Smallville High — Sidelines
The field was alive under the Friday night lights — stadium roaring, band blaring, cheerleaders shaking gold pom-poms. Players lined up in rows on the sideline, stretching and slapping pads while the faint smell of kettle corn and turf mixed in the crisp October air.
In the shadows near the water cooler, Brad and Chad hunched over like a pair of scheming wolves.
Brad — broad-shouldered, blond, and about as subtle as a truck stop billboard — had his hoodie sleeves rolled up as he tipped a little white packet into a squeeze bottle. His smirk was pure arrogance, the kind that suggested he'd never faced a consequence in his life.
"You see Coach? Watching them like they're God's gift to football," Brad muttered, his voice carrying that particular brand of entitled bitterness that only came from being displaced by someone better. He glanced toward the field, where Hadrian and Neville Kent jogged through warm-ups with the easy confidence of natural athletes. "I've been QB since freshman year. Now? I'm a freakin' waterboy."
Chad — taller, darker-haired, with the grin of someone who thought his own jokes were hilarious — snorted and shook up another bottle with theatrical flair.
"Not for long, my dude," Chad said, his voice dripping with the kind of smug satisfaction that made people want to punch him. "Little Kent boys ain't gonna make it past the first quarter once this stuff kicks in. Heard it clears you out faster than Taco Tuesday at the senior center."
Brad barked a laugh that was more bark than humor. "Yeah, exactly. Then Coach'll have no choice but to call us in to save the game. Like it shoulda been all season long."
"We're gonna be heroes," Chad added, puffing out his chest like he'd already won the state championship. "Brad 'The Cannon' Manning and Chad 'The Wall' Morrison, back where we belong."
"Dude, stop calling yourself 'The Wall,'" Brad said, rolling his eyes. "You got pancaked by a JV sophomore last week."
"That was a fluke!" Chad protested, then grinned. "Besides, 'The Wall' sounds better than 'The Guy Who Ate It.'"
They clinked their water bottles together in a mock toast, then set the tampered drinks neatly on the tray — right where Hadrian and Neville usually grabbed theirs.
"Showtime," Brad whispered with a grin that would have made a used car salesman proud.
---
Bleachers — Middle Row
Roslyn Kent, sitting two rows up with a tub of popcorn in her lap, had been half-listening to Maya Sullivan regale everyone with one of her trademark conspiracy theories when her ears caught something… different.
"...and that's why I'm telling you guys, the cafeteria's tater tots are definitely a government experiment," Maya was saying, gesturing dramatically with her perfectly manicured hands. "Think about it — they're indestructible, they all look identical, and nobody knows what they're actually made of. Classic military-industrial complex stuff."
"Maya," Kara said dryly, not looking up from her caramel apple, "sometimes tater tots are just tater tots."
"That's exactly what they want you to think!" Maya shot back, her voice hitting that perfect pitch of dramatic conviction. "Wake up, sheeple!"
Roslyn's emerald eyes narrowed ever so slightly, her Kryptonian hearing tuning into the low voices below the bleachers, cutting through Maya's theories like a knife through butter.
*Little Kent boys ain't gonna make it past the first quarter... clears you out faster than Taco Tuesday...*
Roslyn's jaw tightened as she watched Brad and Chad smirk, high-five, and skulk away from the cooler like the discount villains they were.
"Pathetic," she muttered, her voice carrying just enough edge to make the word sound dangerous.
Maya, perched next to her in a cropped jacket and perfectly styled blonde bob, cocked her head with the curiosity of a cat spotting a laser pointer.
"You say something, Rosie-posie?" she asked sweetly, batting her mascaraed lashes. "Because you've got that look — you know, the one where you're plotting someone's social demise."
Roslyn's smile was equally sweet, but with the kind of sharpness that could cut glass. "Just… remembering something."
Kara, who was sitting on Roslyn's other side and had been methodically working through her caramel apple, arched an eyebrow. "Oh no," she said dryly, her voice carrying that particular brand of deadpan humor that came from years of superhero experience. "That's her 'someone's about to regret their life choices' face."
"I love that face," Zatanna said from behind them, her dark hair falling artfully across one eye as she sprawled across the bleacher bench with practiced nonchalance. "It's my second favorite of your faces, right after your 'I'm about to do something technically illegal but morally justified' face."
"Those are two different faces?" Wally asked, leaning forward with the kind of grin that suggested he was enjoying the show immensely.
"Trust me," Zatanna smirked, "when you've seen as many of Roslyn's faces as I have, you learn to categorize them for survival purposes."
Roslyn stood up, pulling her hood up with the kind of casual movement that somehow managed to look both innocent and ominous. "Be right back. Gonna grab a pretzel."
Maya gasped in mock horror, pressing a hand to her chest like she'd just witnessed a scandal. "You're voluntarily eating carbs? Be still my beating heart! What's next, are you gonna tell me you're not wearing lip gloss?"
"Live a little, Maya," Donna called out from the row behind them, her voice carrying that effortless confidence that made everything sound like sage advice. "Sometimes a girl's gotta carb-load before she commits casual mayhem."
"Did someone say mayhem?" Dick asked, appearing seemingly out of nowhere with the kind of grin that suggested he'd been eavesdropping. "Because I'm always down for a good mayhem situation."
"Nobody said mayhem," Jessica said quickly, shooting him a look. "We're just... observing."
"Observing what?" Kaldur asked, his voice carrying that calm authority that made people automatically want to confess their secrets.
"Nothing!" Jessica said, a little too quickly. "Just... normal high school stuff."
Raj, still glued to his tablet, muttered dryly without looking up, "In my experience, whenever someone says 'normal high school stuff' in that tone, someone's about to end up in the principal's office."
"Or the hospital," Megan added cheerfully, her green eyes wide with the kind of innocent curiosity that somehow made everything sound more ominous.
Roslyn glanced back at her assembled friends with a grin that was equal parts fond and faintly wolfish. "Don't wait up."
---
Sidelines
Brad and Chad had already started preening near the bench, both swigging from their own bottles and exchanging cocky grins like they'd just pulled off the heist of the century.
"Man, I can't wait to see their faces," Chad said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Kent boys are gonna be running for the locker room faster than—"
"Than you ran from that pop quiz in Henderson's class?" Brad interrupted with a smirk.
"Hey, that was strategic withdrawal," Chad protested. "I was... regrouping."
"You hid in the janitor's closet."
"Strategic. Regrouping."
They were so busy congratulating themselves that they didn't notice the figure crouched low behind the bench, green eyes glittering as she muttered under her breath, fingers moving in a subtle pattern that seemed to make the air shimmer.
"Inversa," Roslyn whispered, her voice carrying just enough magical intent to make the spell stick.
The tampered water bottles shimmered faintly for a second — unnoticeable to anyone who wasn't looking for it — and then the contents swapped perfectly. Now, it was Brad and Chad's own drinks that carried their little payload.
Roslyn straightened, dusting her hands off with a small, wicked smile that would have made her magical tutors proud.
"Enjoy the show, boys," she whispered, then melted back into the crowd with the kind of stealth that came from years of practice.
---
Bleachers — The Return
When she slid back into her seat, Kara glanced at her sidelong with the kind of look that suggested she knew exactly what had just happened.
"Pretzel?" she asked mildly.
"Lines were insane," Roslyn said, settling back into her seat with the kind of casual grace that fooled absolutely no one. She plucked a piece of caramel apple from Kara's tray instead.
Maya eyed her suspiciously, twirling her pen between her fingers like a tiny baton. "You're smiling like you just sabotaged a Senate hearing. Or discovered that the lunch ladies really are lizard people."
"The lunch ladies aren't lizard people, Maya," Conner said from somewhere behind them, his voice carrying that particular brand of long-suffering patience that came from having this conversation before.
"That's exactly what a lizard person would say," Maya shot back without missing a beat.
"I'm not a lizard person," Conner said flatly.
"Also exactly what a lizard person would say," Maya replied, grinning like she'd just won a debate.
Roslyn just smirked faintly, ignoring the lizard people discussion. "Let's just say... karma works fast in Smallville."
Behind her, Donna — arms folded and looking effortlessly gorgeous and mildly intimidating — quipped, "Faster than Brad and Chad can run, anyway. Which, let's be honest, isn't setting a high bar."
"Ouch," Dick said, grinning. "Remind me never to get on your bad side."
"Too late," Donna replied smoothly. "I've been keeping a list."
Wally leaned forward from the row behind them, practically vibrating with excitement. "What'd I miss? Do I need popcorn for whatever you just set in motion? Because I can get popcorn really, really fast."
"We know," Jessica said dryly. "You've mentioned your speed. Several times. This conversation."
"I like to be thorough," Wally said, still grinning ear-to-ear.
Zatanna waved a hand lazily, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief. "Does she need to admit to doing anything? Look at her. That's a girl who did something."
"I'm sitting right here," Roslyn pointed out.
"And you're glowing with smug satisfaction," Zatanna replied. "It's very becoming on you."
Raj, still glued to his tablet, muttered dryly without looking up, "Whatever it is, as long as it doesn't mess with my Wi-Fi, I'm good. I'm in the middle of a very important debate about whether the new Star Trek series is better than the original."
"Which side are you on?" Dick asked, genuinely curious.
"The correct side," Raj replied without elaborating.
Megan's green eyes were wide as she leaned over to Roslyn, whispering conspiratorially, "Is this, like, a... human ritual? Getting back at people? Because it's... kind of thrilling."
"You catch on quick, M'gann," Roslyn winked.
Lena, who had been quietly observing the entire exchange with the kind of analytical intelligence that made people nervous, finally spoke up. "You know, from a purely strategic standpoint, whatever you did was probably brilliant. Brad and Chad have the collective IQ of a houseplant."
"That's insulting to houseplants," Sarah added from beside her, her voice carrying that particular brand of dry wit that made everything sound like a cutting observation. "At least houseplants serve a purpose."
Down below, Brad and Chad each chugged their water bottles theatrically like conquering heroes, completely oblivious to the trap they'd set for themselves.
Roslyn leaned back, popped another piece of caramel apple in her mouth, and murmured under her breath with the kind of satisfaction that came from a job well done:
"Nothing like a little poetic justice."
---
Field
Hadrian trotted confidently out to the huddle, his emerald eyes gleaming under the lights as the crowd erupted into cheers. Neville followed right behind him, cracking his knuckles and looking every bit the human freight train he was genetically designed to be.
Up in the stands, Roslyn crossed her legs, a faint smile on her lips as she watched her brothers take their positions with the kind of athletic grace that made Brad and Chad's earlier complaints seem even more ridiculous.
"Showtime," she said softly, her voice carrying just enough anticipation to make several of her friends lean forward in their seats.
And somewhere down on the sideline, Brad and Chad started to feel a... sudden urgency.
The kind that suggested their evening was about to take a very different turn than they'd planned.
Maya, who had been watching the entire proceedings with the kind of gleeful attention she usually reserved for conspiracy theories, suddenly gasped.
"Oh my God," she said, her voice rising with excitement. "This is better than the time I proved the cafeteria was serving us expired milk! Ross, you beautiful, devious genius!"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Roslyn said primly, but her smile was pure satisfaction.
"Sure you don't," Kara said dryly. "And I can't bench press a truck."
"You can bench press a truck?" Wally asked, impressed.
"Focus, Wally," Jessica said, pointing toward the sideline where Brad and Chad were starting to look increasingly uncomfortable. "I think the show's about to start."
And indeed, it was.
—
Smallville High — The Kickoff
The Smallville stadium practically shimmered under the Friday night lights — the band blasting a triumphant brass fanfare that could wake the dead, cheerleaders in gold and crimson working the crowd into a frenzy, and the scent of kettle corn and freshly-cut turf swirling through the crisp autumn air like a promise of victory.
The Crows offense assembled at midfield, a wall of crimson jerseys gleaming in the stadium glow like warriors preparing for battle.
At the center of it all stood Hadrian Kent — No. 7 — tall, broad-shouldered, and calm as a lake before a storm. The emerald of his eyes flashed as he scanned the Riverton defense like a general surveying a battlefield, his jaw set with the kind of quiet confidence that made opposing coaches lose sleep.
"All right, gentlemen," Hadrian said, his voice carrying that perfect blend of authority and ease that made grown men want to follow him into battle, "they came here thinking they could take our house. Time to remind them why that was a mistake."
Neville Kent — No. 21 — bounced on the balls of his feet, cracking his knuckles with the enthusiasm of someone who genuinely enjoyed controlled violence. His black hair was already damp at the temples, and his pale green eyes glinted with the kind of dangerous anticipation that made smart people step aside.
"Brother," Neville said, his voice carrying that particular brand of barely-contained energy that suggested things were about to get very interesting, "I've been waiting all week to introduce their defense to the ground. Repeatedly."
Ethan Michaels — No. 56 — planted himself at center, a towering wall of muscle and quiet menace. His presence alone seemed to make the earth shift slightly, and when he spoke, his voice carried the kind of authority that made mountains move.
"Just point me in the right direction, Kent," Ethan rumbled, his tone suggesting that whatever direction that was, it was about to become very unpleasant for anyone standing in it. "I've got some introductions to make."
Hadrian's lips curved into that faint, cocky smirk that had been breaking hearts and defensive coordinators' plans since freshman year. "Oh, we're making introductions all right. First play's ours, boys. Let's make it count."
They clapped hands and broke with the kind of synchronized precision that spoke of countless hours of practice and an almost supernatural understanding of each other's movements.
---
Bleachers — Middle Row, The Peanut Gallery
Maya Sullivan was practically folded over the railing by now, her blonde waves catching the stadium lights as she clutched her notepad like it contained the secrets of the universe. Her hazel eyes were wide, transfixed by No. 7 with the kind of focused intensity usually reserved for religious experiences.
"That man," she sighed, pressing a hand to her heart in a gesture that was only half-theatrical, "was born to be quarterback. Look at that stance. Look at that presence. Look at the way he just... exists."
"Look at the way you're drooling," Zatanna deadpanned from beside her, her dark hair falling across one eye in a way that suggested she'd practiced the look in mirrors but would never admit it.
"I'm not drooling," Maya corrected primly, though she did discretely check her chin. "I'm appreciating. There's a difference. God, he's like Tom Brady and Jason Bourne had a baby and handed him a football. Someone make a statue already."
Donna Troy, arms folded and looking effortlessly gorgeous in that way that made other people consider taking up jogging, scoffed softly. "He's fine."
Maya whirled around so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash. "Fine? FINE?" Her voice rose to a pitch that could shatter glass. "That boy could walk on water and turn it into Gatorade. Don't even pretend you don't see it, Troy."
Donna's expression didn't change, but there was a slight tightening around her eyes that suggested Maya had hit a nerve. "I don't see it."
Kara, methodically working her way through a caramel apple with the kind of focused attention that suggested she was either really hungry or really trying not to laugh, raised an eyebrow. "You're blushing."
"I'm not blushing," Donna shot back, though her ears were betraying her in a way that made several people in the nearby rows turn to look.
"Classic denial," Wally chimed in with a grin so wide it threatened to split his face in half. "Next comes doodling his name in your notebook. Then comes the anonymous love letters. Then comes the—"
"Keep talking, West," Donna said, her tone carrying enough ice to freeze the Pacific Ocean, "and I'll snap you like a pretzel."
"Totally worth it," Wally replied cheerfully, apparently unbothered by the threat of bodily harm.
Raj, who had been quietly hunched over his tablet in the corner, looked up with the kind of expression that suggested he was questioning every life choice that had led him to this moment. "Are we really doing this?" he asked, his voice carrying that particular brand of exasperation that came from being the only sane person in a room full of lunatics. "Are we really having a teenage melodrama about football players while there's a perfectly good game happening right in front of us?"
"Yes," Maya said without hesitation.
"Absolutely," Wally agreed.
"Unfortunately," Jessica Cruz added with a sigh that suggested she'd given up trying to be the voice of reason.
Raj shook his head and returned to his tablet. "I'm documenting this for future anthropologists. They'll want to know how civilization ended."
---
Field — The Poetry in Motion
The snap came fast and clean.
Hadrian caught it with the kind of effortless grace that made difficult things look easy, backpedaling three steps with the fluid motion of someone who'd been doing this since he could walk. His emerald eyes sliced through the defense like a surgeon's scalpel, reading formations and intentions in the space between heartbeats.
He faked the handoff to Neville with the kind of misdirection that would have made magicians weep with envy, and Neville sold it beautifully, bulldozing through the left gap like a runaway freight train with a personal vendetta against anything wearing the opposing team's colors.
The defense overcommitted like fish jumping at bait.
Hadrian's feet danced in the pocket with the kind of choreographed precision that turned football into art, his spiral flying sharp and true through the autumn air — landing squarely in the receiver's hands at the thirty like it had been placed there by divine intervention.
"First down!" the announcer barked as the crowd erupted into the kind of roar that could be heard three counties over.
Maya shrieked so loud that half the row winced and several people in the surrounding sections turned to stare. "Did you see that?!" she screamed at Zatanna, who was trying very hard to look unimpressed and failing spectacularly.
"That pass was poetry!" Maya declared, scribbling furiously in her notebook with the kind of manic energy that suggested she was either taking very detailed notes or writing fan fiction in real time. "Somebody embroider that play and hang it in the Louvre!"
"You're embarrassing yourself," Zatanna said dryly, but there was a fondness in her voice that suggested she found Maya's enthusiasm more endearing than annoying.
"Shut up, Z," Maya huffed, but she was grinning like an idiot and didn't stop writing.
Lena, who had been observing the entire spectacle with the kind of analytical detachment that made people nervous, leaned forward slightly. "From a purely tactical standpoint," she said, her voice carrying that particular brand of intelligence that made everything sound like a chess move, "that was a perfectly executed play-action fake. The timing was flawless."
"Thank you!" Maya exclaimed, gesturing wildly with her pen. "Finally, someone who appreciates artistry when they see it!"
"I didn't say it was artistry," Lena replied with a small smile that suggested she was enjoying herself more than she let on. "I said it was tactical."
"Same thing," Maya declared.
"Not even close," Lena said, but she was still smiling.
---
Sidelines — The Wages of Hubris
Meanwhile, Brad and Chad loitered near the water cooler, their earlier smugness fading by the second as biology began to assert itself in ways they hadn't anticipated.
Brad wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "Man," he said, his voice carrying a note of concern that suggested the universe was not unfolding as he'd expected, "it's really hot tonight."
Chad nodded stiffly, his usual confidence replaced by something that looked suspiciously like panic. "Y-Yeah. Real humid. Maybe too humid. Is it just me, or is everything moving a little too fast?"
They both gulped from their bottles with the kind of desperate thirst that suggested they were trying to solve a problem that water wasn't going to fix.
And then they froze.
"Oh no," Brad whispered, his face going pale as the reality of their situation hit him like a freight train.
Chad's eyes went wide with the kind of dawning horror usually reserved for people who'd just realized they'd accidentally insulted their boss's wife. "Oh no..."
They bolted, sprinting for the locker room with the kind of desperate speed that suggested they were running from more than just embarrassment, knocking over a cart of towels, a water cooler, and what appeared to be an entire rack of pom-poms in the process.
Up in the stands, Roslyn Kent leaned back with the kind of satisfied expression that suggested justice had been served exactly as ordered, her emerald eyes glittering as she popped a piece of caramel apple into her mouth.
"Poetic justice," she murmured, looking every inch the queen of her own quiet war.
Maya gasped, momentarily distracted from her football commentary. "What just happened? Why are Brad and Chad running like their pants are on fire?"
Wally grinned with the kind of delight that suggested he'd just witnessed the greatest comedy performance of all time. "Brad and Chad? Looks like they've been... permanently benched."
Zatanna groaned, though she was trying not to smile. "You've been waiting all night to say that, haven't you?"
"Absolutely worth it," Wally said, practically vibrating with glee.
Donna hid a smile behind her hand, finally allowing herself to look amused. "I almost feel bad for them. Almost."
Sarah — quiet, pink-cheeked, and currently trying very hard not to stare at Ethan in the huddle — watched the field with the kind of focused attention that suggested she was either really into football or really into someone playing football.
Megan, her red hair catching the stadium lights, tilted her head with the kind of curious expression that suggested she was still figuring out human behavior. "Is this normal?" she asked, her voice carrying that particular brand of innocent confusion that made everything sound more interesting. "The running and the screaming and the... general chaos?"
"For Brad and Chad?" Dick said, grinning with the kind of boyish charm that suggested he was enjoying every minute of this. "This is about as normal as they get. Which is to say, not very."
Kaldur, who had been quietly observing the entire spectacle with the kind of calm authority that made people automatically assume he was in charge, shook his head slightly. "There's a lesson here about hubris and consequences," he said, his voice carrying that particular brand of wisdom that made everything sound like a philosophy lecture.
"Yeah," Conner said dryly from somewhere behind them, his voice carrying the kind of deadpan humor that suggested he'd seen this movie before, "don't mess with the Kent family."
---
Field — The Symphony Continues
Another snap, another moment of perfectly choreographed chaos.
Hadrian barked the count, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade through silk, and this time he handed off clean to Neville — who roared through the gap with the kind of controlled violence that made defensive coordinators wake up in cold sweats.
Neville stiff-armed two defenders with the casual efficiency of someone swatting flies, lifted a third clean off his feet and deposited him gently on the turf, then charged forward for a gain of twenty yards that left the Riverton defense looking like they'd been hit by a particularly athletic tornado.
"Boom!" Neville bellowed as he was finally tackled just shy of the goal line, slapping the turf with the kind of enthusiasm that suggested he was genuinely enjoying himself. "Who's next?"
The crowd went absolutely wild, the kind of roar that could be heard in the next state.
Ethan, stone-faced and unmovable as a mountain, slammed the Riverton nose tackle to the ground on the next play with the kind of casual strength that made physics seem like a suggestion rather than a law.
Hadrian called the audible mid-huddle, his emerald eyes blazing with the kind of competitive fire that turned good players into legends. "They're rattled," he said, his voice carrying that perfect blend of confidence and authority that made people believe they could move mountains. "Keep the pressure on. Neville, fake left, then come back for the screen. Ethan, I need three seconds and a miracle."
"Three seconds, coming up," Ethan rumbled, his tone suggesting that miracles were just another Tuesday for him.
Neville grinned with the kind of wicked anticipation that suggested someone was about to have a very bad day. "Let's make them remember why they should have stayed home tonight."
The ball snapped — and everything moved like a perfectly orchestrated symphony of controlled violence and athletic artistry.
Ethan flattened his assigned defender with the kind of casual efficiency that made it look easy, Neville pulled two safeties left with a fake that would have fooled their own mothers, and Hadrian threaded the needle with another perfect spiral that seemed to defy the laws of physics as it arced through the autumn air and landed in the end zone like it had been guided by GPS.
Touchdown.
The stands erupted with the kind of primal roar that suggested the home team had just conquered Rome.
Maya clutched her chest dramatically, her notebook forgotten as she stared at the field with the kind of rapturous expression usually reserved for religious experiences. "That's it," she whispered, her voice breathless with awe. "I'm putting 'Future Mrs. Hadrian Kent' on my vision board tonight. Right next to 'Win the Lottery' and 'Discover the Meaning of Life.'"
"The meaning of life is not marrying the quarterback," Zatanna said dryly, though she was trying not to smile.
"Have you seen the quarterback?" Maya shot back.
"Unfortunately, yes," Zatanna replied, but there was no real bite to it.
Donna muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "Delusional," but she didn't take her eyes off the field, and there was a slight flush to her cheeks that suggested Maya wasn't the only one who'd noticed the quarterback.
Sarah clapped enthusiastically for Neville's performance, but her eyes kept drifting to Ethan as he helped his teammates up from the pile, and there was something in her expression that suggested she was seeing more than just excellent blocking technique.
Wally leaned in from behind them, practically vibrating with excitement. "Okay, okay, somebody please tell me we're getting celebratory milkshakes after this because I'm gonna need something to calm me down and also I might need to run a few victory laps around the parking lot!"
"You always need to run victory laps," Jessica Cruz said with the kind of fond exasperation that suggested she'd had this conversation before.
"I like to stay prepared," Wally shot back, his grin suggesting he was absolutely serious about the milkshakes.
Dick leaned forward from his seat, grinning at Roslyn with the kind of boyish enthusiasm that suggested he was genuinely impressed. "Your brothers are scary good at this," he said, his voice carrying that particular brand of admiration that suggested he was reconsidering his own athletic career choices.
Roslyn just smiled, leaning back in her seat like a queen surveying her domain. "They've been playing together since they could walk," she said, her voice carrying that particular brand of quiet pride that suggested she knew exactly how good her family was. "This is their field. And nobody — and I mean nobody — takes it from them."
And down below, Hadrian clapped hands with Neville and Ethan as the Crows gathered in the end zone, the scoreboard glowing crimson behind them like a promise of victory, while somewhere in the distance, Brad and Chad continued their unscheduled sprint toward consequences they'd never anticipated.
The night was young, the game was far from over, and in the stands, a group of teenagers watched their friends dominate the field with the kind of fierce loyalty that suggested this was about more than just football.
This was about family. This was about home. And this was about proving that sometimes, the good guys really do win.
---
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