The football field had become a house of mirrors for Armani, every move reflecting a distorted version of himself back at him. He had hoped the classroom would be a sanctuary, a place where the ghost of Ian Croft couldn't follow. He was wrong.
The problem was Physics. Specifically, the unit on kinematics—the physics of motion. For any other student, it was abstract equations and graphs. For Armani, it was a brutal, mocking parody of his life.
*Velocity.* *v = d/t*. Speed was his gift, his identity. On the field, it was instinctual, a language his body spoke without consulting his brain. On the page, it was reduced to cold, unforgiving variables. He stared at a problem calculating the initial velocity of a projectile, and all he could see was his failed breakaway, the ball skidding away from him because he'd overthought the *time* and the *distance*.
*Acceleration.* *a = Δv/Δt*. The rate of change of velocity. He was supposed to be accelerating his career, his life, his family's fortunes. Instead, he felt like he was decelerating, his positive change in velocity crashing into a negative wall of pressure and expectation.
He sat in the back of Mr. Davison's class, the teacher's droning voice fading into a hum. The chalk scratched against the board, writing out derivations of equations that looked like hieroglyphics. The numbers blurred. His head throbbed with a low, persistent ache born of sleepless nights replaying his mistakes and early mornings spent on punishing training runs.
"Wilson."
The voice cut through his fog. Mr. Davison, a stern man with glasses that perpetually slid down his nose, was staring at him. "Perhaps you can enlighten the class. If an object is launched with an initial velocity of twenty meters per second at an angle of thirty degrees, what is its maximum height?"
A few snickers erupted from the front row. Everyone knew Armani was a footballer first and a student a distant second. This was a public execution.
Armani's mind went blank. Panic, cold and familiar, tightened his chest. He could feel the eyes of the class on him. He saw the smirks of the academic boys who looked down on the "dumb jocks." He saw the sympathetic wince from a girl named Chloe who sometimes shared her notes with him.
"I… I don't know, sir," he mumbled, staring at the graffiti carved into his desk.
"I'm not surprised," Mr. Davison said, his tone dripping with disdain. "It's difficult to solve for maximum height when your head is perpetually in the clouds, or more likely, on the football field. See me after class."
The bell rang, a jarring sound of release. The students filed out, a few of them shooting him pitying or mocking looks. Chloe lingered for a second, as if to say something, but thought better of it and left.
Armani packed his bag slowly, the weight of his textbooks feeling heavier than any defender he'd ever faced. He approached Mr. Davison's desk.
The teacher didn't look up from his grading for a full minute, letting him stew. Finally, he put his red pen down and peered over his glasses.
"Your mid-term grade in this class is hovering at a fifty-two, Wilson. A failing grade. Cornwall College has academic standards for its athletes. No pass, no play. It's a simple equation." He leaned forward. "I've spoken to Coach Reynolds. He's aware. Your 'fame' on the pitch does not grant you immunity in here."
The words were a second red card, after the one he'd already received from his own performance. No pass, no play. The DaCosta Cup. Ian Croft. It would all vanish in a puff of failing-grade smoke.
"I understand, sir," Armani said, his voice hollow. "I'll try harder."
"Trying is not enough. Doing is required," Mr. Davison said, handing him a stack of missed assignments and practice problems. "You have a week to get these done. And I expect you to be present, both in body and in mind, for the remainder of the term. Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
He walked out of the classroom, the stack of papers a monument to his neglect. The corridor was empty, echoing with his footsteps. He felt utterly alone. He couldn't talk to Kofi about physics equations. He couldn't tell his mother he was failing; it would break her heart after all her sacrifices. He couldn't confess to Coach Reynolds that the pressure was cracking him.
His phone, his tormentor and his solace, buzzed.
> **IC:** How's the mindset after yesterday? The best players have short memories. They forget the missed chance and focus on the next one. You have a big game against Rusea's on Saturday. A chance to set the record straight. Focus.
Armani leaned against the cool, painted cinderblock wall of the hallway, sliding down to sit on the floor. He put his head in his hands. The scout's message was perfectly timed, perfectly calibrated to make him feel seen, but it only amplified the noise. *Focus.* How could he focus? He had to solve for maximum height when his entire world was falling.
"Rough day?"
He looked up. It was Chloe. She had her books clutched to her chest and a kind, hesitant smile on her face.
"You could say that," Armani said, attempting a smile that felt more like a grimace.
She nodded toward the physics papers spilled from his bag. "Davison's a beast. He loves to make examples of the school stars." She paused. "Look, I'm not a genius or anything, but I get it. The kinematics unit. If you… I don't know, if you want to study sometime? Maybe I can help. Two heads are better than one, right?"
It was a lifeline. A simple, human offer of help with no strings attached. No dossier. No file. Just kindness.
For a glorious second, he considered it. It felt normal. It felt real.
But then Ian Croft's words echoed in his mind. *"Focus on the next one."* *"A chance to set the record straight."* Studying took time. Time he needed to be on the field, training, perfecting his game for the scout, for the club, for his family's future. This was a distraction he couldn't afford.
He saw the genuine offer in Chloe's eyes and, feeling like the worst kind of person, he built a wall.
"Thanks, Chloe. That's real nice of you. But… I'm good. I've got it. Just gotta put my head down."
Her smile faltered slightly. "Oh. Okay. Sure. Well… good luck."
She gave a small wave and walked away, her footsteps echoing softly in the empty hall.
He watched her go, the isolation closing in around him again, thicker and colder than before. He had just rejected a real anchor for a fictional one. He had chosen the ghost over the person.
He gathered his papers, stuffed them into his bag, and headed to practice. The field, once his escape, now felt like another site of judgment. As he laced up his boots, Coach Reynolds called the team together.
"Listen up! Big game Saturday. Rusea's. They're top of the table. It's a test. A proper one." His eyes scanned the team, lingering on Armani. "And I don't want any outside distractions. That means phones away. Heads in the game. Understood?"
The message felt aimed directly at him. He nodded with the others, a knot of guilt and anxiety tightening in his stomach.
Practice was another struggle. His body was tired, his mind was a million miles away, wrestling with vectors and failed equations. He shanked a simple pass into touch.
Coach Reynolds blew the whistle sharply. "Wilson! My office. Now."
The walk felt longer this time. The trophies in the office seemed to accuse him.
"Sit," Reynolds commanded. He didn't sit behind his desk. He leaned against it, looming over Armani. "Davison spoke to me."
Armani stared at the floor. "I know, Coach. I'll fix it."
"How?" Reynolds's voice was sharp. "With what time? You're struggling on the pitch. You're failing in the classroom. You're stretched thinner than a wire. What is going on with you? Is it that scout? Is he in your ear?"
The directness of the question shocked Armani. He looked up, panic in his eyes. "No! No, sir. It's not that. I'm just… I'm trying to handle it all."
"Trying isn't enough, son," Reynolds said, his voice softening a fraction. It was the first time he'd called him 'son.' "Doing is required. That man, if he's even legitimate, is not your priority. Your education is. This team is. Your family is. Whatever he's promising you, it's a fantasy until it's not. This…" he gestured around the room, to the school, to the field outside, "…this is your reality. Don't fail your reality for a fantasy."
He was saying the same thing Mr. Davison had said, but with a compassion that made the truth even harder to bear.
"I understand, Coach."
"Do you?" Reynolds looked at him, his gaze piercing. "Prove it. On the pitch. And in the classroom. Now get out there and run until you remember who you are."
Armani walked back out into the blinding sun, Coach Reynolds's words and Mr. Davison's equations and Ian Croft's expectations crashing together in his head. He was at a crossroads, pulled in three different directions, and each path seemed to lead to a different kind of failure. He had to find a way to balance it all, or he was going to lose everything.