The rain fell in unpredictable sheets over Miami, heavy clouds swallowing the sun and turning the afternoon sky into a churning gray battlefield. Alex stood in the center of the West Bay High practice field, soaked to the bone, water dripping down his chin as his breath fogged in the humid air. His muscles were stiff, sore, and barely recovered from the last match. But today wasn't a game. Today was a test Rivera had warned him about—the kind you don't see coming until it hits you hard enough to break bone.
The team had been summoned for an emergency scrimmage. Rivera had said nothing except, "Show up ready to fight."
Alex could feel something in the air—wrong, tense, fractured. He sensed eyes on him, whispers behind him. Daniel wasn't speaking to him. Half the team avoided his gaze. Jackson Cruz stood on the far sideline, not in uniform, but with his arms crossed, a faint smirk pulling at the corner of his lips.
This wasn't a scrimmage.
This was a setup.
A trap.
Lena stood under the bleachers, raincoat hood up, notebook held against her chest. Her eyes met Alex's — calm but worried, a silent warning he felt deep in his stomach.
Rivera blew the whistle.
"Teams split. Alex, you're captain of Blue."
Alex stepped forward. The team assigned to him wasn't the usual line-up. It was random, mismatched, unbalanced. The weakest defenders. The most inexperienced midfielders. And Daniel. Daniel who now wouldn't even look at Alex, who stood with folded arms and an expression that said don't rely on me.
Rivera's expression revealed nothing.
"Red team," Rivera announced, "Jackson will strategize for you."
Alex froze.
Jackson stepped forward like a king entering his throne room. "Let's make this fun," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear, voice dripping with poison. "Let's show Castellano what REAL football looks like."
Rivera didn't stop him.
Didn't even blink.
Alex's chest tightened.
This was personal.
This was designed to break him.
The whistle blew.
The scrimmage began.
Red team moved like a machine. Jackson wasn't playing, but he orchestrated every move like a general commanding a warfront. His voice cut through the rain.
"Left wing, push! Pressure him! Daniel—collapse the center! Now!"
Daniel obeyed.
He actually obeyed Jackson.
Alex barely had time to react before three players crashed toward him. He twisted, dodged one, pivoted away from another—but Daniel blocked him, shoulder slamming hard into Alex's ribs. Pain exploded across Alex's side as he stumbled in the mud, ball slipping away.
The Red team scored instantly.
Laughter rose—sharp, cruel, echoing through the rain.
Alex forced himself up, jaw tight.
Again.
Whistle.
Play.
Red team swarmed him. Daniel failed passes, mispositioned, "accidentally" fouled Alex twice. It wasn't incompetence. It was sabotage.
By the twentieth minute, Alex was covered in mud, blood mixing with rain, breath burning in his lungs. Every move felt heavier. Every sprint slower. Yet he pushed through the storm, refusing to fold.
He stole a pass, sprinted through two defenders, dodged a slide
And suddenly Daniel clipped his ankle from behind.
Alex crashed into the ground, rolling across the wet turf. His ankle twisted violently, screaming in agony.
"HEY!" Lena's voice cut through the rain. "That was intentional!"
Rivera didn't blow his whistle.
Jackson chuckled.
"Oh relax. Castellano's fine. He falls a lot."
Something inside Alex finally snapped.
The pain was bad—searing, deep—but the betrayal was worse.
He stood, limping, fury roaring inside his chest.
Whistle.
Play again.
Alex gritted his teeth so hard his jaw hurt. He saw Daniel, saw the Red team closing in, saw Jackson's mocking smile. His entire body throbbed, but something else began to burn too—
Focus.
Sharp.
Precise.
Almost frightening.
He read their movements.
Saw their pattern
Jackson's pattern.
Two passes ahead.
Three moves ahead.
A hole in their formation.
Alex bolted forward.
Every step was agony.
Every breath fire.
He intercepted the midfield pass with perfect timing, spun around a defender, feinted left, cut right
The Red team scrambled.
He was past them.
He saw the goal.
He controlled the ball with unusual clarity, precision he hadn't possessed before, as if every movement around him slowed slightly, just enough for him to respond perfectly.
He kicked.
The ball sliced the air—
fast, low, unstoppable—
and hit the back of the net.
Silence.
Even the rain seemed to hesitate.
Jackson's smile vanished.
Daniel stared at him, stunned.
Then
Rivera blew the whistle.
"Enough."
Alex's heart pounded.
Victory?
Did he prove himself?
Rivera stepped forward.
His face was cold.
"Alex."
Alex straightened despite the pain.
"You failed."
The words hit harder than any tackle.
"You played emotionally. You let your anger drive your decisions. You let betrayal distract you. You let pain slow your discipline. Football is not about talent alone. It's about control. Precision. Stability." Rivera's voice sharpened. "You lost control of yourself today. And that means you lost the game."
Alex's stomach dropped. "But— Coach, I scored—"
"And your team collapsed. You were not a leader today. You were a lone wolf playing for pride, not victory."
Alex's throat tightened.
Rain dripped down his face, mixing with the sting in his eyes.
Rivera turned away.
"Red team wins."
Jackson smirked, victorious.
Daniel avoided Alex's eyes.
The field emptied slowly, players trudging away in the rain.
Alex stood alone in the mud, chest tight, vision blurring not from the rain but from the crushing weight of failure.
Lena approached, footsteps soft.
"Alex…" her voice wavered. "You didn't fail. Rivera pushes you harder because he sees something.
"No," Alex whispered, voice hoarse. "He's right. I wasn't good enough."
He walked past her, limping, pain radiating through his ankle.
Lena grabbed his arm.
"Alex, look at me."
He turned. Slowly.
Rain glistened in Lena's dark lashes.
Her eyes were warm, worried, searching his face for something he couldn't give.
"You're stronger than this. You're better than all of them," she whispered. "Don't let one setback convince you otherwise."
Her hand slid down his arm—
A moment.
A spark.
A closeness he didn't fully understand.
But before Alex could respond—
A deep voice broke the moment.
Cold.
Smirking.
"Well isn't this sweet."
Jackson.
He approached through the rain like a shadow, hands in his pockets, expression dark with satisfaction.
"Castellano," Jackson said, voice low, "you really thought you were rising? That was cute."
Alex clenched his jaw.
Jackson stepped closer, face inches from Alex's.
"But today proves something important… You're not in my league. You're not even close."
Alex's fists trembled.
"And Lena?" Jackson glanced at her with a cruel grin. "Be careful who you stand beside. He's going to fall much harder soon. You don't want to get dragged down with him."
Lena stepped forward, fury in her eyes. "Back off, Jackson."
He smirked. "Or what? You'll write a strongly-worded note in your little book?"
Lena's breath hitched, anger flaring.
Jackson turned away.
But as he walked past Alex, he whispered something so quietly the rain almost swallowed it:
"You're not ready for what's coming…
And next time?
You won't be getting up."
A chill crawled up Alex's spine.
Jackson wasn't bluffing.
Lena grabbed Alex's hand—
a reflex born of worry, not thought.
Her touch was warm despite the cold rain.
"Alex… please don't listen to him."
Alex looked at her.
Really looked.
Her concern.
Her closeness.
The way her fingers lingered on his.
Something inside him shifted.
But before he could speak—
A phone buzzed in his pocket.
Unknown number.
A message.
One line.
"This was just the first step. You will break. Soon."
Alex's entire chest tightened.
He looked at the bleachers.
At the parking lot.
At the shadows beyond the field.
Someone was watching him.
Not Jackson.
Someone else.
He felt it—
that cold sensation of unseen eyes.
The rain suddenly felt colder.
The world darker.
Lena saw the message.
Her face drained of color.
"Alex… who is that?"
He didn't know.
But he felt the danger in his bones.
He closed the phone, breath shaking.
"I think," Alex whispered, voice low and trembling with rage and fear,
"my real enemy just made their first move."
Lightning cracked across the sky.
Thunder rolled like distant war drums.
And from the shadows behind the bleachers…
a figure stepped back and disappeared.
Watching.
Waiting.
Smiling.