Lincoln had the lead.
But with it came the weight of San Dimas's fury.
Gold and silver surged forward like a tide, pressing, hammering, suffocating. Every clearance was swallowed. Every second felt like a siege.
Coach Owen snapped his hand in the air.
"Felix, out! Ricky, in!"
"Tariq, off! Caleb, go!"
Fresh legs. New lungs. Lincoln's wall was rebuilt, patched with urgency.
But San Dimas answered in kind, swapping soldiers but keeping their generals—Victor, Miles, Kai, Elijah, Malik. The spine of their beast remained intact.
And that beast pressed harder.
Lincoln's breaths came short. Boots slid on wet turf. The crackle of rain mingled with the roar of the crowd.
The storm seemed alive, a living beast of noise and color. Every San Dimas attack felt like a wave slamming into a cliff, threatening to tear away the rock one fragment at a time.
The chants merged into thunder, gold banners whipping through the downpour, their voices relentless.
The no-loss run…
