RIVERTON LOCKER ROOM BATHROOM
The visitors' bathroom at Riverton High had clearly been designed by someone who had given up on life sometime around the Carter administration. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like dying insects with electrical problems, casting everything in the kind of sickly green glow that made even supermodels look like they were auditioning for a zombie apocalypse movie.
Right now, it was serving as an emergency medical facility for two casualties of what could only be described as cosmic justice with a really twisted sense of humor.
Brad Manning slumped against the metal stall divider like a Ken doll that had been left in a hot car during a Texas summer. Even while actively dying, he still looked like he'd stepped off the cover of a magazine—the kind of naturally handsome that made other guys question their life choices and consider plastic surgery. His golden hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, and his usually perfect complexion had taken on a shade of green that would have made the Hulk jealous.
"Bro," Brad wheezed, clutching his stomach like it was staging a hostile takeover of his entire digestive system, "I think I'm actually dying. Like, legitimately dying. Should I call my mom? Write a will? Update my Instagram status to 'Currently Deceased'?"
His voice had that particular quality that suggested he was trying very hard not to throw up while simultaneously planning his own funeral.
From the next stall over came Chad Morrison's voice, rough and broken like he'd been gargling with gravel and disappointment. Despite being built like a Greek god who'd spent his off-season at the gym, he currently sounded like a wounded animal that had lost a fight with a garbage disposal.
"Don't... don't write anything, man," Chad groaned, his voice echoing off the tile walls with the kind of acoustics that made everything sound like it was being broadcast from the depths of hell. "Your handwriting looks like a drunk chicken had a seizure while trying to solve calculus."
The sound that followed was the kind of noise that would haunt janitors for generations and probably require therapy to fully process.
Brad let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob mixed with a death rattle. "Remember when we thought we were gonna be legends tonight? Remember when we thought we were gonna crush those farm boys and their fancy new quarterback? Remember when we thought we were hot shit?"
"Yeah, well," Chad grunted, his voice carrying the kind of defeat that usually required a support group, "turns out legends don't get food poisoning from gas station burritos that were probably sitting under a heat lamp since the Clinton administration. Who knew?"
A freshman waterboy—all arms and legs and the kind of terror that came from being new to the ecosystem—cracked open the door, took one whiff of the apocalyptic air, and immediately retreated like he'd just witnessed the face of death itself and decided he wasn't ready for that kind of commitment.
Smart kid. Self-preservation was clearly strong in that one.
The roar of the crowd filtered through the cinder block walls like a distant thunderstorm, punctuated by the announcer's voice booming over the PA system with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for lottery winners and religious converts:
"ANOTHER TOUCHDOWN FOR THE CROWS! That's number six for Kent! The kid is absolutely unstoppable tonight! Ladies and gentlemen, we are witnessing greatness!"
Brad banged his head against the stall door with the kind of dramatic flair that would have made theater kids weep with envy. "Six touchdowns. Six! And where are we? Dying in a bathroom that smells like a sulfur mine had a baby with a sewage treatment plant and they decided to raise it in a fish market!"
"Karma's a witch," Chad muttered bitterly, his voice rough with defeat and the kind of nausea that came from poor life choices. "A really, really fast witch with a wicked sense of humor and apparently a degree in cosmic justice."
"I can't feel my legs," Brad whimpered, his voice cracking like a thirteen-year-old's at the worst possible moment. "Or my dignity. Definitely can't feel my dignity. It packed up and left around the time I started having a heart-to-heart with this toilet."
"Your dignity left around the time you decided to eat a burrito that was probably older than that freshman," Chad replied, his usual confidence replaced by the hollow tone of a man who'd stared into the abyss and found it staring back with judgment. "Mine's been gone since I threw up on my own cleats. Do you know how much these cost? They're custom!"
The crowd roared again, and both boys groaned in unison like a chorus of the damned.
"Tell my mom," Brad said dramatically, his voice taking on the tone of a dying soldier in a war movie, "that I fought bravely. And that I want to be buried in my varsity jacket. The good one, not the backup with the stain."
"Tell your mom yourself," Chad shot back, though there was no real heat in it—just the resigned acceptance of a man who'd accepted his fate. "I'm not making it out of here alive either. We're gonna be found tomorrow morning, and they're gonna have to identify us by our dental records and our protein shake preferences."
Through the walls, the announcer's voice continued its relentless assault on their wounded pride:
"And that's another first down for Smallville! This Kent kid is putting on an absolute clinic out there! The Riverton defense looks like they're playing a different sport entirely!"
Both boys groaned again, louder this time, like they were auditioning for a death metal band.
---
SMALLVILLE HIGH STADIUM — FOURTH QUARTER
The scoreboard blazed against the Friday night sky like a neon monument to complete and utter domination: CROWS 45 — RIVERTON 7
And the night was still young, which was either very good news or very bad news depending on which side of the field you were standing on.
On the fifty-yard line, Hadrian Kent stood in the huddle like a general surveying his conquered territory, and honestly, the comparison wasn't that far off. At six-foot-three with shoulders that looked like they'd been carved from marble by someone who really knew their way around a chisel, he had the kind of presence that made people stop and stare even when they weren't trying to.
His emerald eyes—bright as Kansas summer grass and about twice as alive—swept over his teammates with the kind of intensity that made grown men want to run through walls for him. His dark hair was tousled from his helmet, and there was something about the way he carried himself that suggested he'd never met a challenge he couldn't handle, a problem he couldn't solve, or a defense he couldn't pick apart with surgical precision.
When he smiled, which was often, it was the kind of smile that made people believe in magic and happy endings and the possibility that maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be okay.
"Alright, boys," Hadrian said, his voice carrying that natural quarterback authority that turned suggestions into gospel truth and made teammates want to follow him into battle, "they're already broken. Question is, do we put them out of their misery like merciful gods, or do we make this a night they'll never forget? The kind of night that gets passed down through generations of Riverton players like a cautionary tale?"
Neville Kent grinned like a wolf who'd just spotted a particularly fat sheep wandering into his territory with a sign around its neck that said "Please eat me." At six-foot-two and built like a brick wall that had been taught to run really, really fast, he had the kind of smile that made defensive coordinators wake up in cold sweats and consider career changes.
His black hair was already matted with sweat and mud, and his pale green eyes glinted with the kind of pure, unadulterated joy that came from dominating another human being in front of thousands of people. He was the kind of running back who didn't just run through defenders—he ran through them like they were made of paper and dreams.
"Brother," Neville said, cracking his knuckles with the satisfaction of someone who genuinely loved his job and was really, really good at it, "I was born for this. These boys couldn't stop me if they brought a tank, a prayer circle, and a team of professional exorcists."
He looked over at the Riverton defense, most of whom were currently staring at their feet like they contained the secrets of the universe or at least an explanation for how their lives had gone so wrong.
"Look at them," Neville continued, his grin somehow getting even wider. "They're already beaten. Half of them are probably thinking about what they're gonna tell their girlfriends after this. The other half are thinking about what they're gonna tell their therapists."
Ethan Michaels stood to Hadrian's right, silent as a mountain and about twice as immovable. At six-foot-four with the kind of athletic grace that made physics look like a polite suggestion, he didn't need to say much. His dark eyes held the quiet confidence of someone who'd never met a problem he couldn't solve with careful application of force and superior technique.
When Ethan spoke, people listened. When he moved, people got out of the way. When he blocked, people got reminded why they'd chosen football over chess club.
"Route?" Ethan asked, his voice low and steady like distant thunder before a storm.
"Power sweep left," Hadrian replied, his emerald eyes sparkling with the kind of mischief that made coaches nervous and fans excited. "You open the door, Nev walks through it like he owns the place and pays the mortgage, and I'll find the end zone myself if I have to carry this entire team on my back."
"Copy that," Ethan said, and somehow those two words sounded like a promise, a threat, and a guarantee all rolled into one.
The center—a kid named Tommy who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, including math class or the dentist—glanced nervously at the Riverton defense like he was expecting them to spontaneously combust.
"They look pretty desperate over there," Tommy said, his voice carrying the kind of nervous energy that suggested he was always slightly worried about something. "Think they might try something dirty?"
Hadrian's smile got wider, and there was something almost predatory in it—the kind of smile that made smart people nervous and dumb people make poor life choices.
"Let them try," Hadrian said, his voice carrying that particular brand of confidence that came from knowing you were better than everyone else and being completely right about it. "We've been waiting all season for someone to give us a real challenge."
"This isn't a real challenge," Neville pointed out, still grinning like a maniac who'd just won the lottery. "This is target practice. This is batting practice. This is whatever practice you call it when you're playing against children."
On the sideline, Coach Daniels—a bear of a man who looked like he could bench press a truck while simultaneously solving a crossword puzzle and planning his grocery list—clutched his clipboard like it was the only thing keeping him grounded to reality.
His weathered face was suspiciously red, and his voice was rougher than usual, like he'd been gargling with emotion and trying not to let it show.
"You good, Coach?" asked his assistant, Mark, a skinny man who looked perpetually terrified of everything and had the nervous energy of someone who'd had too much coffee and not enough sleep for the past fifteen years.
"I'm fine," Coach Daniels barked, yanking his cap lower over his eyes like he was trying to hide from the world and its tendency to make grown men cry at high school football games. "Got something in my eye. Dust. Pollen. Field paint. Something manly and explainable."
Mark blinked owlishly behind his glasses, his expression suggesting he was working through some complex calculations.
"Field paint isn't really airborne, Coach," Mark said carefully, like he was defusing a bomb made of emotions. "And it's not pollen season. And there's no dust because the groundskeeper—"
"Don't question me, Mark," Coach Daniels growled, his voice cracking slightly like a teenager's during the worst possible moment. "Just... just enjoy the show. And maybe grab me a tissue. For the... for the pollen. The theoretical pollen."
---
THE DRIVE
The snap came clean and fast, Hadrian's hands sure and steady as he took the ball and immediately began orchestrating what could only be described as beautiful chaos with a purpose. He sold the play-action fake so hard that three Riverton linemen bit like hungry fish seeing a worm, crashing toward him in a desperate attempt to make something—anything—happen in their favor.
It was like watching someone convince a group of very large, very athletic people that gravity worked differently just for them.
Meanwhile, Neville slipped through the gap Ethan had created like a black-haired missile of destruction with a very specific target in mind and the kind of focus that made professional athletes jealous. The first defender who tried to tackle him learned very quickly why that was a bad idea when Neville's stiff-arm sent him spinning like a top that had been given a very aggressive lesson in physics.
"Come on!" Neville roared as he crossed the forty-yard line, the ball tucked against his side like a baby he was protecting from the world's worst babysitters. "Is that all you got? My grandmother hits harder than that! And she's been dead for three years!"
The second defender took one look at Neville's grin and seriously considered a career change. Maybe accounting. Accounting was safe. Nobody got stiff-armed in accounting. Nobody got their dignity destroyed in accounting. Well, except by auditors, but that was different.
The third defender—a kid who looked like he'd rather be literally anywhere else, including trapped in an elevator with his ex-girlfriend—made a halfhearted attempt at a tackle that would have been generous to call "trying."
Neville lowered his shoulder and hit him so hard that the kid's helmet flew off and landed in the first row of bleachers, where it was immediately claimed by a small child who held it aloft like a trophy while his parents tried to figure out if they should be proud or call a lawyer.
The safety—who at this point was probably questioning every life choice that had led him to this moment—made a desperate dive that would have looked heroic if it hadn't been so completely ineffective.
Neville hurdled over him like he was a particularly athletic speed bump.
Touchdown number seven.
Neville spiked the ball so hard it bounced back up to chest height, caught it one-handed with the casual ease of someone who'd done this a thousand times before, and held it aloft like he was presenting it to the gods of football for their approval.
"WHO WANTS SOME MORE?" he bellowed at the Riverton sideline, his voice carrying across the stadium like a challenge to the universe itself.
The answer came back in the form of silence, several players checking their phones to see if Uber was available after the game, and at least one coach who looked like he was seriously considering a career in teaching kindergarten.
Next drive, Hadrian decided to take matters into his own hands with the kind of casual confidence that made other quarterbacks hate him and made college scouts frantically update their contact information.
He took the snap, rolled right with the fluid grace of someone who'd been born to do this and had spent his entire life proving it, and found himself with nothing but green grass and broken dreams between him and the end zone.
He ran with the kind of effortless speed that made it look like he was jogging while everyone else was stuck in slow motion, like he'd figured out how to hack the laws of physics and was too polite to tell anyone how he'd done it.
His emerald eyes were bright with the pure joy of competition, and there was something almost musical about the way he moved—like he was dancing to a song only he could hear, and the song was about winning.
A linebacker tried to angle him off—Hadrian juked left, then right, then left again with the kind of precision that would have made a surgeon jealous and a ballet dancer weep with envy, leaving the kid grasping at air like he was trying to catch smoke with his bare hands.
"Nice try!" Hadrian called over his shoulder, his voice carrying genuine appreciation for the effort, because even when he was destroying someone's hopes and dreams, he was still impossibly polite about it.
The cornerback had a better angle and looked like he might actually have a chance—Hadrian put on a burst of speed that would have made a cheetah jealous and left him eating turf while contemplating his life choices and probably his college prospects.
The safety was the last line of defense, and he looked like he knew it. He also looked like he was already planning his post-game speech about how they'd given it their all and sometimes that's all you can do.
Hadrian slowed down just enough to make the kid think he had a chance, then accelerated past him like he was standing still, or possibly moving backward through time.
"Thanks for playing!" Hadrian called out as he crossed the goal line, his emerald eyes sparkling with the kind of mischief that made people want to simultaneously hug him and throw things at him.
Touchdown number eight.
When the whistle blew, the scoreboard read: CROWS 52 — RIVERTON 7
And the night was still young, which at this point was either a blessing or a curse depending on your perspective and your team affiliation.
---
SIDELINE CELEBRATION
Coach Daniels was immediately mobbed by his players, all of them shouting and laughing and generally acting like they'd just won the Super Bowl, the lottery, and the Nobel Prize all at the same time. Which, considering they'd just put up fifty-two points against their biggest rivals, wasn't that far from the truth.
"That," Coach Daniels said, his voice thick with emotion as he clapped Hadrian on the shoulder with the kind of pride that could power a small city, "was beautiful. Just beautiful. Poetry in motion. Shakespeare would weep. Not crying, by the way. Nope. Just... allergies. From the... from the field paint. Very common this time of year."
Hadrian grinned, his emerald eyes sparkling with the kind of mischief that made people want to follow him into battle and possibly into a burning building if he asked nicely enough.
"Of course, Coach," Hadrian said, his voice carrying that particular brand of respectful amusement that suggested he was playing along with a game everyone understood. "Field paint gets everyone this time of year. Very common problem. Practically an epidemic."
"Exactly," Coach Daniels said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand like he was dealing with a particularly stubborn piece of dust. "Very common. Practically seasonal. Should probably get it checked out by medical professionals."
Neville slung an arm over Ethan's shoulders, still buzzing with the kind of adrenaline that came from dominating another human being in front of thousands of people and having it broadcast on local television.
"Did you see them run?" Neville asked, his voice carrying the kind of gleeful disbelief that suggested he was still processing what had just happened. "Like scared little rabbits! Like very large, very athletic rabbits who'd just realized they were being hunted by wolves! This is our house now, boys!"
Ethan's usually stoic expression cracked just enough to show a hint of a smile, and when Ethan smiled, it was like seeing a mountain decide to be happy—rare, powerful, and slightly unsettling.
"They're welcome to leave any time they want," Ethan said, his voice carrying that particular brand of quiet menace that made people nervous. "I'll even hold the door. And carry their bags. And maybe escort them to their cars for their own safety."
The team erupted in laughter, and even some of the Riverton players couldn't help but crack smiles. It was hard to stay mad when you were getting beaten by people who were clearly having the time of their lives and were somehow still managing to be gracious about it.
"Coach," Hadrian said, his voice carrying that natural leadership quality that made people listen and made other people want to vote for him for president, "what do you say we give the starters a rest? Let the backups get some playing time? Show the fans what a complete team looks like?"
Coach Daniels nodded, still trying to compose himself like a man who definitely wasn't crying at a high school football game.
"Good idea," he said, his voice still rough with emotion. "Show some mercy. We're not animals. We're civilized people who just happen to be really, really good at football."
"Speak for yourself," Neville called out, grinning like a maniac who'd just discovered that Christmas came twice this year. "I'm just getting warmed up! I could do this all night!"
---
BLEACHERS — THE CROWD GOES WILD
Maya Sullivan stood on the bench like she was conducting an orchestra of pure enthusiasm, her notebook clutched to her chest like a shield against the possibility that this might all be a dream. At five-foot-four with honey-blonde hair that caught the stadium lights like spun gold and the kind of energy that could power a small city, she was the human embodiment of school spirit mixed with barely contained joy.
"HADRIAN KENT!" she shrieked, her voice carrying across the stadium like a battle cry that could wake the dead and probably alert neighboring counties. "Future Hall of Famer! Future Rhodes Scholar! Future EVERYTHING! Future President of the United States of America!"
Her eyes were bright with the kind of adoration usually reserved for rock stars, religious figures, and people who'd just discovered the cure for cancer, and she was practically vibrating with excitement like she'd consumed nothing but pure sugar and caffeine for the past week.
Zatanna Zatara, sitting beside her with the kind of effortless cool that came from knowing you were the most interesting person in any room and probably the smartest too, raised an eyebrow with the kind of practiced precision that suggested she'd spent years perfecting the art of looking unimpressed.
Her dark hair fell in perfect waves that somehow managed to look both casual and absolutely perfect, and she had the kind of presence that made people notice when she walked into a room and made them slightly nervous about what she might say.
"Sullivan," Zatanna said, her voice carrying just a hint of amusement mixed with the kind of fond exasperation that came from years of friendship, "he can probably hear you from Mars. Hell, the Martians can probably hear you from Mars. They are probably filing noise complaints."
"I HOPE HE HEARS ME!" Maya crowed, her eyes shining like stars that had decided to become overachievers. "I want the whole world to know! I want aliens to know! I want people in alternate dimensions to know that Hadrian Kent is the greatest human being who ever lived!"
"We get it," Zatanna interrupted, but there was fondness in her voice that suggested she found Maya's enthusiasm more charming than annoying. "You're in love with the quarterback. Very original. Totally unprecedented. No one has ever thought of that before."
Donna Troy—tall, dark-haired, and beautiful in the way that made other girls either hate her or want to be her best friend—tried to look bored and was failing spectacularly at it. She had the kind of effortless beauty that belonged in old Hollywood movies, but right now she was clearly struggling with the concept of pretending she didn't care about what was happening on the field.
Kara Kent, sitting next to her with the kind of golden-girl wholesomeness that belonged in a Norman Rockwell painting, wasn't buying Donna's act for a second. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail that somehow managed to look both practical and perfect, and her blue eyes were twinkling with the kind of mischief that suggested she was enjoying this way too much.
"You're smiling," Kara teased, her voice carrying that same musical quality that seemed to run in the Kent family like a genetic gift. "Your face is doing that thing where it turns up at the corners. I'm pretty sure that's called smiling."
"I'm not smiling," Donna snapped, though the tips of her ears turned pink in a way that completely contradicted her words and suggested she was lying through her perfect teeth. "I'm just... appreciating good football. As a connoisseur of athletic excellence. It's purely academic."
"Uh-huh," Kara said, clearly not buying it and enjoying every second of Donna's discomfort. "And I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fact that my cousin looks particularly good in those tight pants tonight."
"Kara Kent!" Donna gasped, her cheeks turning bright red like she'd just been caught stealing cookies from the cookie jar. "That's completely inappropriate!"
"But not inaccurate," Kara replied, her grin getting wider.
Wally West popped up two rows down like a jack-in-the-box powered by pure enthusiasm and possibly several energy drinks, his red hair wild and his grin infectious in the way that made everyone around him feel slightly exhausted just watching him.
At fourteen, he had the kind of energy that made everyone around him feel like they were moving in slow motion, and he was constantly in motion like he was physically incapable of sitting still for more than three seconds at a time.
"Classic Troy denial!" Wally announced, his voice carrying that same rapid-fire enthusiasm that made him sound like he'd had too much caffeine and not enough sleep. "Next thing you know, she'll be doodling 'Mrs. Donna Kent' in her chemistry notebook! With little hearts! And maybe some stars!"
"Shut it, West," Donna deadpanned, but there was no real heat in it—just the resigned acceptance of someone who'd learned to live with Wally's commentary.
"Worth it," Wally replied, still grinning like he'd just won the lottery and discovered the secret to eternal happiness. "Totally worth it. This is better than cable. This is better than Netflix. This is live entertainment at its finest!"
Sarah Cushing sat clutching her jacket like it was a security blanket, clapping politely for Neville but sneaking glances at Ethan like she couldn't quite help herself and wasn't entirely sure she wanted to.
Her dark hair fell in waves around her shoulders, and she had the kind of quiet beauty that snuck up on you—the kind that made you do a double-take when she smiled and made you wonder how you'd never noticed it before.
Zatanna, lounging behind her like a cat in the sun who'd just discovered the perfect spot for a nap, murmured with the kind of knowing tone that suggested she saw everything and found it all mildly amusing.
"You've got it bad, sunshine," Zatanna said, her voice carrying that particular brand of gentle teasing that came from genuine affection. "Just admit it. Life's too short to pretend you don't have a crush on the strong, silent type who could probably bench press a car."
Sarah muttered something too quiet to hear, but her blush was loud enough to read from space and probably visible from the International Space Station.
From the row behind, Lena Luthor—all sharp angles and sharper wit—arched an eyebrow with the kind of precision that suggested she'd spent years perfecting the art of looking skeptical about everything.
She had the kind of presence that made people uncomfortable, like she was constantly analyzing everyone and finding them wanting, and she was probably right about it too.
"You all wear your crushes like badges of honor," Lena observed, her voice carrying that particular brand of intellectual superiority that made people want to prove her wrong and probably fail in the attempt. "It's almost anthropologically fascinating. Like watching a nature documentary about teenage behavior patterns."
Jessica Cruz, sitting beside her with the kind of nervous energy that came from caring too much about everything and everyone, rolled her eyes while simultaneously checking her phone for the fourth time in the past minute.
She was constantly fidgeting with something—her hair, her sleeves, her phone, her bag—like she couldn't quite sit still and was always slightly worried about something that might or might not happen.
"That's high school for you," Jessica said, her voice carrying that slightly breathless quality that suggested she'd rather be anywhere else but couldn't quite bring herself to leave. "Everyone's in love with someone, and nobody knows what they're doing. It's like a science experiment in chaos theory."
"That's not high school," Lena corrected, but there was something almost fond in her voice that suggested she found the whole thing more endearing than she wanted to admit. "That's just being human. And it's simultaneously beautiful and tragic."
Wally leaned forward like he was about to share the secrets of the universe, his hands clasped like he was praying to the gods of teenage social dynamics and really hoping they were listening.
"So," he said, his voice carrying that particular brand of enthusiasm that suggested he'd been thinking about this for a while, "milkshakes after? Or milkshakes and pie? Because this night definitely deserves pie. Actually, it deserves a whole bakery. Maybe two bakeries."
Jessica groaned in the way that suggested she'd had this conversation before and knew exactly where it was going.
"You always say that," she said, her voice carrying that particular brand of fond exasperation that came from years of friendship.
"And I'm always right!" Wally shot back, his grin somehow getting even wider like he'd just discovered the secret to perpetual happiness. "This is America! We celebrate victory with dairy products and sugar! It's practically patriotic! It's in the Constitution! Probably!"
Dick Grayson, sitting behind Roslyn Kent with the kind of easy confidence that came from never having met a situation he couldn't charm his way out of, leaned forward with a smirk that suggested he was always planning something and it was probably going to be entertaining.
At fourteen, he had the kind of natural charisma that made people want to follow him even when they knew better, and the kind of smile that made people forget why they were mad at him in the first place.
"Can you believe they just made Coach Daniels cry?" Dick asked Roslyn, his voice carrying that particular brand of mischief that suggested he was always two steps ahead of everyone else and enjoying every second of it.
Roslyn Kent—regal and unbothered, a caramel apple in one hand like she was holding court at a renaissance fair—didn't even glance at him. She had the kind of poise that belonged in a palace, not a high school football stadium, and the kind of presence that made people automatically straighten their posture and check their manners.
"Good," she said coolly, her voice carrying that particular brand of Kent authority that seemed to run in the family like a genetic gift. "It's about time someone gave him something worth crying about. The man's been coaching for thirty years and he's never seen anything like this."
Raj Kulkarni, sitting a few rows up with his laptop balanced on his knees like he was conducting a one-man newsroom, was frantically typing with the kind of intensity that suggested he was either writing the next great American novel or live-tweeting the apocalypse.
His dark hair was disheveled from running his hands through it in excitement, and his glasses were slightly fogged from the combination of adrenaline and the surprisingly warm October evening.
"This is going to be the greatest sports article in the history of the Smallville High Torch!" Raj announced, his voice carrying that particular brand of enthusiasm that came from knowing you were witnessing history and having the journalistic credentials to do something about it. "I'm calling it 'The Night the Crows Soared: A Study in Athletic Dominance and the Death of Dreams'!"
Megan Morse, her red hair bright as a flame and twice as attention-grabbing, leaned over to read his screen with the kind of critical eye that suggested she was always looking for ways to improve other people's work.
She had the kind of presence that made people notice when she walked into a room and made them slightly nervous about what she might say next.
"That's terrible," Megan said, her voice carrying that particular brand of brutal honesty that made people either love her or avoid her, depending on their tolerance for constructive criticism. "Call it 'Massacre at Riverton' or something with more drama. More blood. More suffering. More poetry."
"Violence doesn't sell newspapers," Raj protested, adjusting his glasses with the kind of nervous energy that suggested he was always slightly overwhelmed by the world and its tendency to be chaotic. "Heart-warming stories of triumph and perseverance do! People want to feel good about themselves!"
"This is football," Megan replied, her voice carrying that particular brand of logic that was hard to argue with even when you wanted to. "Violence is literally the point. Controlled violence with rules and referees, but violence nonetheless. Embrace it. Make it poetic."
Kaldur, sitting with the kind of calm dignity that made him seem older than his years and wiser than most adults, chuckled in the way that suggested he found the whole conversation more amusing than he wanted to admit.
At sixteen, he had the kind of presence that made people automatically respect him, like he was destined for leadership and everyone could sense it even if they couldn't quite explain why.
"Perhaps we could compromise," Kaldur suggested, his voice carrying that particular brand of diplomatic wisdom that made people want to listen to him and probably vote for him for student council president. "'The Night Smallville Conquered: A Tale of Athletic Excellence and the Redefinition of Possible'?"
"Now that," Conner Kent said, appearing behind them with the kind of presence that made people notice when he entered a room and made them slightly nervous about taking up too much space, "sounds like a headline that belongs in a real newspaper."
At six-foot-four with the kind of natural athleticism that made other athletes jealous and the kind of presence that suggested he could probably play any sport he wanted to, Conner had the kind of quiet confidence that came from knowing exactly who he was and being completely comfortable with it.
Right now, he was grinning like he'd just witnessed something magical and wanted to share it with the world.
On the field below, Hadrian stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Neville and Ethan, soaking it all in with the kind of quiet satisfaction that came from a job well done and the knowledge that sometimes, everything goes exactly right.
His emerald eyes were bright with triumph, and his smile was the kind that made people believe in magic and happy endings and the possibility that maybe, just maybe, the good guys really do win sometimes.
"You know what, boys?" Hadrian said, his voice carrying that natural leadership quality that made people want to follow him into battle and probably into a burning building if he asked nicely enough. "I think we just made history tonight."
"History's got nothing on us," Neville replied, still grinning like a maniac who'd just discovered that Christmas came twice this year. "We're not making history. We're making legends. We're making myths. We're making the kind of story people tell their grandchildren."
Ethan just nodded, but his small smile said everything that needed to be said and probably a few things that didn't.
Smallville was theirs tonight.
And everyone—even Coach Daniels, who was still muttering about field paint while wiping his eyes with a tissue
---
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