and made the fluorescent fixtures rattle overhead. The sharp scent of grass and ozone drifted in from the field ahead, mixing with the metallic taste of adrenaline that hung thick in the air.
Forty-seven young men, all breathing hard, all feeling the weight of what lay ahead.
Helmets hung at their sides, some players bouncing lightly on their toes, some staring straight ahead with thousand-yard stares, some muttering prayers or curses under their breath. The nervous energy was palpable, electric, like the moment before lightning strikes.
Hadrian Kent stood at the front of the pack, his six-foot-three frame relaxed but coiled like a spring. His emerald eyes were fixed on the rectangle of blazing light at the end of the tunnel, and there was something almost supernatural about the way those eyes seemed to drink in the light. His jaw was set, but there was a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth — the kind of smile that promised he knew something nobody else did.
"You look like you're planning world domination," came a dry voice from behind him.
Neville Kent stepped up beside his twin, helmet under his arm, his pale green eyes scanning the tunnel with tactical precision. Where Hadrian was all easy confidence and natural charisma, Neville was pure intensity — six-foot-two of carefully controlled power wrapped in deceptive calm.
"Just thinking about how much fun we're about to have," Hadrian said, his voice low and smooth. "Riverton's defense is going to be in for a long night."
"Assuming you don't get your pretty face planted in the turf," Neville replied, though there was no real concern in his voice. "Their middle linebacker's been watching film on you all week."
"Let him watch," Hadrian said, finally turning to look at his brother. "Film doesn't show everything."
Ethan Michaels materialized between them like a force of nature, his imposing frame towering above both twins. At six-foot-four and built like a monument, he had the kind of presence that commanded attention without effort. His deep brown eyes sparkled with controlled excitement, and his voice carried the easy confidence of someone who'd never met a challenge he couldn't handle.
"You two sound like you're discussing the weather," Ethan said, his rich baritone cutting through the ambient noise. "Meanwhile, half the team looks like they're about to throw up."
"Nerves are good," Hadrian said, adjusting his gloves with practiced ease. "Means they care."
"Nerves are weakness," Neville countered, though his tone was more philosophical than harsh. "Fear is the mind-killer."
"Did you just quote Dune at me?" Ethan asked, grinning.
"Maybe," Neville said with the faintest hint of a smile. "Point stands."
"Your brother's got a point," Ethan said to Hadrian. "But so do you. Question is, which one of you is right?"
Before either twin could answer, the tunnel fell silent.
Not the nervous quiet of before, but something deeper. Something that made every player straighten up and pay attention.
Because Coach Daniels had arrived.
The man stepped into the tunnel from a side door like he was walking onto a battlefield, his broad-shouldered frame filling the space, his presence making even the air feel heavier. If the crowd outside was a storm, Daniels was the lightning that made it crackle.
A former Marine turned high school legend, Daniels had a face carved from granite, a shaved head that gleamed under the fluorescents, and eyes the color of winter ice. His navy pullover clung to his barrel chest, and when he moved, it was with the deliberate precision of a man who'd spent years teaching young men how to be warriors.
Tonight, his pale blue eyes swept over the team with slow, deliberate weight, cataloging every face, every expression, every sign of weakness or strength. The noise of the stadium seemed to fade behind his presence, as if the very universe was holding its breath.
He didn't speak right away. That was his move — the quiet before the kill. Let them feel the weight of his attention. Let them understand that this moment mattered.
Then, finally, his boots ground against the concrete as he paced to the front of the huddle, each step echoing like a gunshot.
"Look at me," he said, his voice soft but somehow carrying to the very back of the tunnel. "Every damn one of you. Look. At. Me."
Helmets shifted. Eyes snapped forward. Silence fell like a hammer.
Daniels narrowed his eyes, like he was looking through each one of them and finding what he needed to see. His gaze lingered on Hadrian for a moment, then Neville, then Ethan, acknowledging his captains with the barest nod.
"You hear that out there?" he asked, jerking his chin toward the field. The roar of the crowd seemed to swell on cue, as if responding to his words. "That ain't just your mamas and your girlfriends and the goddamn marching band making noise. That's a whole town. Our town. And they're here for you."
He paused, letting that sink in.
"Because when you put this jersey on, you don't just play for yourself. You play for everyone who came before you… and everyone who'll come after. You play for the kid who's gonna wear number seven after you graduate," he said, his eyes finding Hadrian. "And the kid who's gonna run through the same holes you punch tonight," he added, looking at Neville. "And the kid who's gonna protect his quarterback the same way you protect yours," he finished, meeting Ethan's gaze.
The players nodded, murmuring agreement. Ethan tilted his chin up, his expression hardening into something that looked like he was ready to move mountains.
Daniels kept pacing, his boots scraping against the concrete like a countdown timer.
"Now Riverton?" His voice took on a different edge, something cold and sharp. "They don't give a damn about any of that. They came here thinking they're gonna walk into our house, take what's ours, and strut out like they own it."
He stopped pacing, planting his feet wide.
"You gonna let 'em?"
A few voices muttered back: "No, sir."
Daniels' head snapped up, his eyes flashing with something dangerous.
"Didn't hear you."
"NO, SIR!" The response was immediate and thunderous, echoing off the tunnel walls.
"That's better." Daniels nodded slowly, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "You hit them harder. You move faster. You want it more. And when it comes down to it? When they're sucking wind and looking for a way out? You show them that nobody… nobody… comes into Smallville and takes what's ours. Not tonight. Not ever."
The whole tunnel thrummed with energy now, forty-seven young men transformed from nervous teenagers into something else entirely. Something focused and hungry and utterly relentless.
"Coach," Hadrian said, his voice carrying clearly through the tunnel. "What do you want us to do to them?"
Daniels' smile was sharp as a blade. "Everything legal," he said. "And then some."
Neville stepped forward, his pale green eyes gleaming. "What about everything illegal?"
"Don't get caught," Daniels replied without missing a beat.
That got a ripple of laughter from the team, but it was the kind of laughter that had teeth in it.
Ethan raised his voice above the noise. "Coach, what's the plan?"
"The plan?" Daniels turned, his back to them, and jabbed a finger toward the light at the end of the tunnel. "The plan is simple. We go out there, we play our game, and we remind everyone why they call us the Crows. Because when the dust settles and the lights go out, they're gonna remember one thing."
He turned back to face them, his voice rising to a roar.
"They're gonna remember that we don't just play football in Smallville. We play it better than anyone else in the goddamn state!"
"CROWS!" the team bellowed, pounding their chests, slamming helmets together, the sound echoing like a war drum. The tunnel shook with the force of their voices, and for a moment, it felt like the entire stadium could hear them.
Hadrian slid his helmet on, snapping the chinstrap into place as the corners of his mouth curled into a grin — the kind of grin that promised trouble for anyone stupid enough to get in his way. The emerald green of his eyes was visible through his face mask, and they were practically glowing with anticipation.
"You ready for this?" he asked Neville, who was already pulling his own helmet down.
"I was born ready," Neville replied, his pale green eyes like chips of steel. "Question is, are they ready for us?"
Ethan caught both of their gazes, his own helmet already in place, and his voice was muffled but clear. "Time to make 'em remember our names, boys."
The three of them turned toward the light, shoulder to shoulder as the team surged forward behind them. The noise was deafening now, a wall of sound that seemed to push them forward, and the light at the end of the tunnel grew brighter with each step.
"CROWS ON THREE!" Daniels roared from behind them. "ONE! TWO! THREE!"
"CROWS!" they screamed back, and then they were running, forty-seven young men in crimson and gold, bursting out of the tunnel like a force of nature.
And when they emerged into the blazing stadium lights, the roar that greeted them was like nothing any of them had ever heard — twenty thousand voices raised as one, the stadium lights blazing down like the sun itself, the field stretched out before them like a battlefield waiting for heroes.
The Smallville Crows had arrived.
Tonight wasn't just a game.
Tonight was a statement.
And they were about to write it in touchdown passes and crushing tackles and the kind of football that would be talked about for generations.
Tonight…
Was theirs.
—
Smallville High — Home Stands
The bleachers were alive, pulsing with the kind of energy that only came with October nights and undefeated seasons.
A sea of crimson and gold stretched out in every direction, packed with cheering parents clutching foam fingers, alumni reliving their glory days, and every teenager in Smallville who knew that Friday night football was the heartbeat of their town. The roar of the crowd thundered under the star-scattered sky, as stadium lights blazed down over the pristine field below like heaven itself was watching.
Zatanna Zatara led the charge up the concrete steps, her dark trench coat fluttering behind her like a superhero's cape as she climbed with the kind of purpose that suggested she owned the place. At fifteen, she had that effortless confidence that came from knowing you were the most interesting person in any room, and tonight was no exception. Mischief danced in her dark eyes as she flashed her cousin Roslyn a conspiratorial look.
"Front row of the upper bleachers, middle section," she called back over her shoulder, her voice somehow carrying despite the marching band warming up below. "Perfect sightlines, optimal acoustics, and we will absolutely be seen tonight."
"Because obviously it's all about you, right?" Donna Troy quipped from behind her, brushing her dark hair off her shoulder as she gave Zatanna an arched brow. Even in the chaos of the crowd, she moved with the kind of understated grace that made heads turn without trying.
Zee didn't even look back, just waved a dismissive hand. "Obviously. But you're all welcome to bask in my reflected glory, darling."
Roslyn just rolled her eyes and fell into step beside her cousin. With her copper-red hair catching the stadium lights and that dry smile that suggested she was perpetually unimpressed, she looked like she'd rather be anywhere else but was secretly enjoying every minute.
"She was like this before she discovered she had magical powers, by the way," Roslyn muttered to Kara, who walked on her other side. "So now imagine her with actual supernatural abilities."
Kara Kent grinned around her caramel apple, her bright blue eyes dancing with amusement. At fifteen, she had that wholesome, girl-next-door thing down to an art form, but there was something about the way she moved—like she was holding back incredible strength—that made her more interesting than she appeared.
"And here I thought it was just Zatara family flair," Kara said, licking caramel from her thumb. "Good to know the dramatic tendencies are genetic."
"Hey!" Zatanna protested, though she was grinning. "I prefer 'theatrical excellence,' thank you very much."
Trailing them came Donna, all understated confidence and quiet observation. Then Dick Grayson—lips curled in that boyish grin that had gotten him out of more trouble than he'd care to admit—sidled up next to Wally West, who was practically vibrating with excitement.
"This is already awesome," Wally said, his voice cracking slightly as he peered around the crowd. At fourteen, he was all energy and enthusiasm, the kind of kid who made everything seem more fun just by being there. "Did you guys see the marching band warming up? They have a drumline. Drumlines make everything better."
"Maybe don't hype yourself into a sugar crash before halftime," Dick murmured with a smirk, his dark hair falling across his forehead in that perfectly tousled way that definitely wasn't accidental.
"I can crash after the win," Wally shot back, already craning his neck to find the scoreboard. "Besides, I brought emergency candy. I'm prepared for anything."
Kaldur'ahm, impossibly calm in his cool peacoat, brought up the rear with the kind of quiet confidence that suggested he'd seen things most people couldn't imagine. Beside him walked Conner Kent, his tall frame looming at six-foot-four as he stayed quiet, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. There was something about him—something in the way he held himself, like he was constantly aware of his own strength.
Jessica Cruz, hugging her notebook to her chest like a shield, offered him a shy smile. At fifteen, she had that earnest, determined quality that made you want to protect her and cheer her on at the same time.
"Are you nervous?" she asked quietly. "About watching your... cousins play?"
Conner's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "No," he said, though his voice suggested otherwise. "Should I be?"
"Everyone gets nervous about family stuff," Jessica said with a gentle smile. "It's normal."
Megan Morse, meanwhile, was gawking openly at everything, her red hair glinting under the stadium lights like fire. At seventeen, she had that wide-eyed enthusiasm that came from experiencing everything for the first time, and it was absolutely infectious.
"Oh my gosh," Megan breathed, bouncing on her toes. "This is my first American football game. Do they always play music this loud? Look at all the signs! And that mascot is terrifying and adorable at the same time!"
"Yes," Wally answered automatically, grinning ear to ear. "And yes. And yes. Welcome to America, M'gann. You're gonna love it here."
"The mascot's name is Striker," Dick added helpfully. "He's been known to tackle opposing team mascots. It's... intense."
Up ahead, a voice cut across the din, sharp and playful and impossible to ignore.
"Well, well, well—look who finally made it!"
All five-foot-one of Maya Sullivan was perched on a bench like it was a throne, her blonde bob in perfect place despite the October breeze. At fifteen, she had that particular brand of confidence that came from knowing everyone's secrets and being unafraid to use them. Mischief sparkled in her eyes as she waved them over, a Torch press badge hanging from her lanyard and a notepad already in hand.
"Maya!" Zatanna called out, immediately perking up. "You magnificent little chaos agent, you actually saved us seats!"
"Of course I did," Maya replied, gesturing dramatically. "I'm nothing if not a woman of my word. Plus, I knew you'd cause a scene if you had to sit in the nosebleeds."
Behind Maya sat Raj Kulkarni, his tablet already glowing as his fingers danced over it with the kind of precision that suggested he could probably hack into NASA if he wanted to. The faintest hint of a dry smile curved his lips, though his gaze didn't leave the screen.
"Don't mind him," Maya said, noticing their stares. "He's live-tweeting statistical analysis of the game. It's his version of social interaction."
"I can hear you," Raj said without looking up, his accent making even his deadpan delivery sound somehow more sophisticated. "And for the record, my tweets are far more interesting than whatever drama you're planning to manufacture tonight."
Lena Luthor leaned against the rail, her sharp cheekbones catching the light as she gave a little wave. At fifteen, she had that particular brand of elegance that came from good breeding and better genetics, but there was something in her green eyes that suggested she was working twice as hard to be her own person.
"Don't listen to him," she said, her voice carrying that slight accent that made everything sound more important. "Maya's drama is half the reason anyone comes to these games."
Sarah Cushing, warm as ever in her smile, was perched between them, her cheer jacket zipped to her chin against the October chill. She had that quality that made everyone feel like they were her best friend within five minutes of meeting her.
"Best seats in the house," Maya declared, waving her arms dramatically. "And you are so welcome. Come on, sit before someone else tries to claim our territory."
Zatanna didn't need telling twice. She hopped up beside Maya and gestured to the rest of their group. "Alright, everyone. Meet Smallville's finest. Maya Sullivan: editor-in-chief, walking headline generator, and occasional troublemaker."
"Occasional?" Raj muttered, still typing.
"Raj Kulkarni: tech wizard, master of sarcasm, and the reason our school newspaper hasn't been hacked by rival schools," Zatanna continued, ignoring him. "Lena Luthor: proof that genetics don't dictate destiny and probably the smartest person in a fifty-mile radius."
"Flattery will get you everywhere," Lena said with a small smile.
"And Sarah Cushing: unofficial mayor of Smallville, everyone's favorite cheerleader, and the person who somehow knows everyone's birthday."
"I'm literally not the mayor," Sarah said with a laugh, her cheeks flushing slightly. "I just... like people."
Wally elbowed Dick and muttered under his breath, "She's better at introductions than Batman."
"Batman?" Dick asked, raising an eyebrow.
"You know, that brooding guy you know," Wally said quickly. "Really good at dramatic entrances and stuff."
Maya smirked and gave a little bow. "Welcome to my domain. Now introduce yourselves properly before I start making up nicknames. And trust me, you don't want me making up nicknames."
Zatanna shot her a look but complied. "Dick Grayson—yes, that's his real name, no, we're not making fun of it. Wally West, human energy drink and speedster wannabe. Kaldur'ahm, the most zen person you'll ever meet. Conner Kent, local mystery and possible Superman cosplayer. Jessica Cruz, future Pulitzer Prize winner and current anxiety champion. Roslyn, my beloved cousin who tolerates my existence. And Megan, who is clearly having the time of her life."
Megan nodded vigorously, her red hair bouncing. "I am! This is so exciting!" She glanced at Sarah. "Do they always wear matching socks and paint their faces like that?"
Sarah laughed, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Oh, you're gonna love halftime. Trust me. There's a whole routine with the mascot and everything."
"A routine?" Megan asked, eyes wide.
"More like performance art," Lena said dryly. "Very... enthusiastic performance art."
As the group settled into their spots, Maya's sharp eyes landed on Conner, and she tilted her head like a bird spotting something interesting. Her pen tapped against her notepad in a rhythm that suggested her mind was already working.
"So," she drawled, "anyone ever tell you you kind of look like Hadrian and Neville? Like, same square jaw, same 'I could lift a tractor' vibe, same general... Kent-ness?"
Conner froze slightly, his jaw tightening, but before he could respond, Kara jumped in smoothly, her voice sugar-sweet.
"That's because he's a Kent," she said brightly, licking caramel from her thumb. "Our cousin. Visiting for the season. Family reunion and all that."
Maya narrowed her eyes but grinned. "Ah. Cousin. Got it. Should have known. Smallville's like that—everyone's related somehow, and the gene pool is apparently blessed by the gods."
Roslyn huffed, adjusting her hoodie. "That's not true."
"Oh, sweetie," Maya said, smirking, "in this town? It absolutely is. I've been tracking genealogies for the school paper. The family trees here are more like family wreaths."
Raj finally looked up from his tablet, his tone dry as desert sand. "Just don't block the Wi-Fi signal. Some of us are tracking play statistics in real-time. For... journalism."
"Sure, Raj," Lena said with a snort. "And I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fantasy football league you're definitely not supposed to be running."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Raj said, immediately returning to his typing.
The lights over the field brightened as the announcer's voice boomed over the PA system, deep and dramatic enough to make everything seem like the climax of a movie.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome your Smallville Crows!"
Megan clutched Jessica's sleeve, her eyes huge. "Oh! Is this the part where they play the movie music and run out in slow motion? Do they really do that here?"
Jessica chuckled and patted her hand. "Just watch."
"It's about to get loud," Sarah warned, pulling out her phone to record. "Like, really loud."
Dick leaned forward, his eyes scanning the tunnel. "There they are."
Wally was practically bouncing in his seat. "This is it! This is the moment!"
Roslyn leaned back, her coppery hair catching in the wind as she shot Kara a sideways grin. "This is gonna be good."
Kara bit into her apple again and grinned back. "Riverton doesn't know what's about to hit them."
And then the tunnel erupted.
The Smallville Crows stormed out in a wave of crimson and gold, the crowd's roar hitting like a physical force. Hadrian Kent led the charge, his emerald eyes blazing even through his helmet's face mask, moving with that effortless grace that made everything look easy. Neville was a half-step behind him like a silent shadow, all coiled power and deadly intent, while Ethan anchored the center of the charge like a one-man wall.
The stadium lights seemed to pulse in rhythm with the crowd's cheers, and for a moment, it felt like the entire world had narrowed down to this field, this moment, this team.
Maya scribbled furiously in her notepad, then leaned over to Zatanna and murmured just loud enough to be heard over the noise, "Called it. This game's gonna be front page material."
"Everything's front page material to you," Zatanna replied, but she was grinning.
"That's what makes me good at my job," Maya shot back.
The band struck up the fight song, the crowd roared even louder, and the lights seemed just a little brighter as the night began in earnest.
Tonight, Smallville was about to put on a show.
And judging by the electricity in the air, it was going to be one hell of a performance.
---
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