The smell of fried eggs drifted through the kitchen. From the corner, a small TV played softly—not music, but the tail end of a soccer match replay, the kind they aired early in the morning for die-hard fans.
"And there's the final whistle—Dragos FC clinches the win with that blistering last-minute volley!"
Sophie Gallagher stood barefoot by the stove, flipping pancakes like she was fueling a team for battle.
"Ronan! If you're not out here in three minutes, I'm takin' that uniform back and sending you to military school!"
No reply.
She flipped another pancake—harder this time.
Across the kitchen, Aidan Gallagher sipped his coffee and glanced at the TV.
"That keeper's positioning was all wrong."
"So's our son's timing."
"He's probably been up since dawn, sitting in silence, ensuring everything is ready and prepared."
"Wouldn't put it past him."
Just then, footsteps.
Ronan entered the room with his usual quiet presence—his uniform was crisp, his ash-grey hair passable, and his red eyes clear and calm. He had already slung his bag over his shoulder.
Sophie turned around.
"You look like you're about to audit someone's taxes."
"It's a uniform."
"For middle school, not a business meeting."
He sat down and started eating without a word.
Aidan leaned back in his chair, smirking.
"Ten bucks says he's already picked out half the school for a soccer team."
"Fifteen says he's got their names, positions, and weakness profiles in a folder somewhere."
Ronan said nothing, but the corner of his mouth twitched—just slightly.
At the door, Sophie adjusted his collar as if it were still the first day of kindergarten.
"Nervous?"
"No."
"You sure?"
"It's school."
"Middle school. That's when it gets weird."
"That's when it gets interesting."
Aidan walked over, still holding his coffee.
"Try not to end anyone's career today, alright?"
"If I did, it was their fault," Ronan said as he stepped outside.
The air was cool. A few other kids were already walking up the street, kicking a ball back and forth across the sidewalk.
He didn't look back. Didn't rush. Didn't smile.
But Sophie watched him go, arms folded.
"He's taller."
"He grew fast, didn't he?"
"Too fast, and half of the time I was sure only his body grew."
At that, Sophie's husband laughed because he couldn't disagree with his wife.
—
Ronan hadn't even reached the second intersection when he saw her.
Same shortcut. Same timing.
Tracy Lin.
She stood by the corner of the usual bakery, arms tucked into the pockets of a navy zip-up over her standard school uniform. Her shirt was crisp enough to prove she cared, but the tie was crooked, like she'd put effort in only to rebel halfway through. Her hair, still short and choppy, had grown out just a bit—no longer spiked at odd angles, but messy in a calculated way. She wore it like armor.
Her backpack hung from one shoulder. A scuffed soccer ball peeked out of the side mesh pocket.
She noticed him coming, gave a brief once-over, and raised an eyebrow.
"Well, look at you. You almost pass for a functioning member of society."
"You still can't tie a tie," Ronan said.
"I can. I just choose not to strangle myself before 9 a.m."
"It's meant to be tight."
"That explains a lot about you. Maybe not enough oxygen comes to your brain."
She fell into step beside him without ceremony, like it was a continuation of a conversation they'd never stopped.
They walked in comfortable silence for a few seconds.
Then, "So. New school. Bigger field. Fresh team."
She glanced sideways at him.
"You gonna act like you're not thinking about it?"
"I'm thinking about a lot of things."
"But mostly that."
He didn't confirm.
Didn't need to.
"You think there's a team already?" she asked, eyes forward now.
"Who knows."
"If there is, think it's any good?"
"No."
That earned a quick snort of laughter from her.
"Well. At least we're starting the day honestly."
They passed a small group of other students in uniform up ahead, all chattering about clubs and schedules. One of them bounced a ball lazily between his feet.
Tracy noticed. So did Ronan.
Neither commented.
Instead, she said, quieter this time:
"You're still planning to build your own, aren't you?"
"If the one they have isn't worth using."
"We always do things the hard way, huh?"
"We do them the right way."
She smiled faintly.
"Right. With sweat, sarcasm, and unnecessary drills."
He glanced at her for a beat.
"And talent."
"Obviously."
They kept walking. Same pace. Same direction.
And somehow, despite the weight of uniforms, new beginnings, and the quiet buzz of expectations in the air, it still had a familiar feeling.
—
The hallway leading to the first-year wing buzzed with noise—students swapping schedules, shuffling shoes, and a few over-eager upperclassmen handing out club flyers like currency.
Ronan and Tracy moved through the crowd without breaking stride. Then someone rounded the corner ahead of them a little too quickly—and nearly collided with Tracy shoulder-first.
"Whoa—hey, my bad!"
The boy skidded to a stop with both hands up, flashing a grin like he expected applause for catching himself.
Blond hair, windswept like he styled it mid-sprint, shirt untucked, blazer halfway slung over his shoulder like he forgot it belonged to a uniform. He had the kind of energy that couldn't sit still—and didn't want to.
"Didn't mean to bump into a beautiful girl on day one... well, not not mean to either, I guess."
Tracy blinked. "What?"
"Devon. Devon Ruiz. Class 1-B. Don't worry—this face is unforgettable."
He winked.
Badly.
Tracy stared at him like she wasn't sure if he was joking, high on sugar, or both.
"Are you hitting on me or selling me something?"
"Both? I come with jokes, decent hair, and zero shame."
Ronan, watching quietly beside her, said nothing.
Devon glanced his way.
"You two a thing? No judgment. Just... y'know, assessing the terrain."
"We're going to class," Ronan said flatly.
"Got it. Respect. Good luck... team?"
He stepped back with a finger-gun and walked off like he was escaping a spotlight he imagined for himself.
Tracy stood still for a second.
"...Did that just happen?"
Ronan kept walking. "Yes."
"He winked. He actually winked."
"Badly."
"And he called me beautiful like we were in a romcom from 2003."
"You're still thinking about it."
"I hate that you're right."
She caught up with a groan.
"If he talks to me again, I'm filing a restraining order made of sarcasm."
Ronan didn't smile. But his eyes flicked sideways with a trace of something dry and amused.
"Better write a few drafts."
But even when he said his eyes didn't leave the space Devan was in moments ago, Ronan noticed something that intrigued him, and he'll solve that mystery soon.
—
The walk to Class 1-A was uneventful after that.
But Devon Ruiz stayed in Ronan's thoughts longer than expected.
Not because of the grin, or the flair, or the casual bravado—but because something in the way he moved felt natural. Not practiced. Not pretended.
Raw rhythm. Like someone who doesn't think about momentum—just uses it.
Ronan didn't mention it. Just filed the thought away in the quiet part of his mind where useful things lived.
Their new classroom was cooled by ceiling fans and bright with early sunlight pouring in through clean windows. The desks were neatly arranged in rows. A digital whiteboard at the front cycled through a slideshow of welcome messages, school rules, and club events.
Some students were already seated, flipping through orientation packets or chatting across aisles. One was leaning way too far back in their chair. Another already had two mechanical pencils snapped in half.
Ronan and Tracy entered like they'd been here before.
The teacher, a thin man in his forties with glasses and a worn collared shirt, looked up from his attendance sheet.
"Gallagher and Lin?"
Ronan nodded. Tracy gave a half-salute.
"Back row, window side," the teacher said. "Take a seat."
They moved without a word.
Back corner, perfect view. One side open space, the other with each other. Just how they liked it.
Tracy dropped into her chair with a satisfied sigh. Ronan sat straight, hands folded.
"Still betting on three club offers?" she asked under her breath.
"Two."
"No faith in the first-years?"
"Too many flyers. Not enough talent."
She chuckled and opened the packet. "You're such a snob."
He didn't argue.
Around them, other students began to notice.
Not overtly. Just quick glances. Quiet observations.
Two boys near the front leaned toward each other and whispered something. A girl three rows up turned around once, then twice, eyes flicking between Ronan and Tracy like she wasn't sure if they were siblings, rivals, or something else entirely.
One kid near the middle—the one with the snapped pencils—just kept staring. Not out of curiosity, but focus. Like he already understood something others didn't.
Ronan didn't look back.
But he noticed all of it.
The teacher called roll. A few students gave sharp "Here!"s, others grunted, and one kid with way too much energy stood up and tried to introduce himself before the teacher waved him down.
"There'll be time for that later."
"Gallagher."
"Here."
"Lin."
"Still here."
Tracy twirled a pen between her fingers while half-reading a form.
"Student council, yearbook club, science olympiad…" She made a face.
"Do any of these have decent snacks?"
"They usually try to bribe new members."
"I'd sell out for good melon bread."
Ronan gave the slightest nod.
"Noted."
The fan above them ticked quietly. A pigeon landed outside the window and stared inside like it wanted in on the class gossip.
Tracy leaned over slightly.
"So, when are we checking out the field?"
"After lunch."
—
The lunch bell rang like a starting pistol.
Within seconds, the halls erupted.
Paper flew. Voices echoed. Students poured from classrooms like the start of a race, and most of them weren't running for food.
They were running for recruits.
Ronan and Tracy stepped out of Class 1-A and immediately had to dodge a full stack of flyers launched by a student dressed in what appeared to be a medieval knight outfit.
"JOIN DRAMA CLUB! WE HAVE COSTUMES, PASSION, AND STAGE FOG MACHINES!"
Behind him, someone with a stack of science fair trophies was shouting about robotics battles. A girl in full cheer gear was handing out glow bracelets. Another group was waving around swords, and one of them wasn't fake.
"Is that a real katana?" Tracy muttered.
"Wooden," Ronan replied. "Probably."
A boy with a guitar slung over one shoulder jumped in front of them, slid on his knees, and held up a neon pink pamphlet like he was confessing his love.
"MUSIC CLUB NEEDS YOU! Don't let my dreams die!"
"Respectfully," Ronan said, stepping around him, "no."
"We'll feed you!" the boy shouted after them.
Tracy blinked. "Okay, that was a little tempting."
The deeper they pushed into the crowd, the louder it got. Banners flapped overhead. Two clubs appeared to be having an actual tug-of-war over a confused-looking first-year. Someone was doing magic tricks in front of the art room door.
Tracy ducked as a basketball bounced past her head.
"Did anyone check if this school has rules?"
"Unclear."
A girl from the cooking club tried to offer Ronan a handmade bento. He politely stepped aside. Tracy grabbed one and handed it back before it turned into a misunderstanding.
"That was a trap," she whispered.
"I know, and you almost fell for it."
Tracy huffed and pouted. "I did not!"
They pushed forward. Ronan kept his head low and pace steady. Tracy weaved between flailing club members like she'd trained for this.
Together, they navigated the madness with barely a misstep—until they reached the far edge of the courtyard.
Finally, quiet.
And beyond the hedge-lined path?
The school's main soccer field.
—
Off to the side, under the only patch of shade near the field, a girl reclined in a beat-up folding chair with a paperback novel balanced across her knees. She wasn't dressed for activity—shirt untucked, school-issued hoodie draped behind her shoulders, one shoe halfway off. A small cooler sat at her feet, acting as a footrest, and her half-finished juice box dangled lazily in one hand.
She glanced up when Ronan and Tracy approached.
Didn't sit up. Didn't smile.
"Lemme guess—you two here for the grand tour of the dysfunction?"
Tracy raised an eyebrow. "Are you part of it or just a fan?"
"Kanda. Manager. That's what it says on paper. In reality?" She closed her book slightly and looked out toward the field. "I sit here. They run around. Then we lose. Or worse, we don't even get scheduled."
"Why stay?" Ronan asked, tone even.
Kanda shrugged.
"It's peaceful. I get to read. Teachers count it as club hours. Low effort, no cardio, and I don't have to pretend I care about debate tournaments or robotics kits."
"So you're here for the perks," Tracy said.
"I'm here for the silence. Or what used to be silence before you two stomped in."
She finally sat up, setting her book on her lap and putting her finger between the pages to keep her spot.
"Though you do have a look about you. Both of you. Not sure if it's 'new hope' or 'delusions of grandeur.'"
Ronan gestured to the field.
"It's not working."
"Glad we agree."
"But that doesn't mean it can't."
Kanda gave him a long, skeptical look, her juice box straw still in her mouth.
"You sound like someone who's already planning to rewrite the entire lineup."
"Not yet. First, I want to see what can be salvaged."
"Salvaged. Wow. What a vote of confidence."
"If they're here, they're not useless. Something just isn't being used right."
She blinked, genuinely surprised by that answer.
Not the confidence—the perspective.
"Huh. Never heard anyone talk about this team like that. Most people just point and laugh. Or cry."
"If there's wasted potential, then something's broken. You don't throw it away. You fix it."
Kanda leaned back again, thoughtful for half a second before catching herself.
"Alright, Captain Future. Do your thing. Just don't expect a motivational speech from me."
Tracy stepped forward with a sly grin. "But you're watching."
"Barely," Kanda muttered, looking back down at her book.
But she didn't turn the page.
Ronan noticed.
So did Tracy.
As they turned to leave, Kanda glanced at the field, then down at her open book.
—
They didn't leave the field.
Instead, Ronan and Tracy drifted to the far bleachers and sat in the second row—close enough to see faces, far enough not to be mistaken for interested volunteers.
The metal seating was warm from the sun. Their shadows stretched over the worn grass. A soft wind rustled the chain-link fence, the only sound besides the occasional thud of a ball and muttered curses from the field.
Ronan watched in silence.
Tracy, arms crossed, scanned the players.
"So which one do you think is the 'best'?"
Ronan didn't answer immediately. His eyes moved carefully, tracking posture, reactions, and the way players looked when they thought no one was watching.
The tall, broad-shouldered kid on defense barely moved. But when someone tried to push past him, he always seemed to shuffle just far enough to cut off the angle.
"That one," Ronan finally said, nodding slightly.
"The rock who hasn't blinked in ten minutes?"
"His reading is good. Timing too. Doesn't waste energy."
"He also hasn't spoken once."
"Introvert. Might need prompting."
Another boy—a lanky one with wild hair and socks that didn't match—was clearly the fastest on the field. His touch was terrible, but he could chase down a ball like his life depended on it.
"Speed's good. No control."
"You think we can fix that?"
"If he listens."
A third kid with a red armband—clearly trying to act like a captain—was shouting half-formed instructions and arguing every off-target shot. He had energy, but his passes were rushed, his vision narrow.
"Too loud," Ronan said.
"Overcompensating?"
"Trying to lead. Doesn't know how."
"That feels… correct."
A fourth player stood awkwardly near midfield, hesitant to call for the ball even when he was wide open. His movements were stiff, and his eyes always darted around.
"Nervous," Ronan said. "Looks like he's playing not to mess up."
"That's… sad."
"That's fear. Not laziness."
"He might quit."
"He might not—if someone talks to him."
The remaining two were harder to figure out. One kept pacing the sideline like he couldn't decide if he wanted to be on the field at all. The other alternated between dramatic shots that missed everything and shouting "That was in!" even when it clearly wasn't.
Tracy sighed. "So we've got a mute wall, a wannabe captain, a speed demon with bricks for feet, a scared cat, a maybe-ghost, and a liar."
"Don't forget the manager who thinks we're insane," Ronan added.
They glanced toward the sideline.
Kanda was still in her chair, book open—but she wasn't reading anymore. Her thumb rested between the pages. Her eyes drifted between the players, and occasionally to Ronan and Tracy. She didn't look annoyed.
Just… watching.
Tracy smirked. "I think she's getting curious."
"About what?"
"Whether we're serious or just crazy."
"Both," Ronan said.
The sun shifted, casting longer shadows.
One of the players finally noticed them on the bleachers. He nudged another, who looked over and waved—uncertainly.
Tracy waved back with a fake cheeriness.
"Don't make it weird," she muttered through her smile.
"Too late."
The one who waved jogged over, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his jersey. His expression was friendly, if a little tired.
"Hey, you two here for the team?"
Ronan stood, calm and unreadable.
"We're here to see if there's a team worth joining."
The player blinked. "Uh… I mean… we're trying. We've had people drop.
And the coach—well, there isn't one yet, but..."
He scratched the back of his neck.
"You guys play?"
Tracy stepped forward. "A bit."
"We need more players. It's not always like this, y'know. First weeks are always messy."
Ronan didn't reply. He just nodded once, then stepped down from the bleachers.
"What's your name?"
"Chris," the boy said.
"Alright, Chris. We'll be back."
Chris blinked. "You're not trying out?"
"Not yet."
Tracy gave him a friendly shrug. "We're picky."
As they walked away, Chris turned back toward the field, shoulders slouched just slightly less than before.
Kanda watched them go again. She didn't open her book this time.
She just tapped her straw against the rim of her juice box.
"Weirdos," she said under her breath.
But this time… she was smiling.
—
The kitchen table was a battlefield.
Not of food, but of paper. A school map. A printout of the club roster. A page covered in scribbled notes and soccer positions. Two open notebooks, one neat, one chaotic. A pen spun endlessly between Tracy's fingers like she was training for a fidget-based martial art.
"So," she said through a mouthful of granola bar, "how doomed are we?"
"Not doomed," Ronan replied, focused. "Just misaligned."
"I'm gonna start a quote wall for all the times you say cryptic things like that."
Tracy leaned forward and scanned the page of notes between them.
Chris – Midfield? Inconsistent, but willing
Tall defender – strong positioning. Doesn't talk
Armband guy – not a leader. Tries to be
Fast one – raw speed, zero control
Her own list, written in another corner, was a little more… colorful:
Brickhouse McNoEmotion
Captain Decibel
Hyper Dash Jr.
Ghost Who Passes (Sometimes)
Mr. Self-Trip
Stretchy Bench Guy
Ronan didn't comment on the nicknames. But he did cross out "self-trip" and replace it with: "Potential winger if trained."
The kitchen door creaked open.
Sophie Gallagher appeared, holding a mixing bowl and eyeing the table like she was checking for forbidden rituals.
"Still talking soccer, huh?"
"Still planning," Ronan said.
"Of course. Always planning. You get that from me."
She walked off humming something vaguely Irish.
Tracy grinned. "I love your mom."
"She's too encouraging."
"She gave me a cookie last time I showed up."
"That's not encouragement. That's bait."
A few minutes later, Aidan Gallagher wandered in with a mug of tea, glanced at the papers, and smirked.
"Building your first roster, huh?"
Ronan didn't look up. "It's not finished."
"Didn't think it would be. But it's a good start."
He gave Tracy a nod as he passed.
"You're keeping him honest, right?"
"Trying," she said. "But he made a spreadsheet. That's when I knew I was in too deep."
"God help your opponents," Aidan muttered.
He vanished toward the living room.
Back at the table, Ronan flipped to a clean page and drew a diagram of the current formation. Gaps everywhere. Arrows in the margins. Question marks.
"We need five more. Four, if someone improves."
"So you're not scrapping the team?" Tracy asked.
"No. We build around what's there."
She nodded slowly. "That's more your style. Cold, efficient... weirdly loyal."
"They're still showing up," he said. "That matters."
"I guess. But I still vote we bench Captain Decibel before I lose hearing."
He didn't argue.
"Any leads?" Tracy asked.
"One. Devon Ruiz."
Tracy groaned. "Ronan. Come on."
"He moves well. Doesn't hesitate. No fear."
"Do you know what kind of pick-up line he tried using on me? 'You must be the final boss of middle school—'cause I'm not ready for you yet'." She shivered, recalling that meeting.
"And?"
"...Nevermind."
She sighed, already writing his name on the corner of the notebook.
"So what, you gonna invite him?"
"I'll observe. Then decide."
"So dramatic. You'd be a great villain if you smiled more."
Sophie returned, placing a tray of cookies on the table with surgical precision.
"They're cooling. Hands off, both of you."
"She threatens with baked goods," Tracy whispered.
"She also hears everything," Sophie said, already walking away again.
They went back to planning.
Two middle schoolers. A table full of notes. A plan that didn't involve replacing everyone, just reshaping what was there into something functional.
Something dangerous.
Tracy leaned back, still chewing.
"You really think this can work?"
Ronan didn't answer right away. Then he nodded.
"It can."
—
It was late afternoon. The sky had dulled into a soft gray haze streaked with amber light. Most students were already gone—funneled home through buses, carpools, or the long walk out of routine.
The building had shifted to its quieter self. The low drone of the vending machines. A faint echo of bouncing balls from the distant gym. Leaves rustling outside, brushing the windows like nature was knocking but didn't expect an answer.
Ronan had stayed in the library longer than planned. He always did. Notes, sketches, names—observations scratched in pencil margins. Potential. Faults. Patterns. It was all cataloged in his mind, and now on paper.
He stepped into the side hallway—quiet, half-lit, the floor cool beneath his shoes—and saw someone sitting just past the exit.
Malik Fields.
He sat on the short ledge outside the back doors near the vending machines, broad shoulders hunched forward, elbows on knees. Still. Quiet. Like he belonged to the building as much as the concrete.
There was a water bottle resting between his palms, untouched.
Ronan almost walked past.
Almost.
But something about Malik's posture wasn't tired—it was thoughtful. Like his body hadn't stopped from exhaustion, but because his mind hadn't found a reason to move yet.
Ronan veered slightly and took a seat at the far end of the ledge.
They didn't acknowledge each other at first.
Didn't need to.
The air between them settled into something that felt like mutual silence rather than shared awkwardness.
Minutes passed.
A bird fluttered onto the railing above the vending machine, pecked once at the empty coin slot, and flew off again.
Finally, Malik spoke.
"You've been watching the team."
His voice was low, deep, and smooth. Not bored. Not aggressive. Just measured.
Ronan didn't look over.
"You stay late."
Another few seconds passed before Malik nodded.
"Feels wrong to leave when nothing feels finished."
"Even if it's bad?"
"Especially when it's bad."
The words hung in the air, weighted but not heavy.
"You've got good positioning," Ronan said. "You don't chase the ball. You cut off the angle."
"I try."
"That's more than most."
Malik tilted his head slightly, enough to glance at Ronan.
"You play?"
"Keeper."
Malik blinked. "Really?"
"That surprising?"
"Most keepers I've met… they don't think quietly."
They sat in silence again.
No buzzing phones. No urgent conversation.
Just the occasional mechanical click from the soda machine behind them and the rustle of distant wind through plastic signage.
"You serious about staying on the team?" Ronan asked.
"Yeah. Not because it's good. Because it could be."
Ronan looked over at him for the first time. Not just observing—measuring.
Not muscle.
Not size.
Resolve.
"You know you're the only one on that field who plays like that?"
Malik didn't respond immediately.
Then:
"If you know how to fix it… I'll follow."
Ronan narrowed his eyes—not in challenge, but consideration.
Most people followed talent. Or noise. Or force.
But Malik's voice held none of those. It held trust.
Not blindly. Just quiet belief.
"I'm not here to fix it," Ronan said.
"No?"
"Just trying to make it what it should've been."
Malik leaned back slightly, resting his shoulders against the wall.
"Then I'm in."
There was no ceremony.
No handshake. No declaration.
Just a small shift in posture. Less alone. More aligned.
Ronan stood slowly, brushing dust from his uniform pants.
"Keep watching them. Tell me who's serious. I want your read on them."
Malik looked over. "You want my opinion?"
"I trust what I see. But I value what others notice too."
Malik gave a quiet nod.
Then, after a few seconds:
"You're different from the others."
Ronan paused in the doorway.
"So are you."
"Fair."
Ronan walked off down the hall, steps quiet.
Malik stayed seated a while longer, gaze forward, hands on the bottle again—but the silence didn't feel as heavy now.
And for the first time in a while, he was looking forward to the next practice.
—
The cafeteria buzzed with the usual end-of-week chaos.
Tracy sat with a group from her class, half-listening as someone described their failed attempt at dodgeball domination. She'd already tuned out once or twice, mostly picking at the snacks she'd scammed from a vending machine.
Then a girl across from her froze, mid-laugh.
"Wait… is that Ronan?"
Tracy perked up. "What?"
The girl pointed toward the far side of the cafeteria, near the windows and vending machines.
"He's… with someone."
Tracy turned to look—and blinked.
There, standing by the vending machines, were Ronan Gallagher and Malik Fields.
Just standing.
Side by side.
Not talking. Not fidgeting. Not glancing around to make sure they were being seen.
Just existing, in parallel.
Malik had a water bottle in one hand, leaning lightly against the wall. Ronan stood next to him with his arms crossed and gaze forward, relaxed but unreadable.
And they looked…
Fine.
Not awkward. Not forced. Just quietly okay.
Tracy's eyes narrowed.
Ronan doesn't "stand with people."
Ronan sat near people. He tolerated noise. He functioned around classmates. But he didn't do this.
This was a choice.
"They're not even saying anything," one of her classmates whispered.
"Do they even talk?"
"That big guy—what's his name?—he never talks either."
"Maybe it's some silent power-up thing."
"You think they're like… planning something?"
Tracy watched longer than she meant to.
And she wasn't sure why it bugged her so much, but it wasn't jealousy. It wasn't a worry.
It was just… off.
Because Ronan didn't let people in.
Except her.
That had always been the dynamic.
Even now, when they didn't always sit together or talk constantly, there was still a line around Ronan—one people didn't cross.
Until now.
And here was Malik. A calm, mountain-sized exception.
Ronan said something—barely a few words. Malik gave a slight nod.
That was it.
Nothing profound.
But it was mutual.
And for a second, Tracy felt like she was watching something start.
Not a friendship. Not yet.
But something.
The silence between them wasn't awkward—it was easy.
Tracy blinked hard, then turned back to her table.
"He's hanging out with someone," she muttered.
One of the boys scoffed. "No way. Ronan? With a person?"
"Yeah."
She shook her head and tried to laugh it off, but her eyes drifted back to the window again.
'Guess even Ronan has surprises left.'
And that thought made her feel… something.
But she wasn't sure what.
—
It started during the passing period between the fifth and sixth.
The hallway was jammed. Backpacks bumped. Sneakers squeaked. Flyers for clubs and fundraisers fluttered half-ripped from bulletin boards.
Someone was selling cookies out of their gym locker.
Ronan walked through it like always—unbothered, tuned out, and slightly faster than the flow.
Then a voice cut across the noise:
"Yo! Red Eyes!"
He stopped. Not because he cared, but because no one called him that.
Turning, he spotted Devon Ruiz leaning casually (too casually) against the side of a row of lockers, one knee bent, arms crossed, blond hair looking like it had been styled by a wind tunnel and an ego.
He pointed.
"Didn't think you noticed me. You've got the same look teachers get when I start talking—somewhere between impressed and deeply concerned."
Ronan blinked.
"Devon."
"That's me." He gave a finger-gun. "You're Gallagher, right? I remember faces. Especially cool ones."
"You bumped into Tracy."
"Is that what we're calling it?" Devon grinned. "I prefer to think of it as fate crashing us together."
Before Ronan could say anything else, Tracy herself appeared behind him, walking with purpose.
"Please tell me you didn't just say that."
Devon turned.
"Tracy Lin! We meet again. Twice in the same week? I'm starting to think you're following me."
"I'd have to lose a bet first."
"Savage. I respect it."
Tracy sighed deeply. Ronan, still standing between them, didn't flinch.
Devon glanced between the two, then leaned slightly toward Ronan.
"So… what's the deal with you two? Childhood rivals? Secret pen pals? Emotionally repressed future power couple?"
"Teammates," Ronan said.
Devon blinked. "Wait, you're on a team?"
"Trying to make one worth being on," Tracy replied.
Devon tilted his head. "Is this that soccer thing?"
Ronan's eyes narrowed slightly.
"You play?"
"Pfft—no," Devon said, hands up. "I mean, I like soccer. The World Cup was sick. I've done pickup games. But I'm more of a vibe guy, y'know?"
Tracy side-eyed him. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"I bring energy. I bring unpredictability. I bring a strong fashion sense."
He gestured to his slightly crooked tie and scuffed sneakers.
Ronan said nothing.
But he was watching.
Closely.
How Devon shifted his weight, how his feet never stopped moving—even when joking. How his balance was clean, his reflexes fast when someone behind him tripped and bumped him, and he smoothly sidestepped without missing a beat.
He was a clown.
But he moved like someone used to motion. Like someone who could learn.
"Meet us after school," Ronan said.
Devon blinked. "For what?"
"Tryouts."
"You're recruiting me?"
"I'm scouting."
"Sounds like recruiting with extra steps."
Tracy rolled her eyes. "He does that."
Devon looked between them again. Then gave a mock salute.
"You know what? Why not. Worst case, I end up a legend."
He strutted off like he'd already scored a hat trick in a final he hadn't been invited to.
Tracy looked at Ronan.
"Seriously?"
"He moves well."
"He talks too much."
"That can be fixed."
"So can plumbing, but I don't hand out wrenches to people mid-flood."
Ronan started walking.
"He'll show up."
"He better. I want to see if he trips on the ball or kisses it."
—
The field was as uneven as usual.
One goal net had collapsed slightly overnight, and someone had used a discarded backpack as a makeshift corner flag. Half the team had arrived ten minutes late. The rest were mostly standing around, waiting for someone else to lead.
Ronan stood near midfield with arms folded, silently scanning the group. Tracy was juggling a ball nearby, watching the lack of energy with barely contained frustration.
Kanda sat in her usual chair under the shade, a book open on her lap but unread. Her eyes kept drifting over the pages toward the field, then back again like she was trying not to care but had given up pretending.
Then came the voice.
"THE LEGEND. HAS. ARRIVED."
Everyone turned.
From across the yard, Devon Ruiz jogged toward them in the least athletic outfit imaginable—school hoodie with sleeves rolled to his elbows, non-regulation sneakers, and what might have been hair gel in his bangs or just a bad decision.
He held up both hands like a star returning from a world tour.
"Y'all ready for fireworks? Because I didn't come here to blend in."
Tracy buried her face in both hands.
"Oh no. It's worse than I imagined."
Ronan didn't say anything.
He just nodded slightly.
Devon skidded to a stop in front of them, breathing like he hadn't run in months, but still standing straight.
"What's the challenge? Who do I beat to get on the squad?"
"Try not to embarrass yourself," Tracy muttered.
"You say that now, but you'll be thanking me when we're on magazine covers."
Kanda, without looking up, mumbled:
"I'm adding a medical form to the recruitment papers in advance."
Devon glanced around at the others.
Some of the players watched with open confusion. One guy whispered to another, "Is he serious?" and the other whispered back, "He brought that energy to gym class once. Took out a trash can with a volleyball."
Ronan tossed a ball at Devon—low, sudden, fast.
Devon caught it instinctively with his foot.
Balanced it. Looked up. And smirked.
"See? Natural."
"Try shooting," Ronan said.
Devon lined it up.
His form was messy—posture too loose, angle a bit off—but when he kicked, the power was there. The ball soared just above the crossbar.
Not a goal.
But definitely not bad.
Everyone turned to look at Ronan.
He gave a small nod.
"Trainable."
Devon turned to Tracy, finger guns ready.
"Told you. Legend in progress."
"You're a walking blooper reel."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
—
Practice had moved on.
Devon, now winded but still pretending he wasn't, had joined a basic passing drill. He shouted "Let's gooo!" every time someone made a halfway-decent touch, which was somehow both motivating and exhausting to witness.
Tracy sat on the low concrete ledge near the sideline, sipping from a sports drink. Ronan stood next to her, arms crossed, watching everything with that quiet, dissecting stillness of his.
"You really meant it," Tracy said.
Ronan didn't look at her.
"About what?"
"About him."
He gave the smallest nod.
"He reacts well. Reads body shifts faster than most of the team."
"He also did finger guns after missing a goal."
"Confidence. Not denial. That matters."
Tracy stared at Devon as he nearly ran into another player, then somehow turned it into a backheel pass that accidentally looked intentional.
"He's chaos."
"Controlled chaos is better than no instincts."
Tracy glanced at Ronan. "So that's your thing now? Turn the school clown into a forward?"
"He doesn't know what he is yet. But he'll find out fast once someone makes him focus."
"And you think you're that someone?"
"Doesn't need to be me, but there is a big chance he finds that someone on the team."
They sat in silence for a moment.
On the field, Devon cheered again as the ball grazed the net.
"Didn't go in!" someone shouted.
"Still counts emotionally!" Devon shot back.
Tracy rolled her eyes.
"You sure he won't drive the rest of them insane?"
"Probably will."
"And you're okay with that?"
Ronan looked over at her, calm, analytical, serious as ever.
"You can't build a team out of six defenders and a wall."
"So he's the wild card?"
"No."
He paused.
"He's the push."
Tracy blinked. "...Okay. That's actually a little smart."
"It's obvious."
She smirked.
"I regret asking already."
But she said it without a bite. She was still watching Devon. Still thinking. Still processing what Ronan had already seen from the start.
Maybe chaos was what they needed.
—
The field was mostly quiet now. The others had gone, and golden-hour light stretched long over the grass. Shadows swayed with the breeze. The only sound was the dull thump of a ball being passed between feet—uneven, clumsy, improving.
Devon Ruiz fumbled a trap, then tried again. Better.
Tracy Lin stood across from him, arms loose at her sides, not quite smiling—but clearly engaged.
"That's better," she said. "You're still over-rotating, though."
"Define over-rotating."
"You're acting like the ball's a landmine."
She walked over and repositioned his foot. Again.
"There. Now try stepping into it like you mean it."
He did.
It worked. A clean trap.
Devon's eyes widened a little. "That felt… good."
Tracy smirked. "Yeah. That's what it's supposed to feel like."
Devon was about to say something sarcastic, but stopped. Because she was still smiling. And this time, it wasn't for him—it was for the game.
"You really love soccer, don't you?"
"Yeah," she said quietly. "I do."
She looked out across the field.
"When I was a kid, it was the one thing that made sense. School was whatever, friends came and went, but soccer?" She tapped her chest. "It was always there."
Devon tilted his head. "Where'd you learn all this? A coach?"
"Mostly Ronan."
She said it like it was obvious. Like "Ronan" and "soccer" were interchangeable.
"We used to play almost every day. At the park, on the street, wherever we could fit a ball. Sometimes just the two of us, sometimes we'd make a team out of whoever was dumb enough to challenge us."
She laughed under her breath.
"We pushed each other. Every time I thought I was catching up, he'd improve again. I had to get better just to stay in the game."
Devon watched her more carefully now.
That kind of smile—nostalgic and unguarded—was not the kind she usually gave.
And it was about Ronan.
Suddenly, a lot of things clicked in Devon's head.
The way she looked at Ronan during practice. The way they stood close without speaking. The way she backed him up like it was second nature.
Devon's heart dropped into his stomach.
"You and Ronan," he blurted. "You're a thing?"
Tracy blinked. "What? No."
"Wait, seriously?"
"We're friends."
"But you train together, push each other, talk without words—"
"We've known each other forever. That's what happens when you grow up playing side-by-side."
Devon stared at her.
"So... you don't like him like that?"
"No!"
"Oh. Okay. Cool. Totally cool."
Tracy raised an eyebrow. "You good?"
"Fine. Great. Normal."
He turned back to the ball and did the cleanest trap he'd done all day.
Tracy crossed her arms. "You sure? You just kicked the ball like it owes you rent."
"I'm focused," he said, forcing a grin. "I've got goals now."
"Pretty sure the goal is over there."
"No," he said, quieter now. "I meant other goals."
She didn't hear him.
But he heard himself.
And in his chest, something shifted.
Ronan Gallagher was good. Confident. Respected.
But Devon Ruiz?
Devon was going to be different.
He'd train. He'd learn. He'd bring his own kind of energy to the game.
Because he wanted to impress Tracy.
And maybe—just maybe—prove that he could stand next to her, too.
—
From behind the bleachers, half-shadowed by the angle of the setting sun, Ronan watched the last few moments.
He hadn't planned to eavesdrop. He'd come back to retrieve a water bottle he'd left behind. But when he saw the two of them on the field, he stayed.
He didn't hear every word. But he saw the posture.
The way Tracy moved.
The way Devon actually listened.
And how, for the first time, Devon's movements were intentional.
Ronan watched for a few more seconds.
Then, just briefly—
He smiled.
Not big. Not soft.
But real.
Then he turned, grabbed his bottle, and walked off without a sound.
No comment.
Just a quiet recognition.
'He's learning.'
—
END
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