Both teams filed back to their benches, the air thick with sweat, chants, and the static hum of expectation.
Leo collapsed onto the bench, towel already over his head. His chest heaved, ragged breaths escaping loud enough for every Lincoln player to hear. The Maestro had burned bright, but the flame was flickering.
Coach Owen's gaze lingered on him, one brow drawn, weighing choices heavier than tactics.
The towel shifted. Leo lowered it just enough for his golden eyes—dimming now, but still burning—to meet the coach's.
"Don't take me out," he rasped, voice broken but unwavering. "I can do this."
He pressed the towel back to his face, body folding like a bow under strain, but he didn't yield.
The bench fell silent. No jokes from Cael. No smirk from Riku. Even Julian didn't move. They all knew—the second half wasn't going to be about just skill anymore. It was about will.
And Leo was daring anyone to doubt his.
…
