Narrator's POV
The morning of the athletic challenge dawned with frost biting at the windows of Goldridge Sweden. For all the talk of unity and cultural bonding, no one missed the truth: this wasn't a friendly exhibition. It was war disguised in jerseys and sneakers.
The schedule was posted in the grand hall:
Day One: Basketball, Soccer.
Day Two: Track, Swimming, Relay events.
American football had been listed at first, but after a sharp meeting between staff from the UK and Sweden branches, it was removed.
"Not universal," the note read.The Americans were furious, their pride wounded before the first whistle even blew.
The Basketball Arena
The court was packed. Bleachers overflowed with cheering students, teachers trying and failing to keep order. It felt less like a school event and more like a professional match.
The matchup was simple: UK vs. US.Zion vs. Dante.
From the moment they stepped onto the polished court, the air thickened. Dante, tall and broad, with the kind of cocky grin that dared you to look away. Zion, calm, stretching in silence, his eyes locked on the hoop as if Dante wasn't even there.
The whistle blew.
And chaos followed.
Dante came out swinging, his movements explosive, a showman with every dunk and spin. The Americans roared with approval. He was powerful, no doubt. But Zion? He was efficient. Sharp. Every step calculated, every play executed with surgical precision.
By halftime, the scoreboard was nearly even, but the contrast was clear: Dante played to be adored. Zion played to win.
Mabelle watched from the stands, her nails digging into her palms. She'd never seen Zion so alive, so intent. And though Dante tried to rattle him with taunts—"You scared yet, London boy?"—Zion never flinched.
In the final minute, with the score tied, Dante attempted a flashy three-pointer. Zion read it before the ball even left his hands. He leapt, blocked it clean, and with a lightning pivot, drove down the court and sank the final basket.
The buzzer screamed.UK: 78. US: 76.
The Americans erupted in protest. The Swedes applauded politely. And Zion? He barely raised his hand in acknowledgment, walking off the court with that same infuriating calm.
Dante stood frozen, sweat dripping down his brow, watching Zion disappear into the tunnel like a ghost he couldn't catch.
Soccer on the Frozen Field
If basketball was flair, soccer was endurance. The Swedish branch took the field with Elias as captain, their strategy sharp and ruthless. The UK branch countered with Mikey at the helm, his grin hiding the storm brewing in his chest.
It wasn't Zion's game this time—it was Mikey's.
The whistle blew, and immediately Elias' control was evident. He commanded his team like a general, his passes crisp, his defense impenetrable. Mikey responded with raw instinct, darting past defenders with surprising speed, his shots daring and reckless.
The clash between Elias and Mikey was electric. Elias played with icy control. Mikey with chaotic brilliance.
By the second half, tension peaked. A collision between the two sent both crashing to the frozen ground, students screaming from the sidelines. Mikey sprang up with a bloody lip, grinning through the pain. Elias rose slower, jaw clenched, but his eyes locked on Mikey's with something dangerous.
The game ended in a draw, 2–2, but the rivalry was set. This wasn't just soccer. This was personal.
Nightfall – Intimate Shadows
The dorms buzzed after Day One. Victories and grudges lingered in the air. But beneath the cheers and arguments, quieter storms brewed.
Celeste slipped away from the UK dorms, her scarf pulled tight around her neck. She met a tall Swedish prefect in the courtyard, their conversation hushed, his hand brushing hers in the cold. She didn't resist.
Isla found herself tangled in a different fire. One of the American boys—tall, dark-skinned, his voice smooth as honey—cornered her in the common room. They laughed quietly at first, but when he leaned closer, she didn't move away. For a girl who'd pined hopelessly after Kevin for so long, the thrill of being wanted was intoxicating.
And Mabelle? She stayed in her room. But her phone buzzed nonstop—notifications from Zion's photos that night. Someone had snapped him leaving the gym shirtless, sweat glistening under the dim lights. The comments were relentless.
"UK's star.""Who is he?""Dante couldn't keep up."
She didn't need to look at the screen. She already knew. Zion didn't belong to anyone. But somehow, she couldn't stop feeling like he belonged to her.
Day Two – Track and Water
The next morning, the competitions resumed.
The track events were brutal. The Americans dominated the sprints, their raw athleticism undeniable. The Swedes excelled in the longer distances, their discipline carrying them to the finish.
Zion ran the 400m relay anchor for the UK. He didn't sprint with desperation. He ran like a predator pacing his prey, overtaking his opponent on the final bend with a stride that seemed almost lazy. The crowd erupted when he crossed the line first, but his face remained unreadable.
In the swimming pool, however, the Swedes reigned supreme. Their team cut through the water like blades, leaving the UK and US branches floundering behind. Elias watched from the edge, arms crossed, expression smug.
By evening, the points were tallied.
UK led basketball and relay.
Sweden held swimming and half of soccer.
US dominated sprints but lagged in teamwork.
The standings didn't matter, though. What mattered was the tension, the grudges forming, the seeds of betrayal already sprouting among the students.
The Silent War
That night, Mabelle found Zion alone again, seated by the frosted glass in the quiet lounge. He was rolling his wrist, still sore from the basketball game, though his face betrayed nothing.
"Why do you always look like you knew you'd win?" she asked softly, sitting beside him.
Zion smirked faintly, his eyes never leaving the snow falling outside.
"Because I always do."
She studied him for a moment, realizing something no one else seemed to. Zion wasn't arrogant. He was prepared. Always two steps ahead. And it wasn't just Kevin he was outmaneuvering anymore. It was everyone.
She shivered, not from the cold, but from the realization.
Goldridge Academy UK wasn't just competing.They were declaring war.