The warmth of laughter still clung to the air, the echoes of promises and tears lingering like the last notes of a song.
But for tonight, the song hadn't ended.
Together, they kept celebrating. Not just for CIF. Not just for the season. But for him—for Julian, the boy who would carry Lincoln's banner onto the world stage.
Leo raised his soda high, eyes blazing.
"For Julian—who'll play at the world level!"
The table erupted.
"For Julian!" they shouted in unison, glasses clinking, voices soaring like a stadium chant.
Julian lifted his glass too, the simple fizz of soda suddenly heavier than any wine. His chest tightened, but he smiled.
The sound of it—his name in their mouths, their faith crashing against him like a wave—lodged deep in his chest.
He wasn't just a teammate anymore. He was their symbol, their proof that Lincoln wasn't small, that they mattered.
The laughter carried on, spilling into games and stories, until hurried footsteps cut through the hum.
David.
