Samuel woke up to the sound of birds arguing outside his window.
He didn't move.
For a moment, he just lay there, wrapped in tangled sheets, staring at the ceiling like it held the answers to a question he hadn't asked. His stomach felt weird—not quite sick, not quite empty—just… off.
He wondered, briefly, if maybe he was sick.
It was a nice thought. An excuse. Something to keep him home, away from the pressure of tryouts.
But then he scoffed quietly into his pillow.
He hadn't been sick once since waking up in this world. Not even a sniffle. If he so much as mentioned not feeling well, Michael would be at his door in seconds—thermometer in hand, eyebrow raised, already calling his bluff.
There was no hiding from this.
Tryouts were today, and the day wasn't going to slow down just because he wished it would.
School
When Samuel walked into school, the noise hit him like a wall—laughing, footsteps, locker doors slamming, sneakers squeaking on tile. He barely made it ten steps inside before Dylan and Tori spotted him near the entrance.
"Yo, Samuel!" Dylan grinned, jogging up beside him. "Big day, huh? Tryouts?"
Tori followed with a nod and an easy smile. "Good luck out there. Coach Daniels doesn't get impressed easy, but you've got a shot."
Samuel gave them both a thumbs-up and a lopsided grin, pretending he appreciated the support.
He couldn't exactly tell them he'd spent the morning thinking about tanking every play just to dodge the spotlight.
Football Tryouts
It wasn't nerves. At least, that's what he kept telling himself. Samuel stood near the edge of the field, arms loose at his sides, watching the others warm up like they'd been doing this their whole lives. Jogging, stretching, goofing around.
Some of them he recognized from gym—the ones who didn't even break a sweat during the run.
It's not like he cared about football. Not really. He wasn't dreaming of touchdowns or varsity jackets. So why should he feel nervous? It didn't make sense. And yet, something inside him still tightened—just enough to be annoying.
But clearly, it wasn't like that for everyone else.
These guys had already cleared the first round of football tryouts last week. Today, they were here to solidify their spot on the team—or size up the competition.
They moved like they'd been playing football since they could walk—fluid, natural, like the game lived in their muscles.
And then there was him.
A kid two years younger, standing there like he'd accidentally walked into the wrong age bracket. Except—he didn't look like he didn't belong. At almost 5'9", he was better built than most of them, lean and sharp in a way that made people do double takes. Some of the other players were taller, sure, but most weren't. Not by much.
Samuel inhaled deeply. The sharp scent of fresh turf mixed with morning dew gave the air a strange kind of bite. He wasn't intimidated, but there was a pulse in the air—a silent challenge.
Some were subtle—quick glances, muttered words passed between teammates—but a few weren't even trying to hide it.
"That's the kid who was bragging about running yesterday," someone whispered just loud enough for Samuel to catch.
"Wait—that's him?" another said, eyebrows raised. "I didn't know he was the one Thad invited."
The name dropped like a stone. A few heads turned. Some in surprise, others in recognition, and at least one with open curiosity.
Samuel didn't flinch, but he definitely felt the shift.
To some of them, he was just a cocky freshman. But to others, he was a spark—something unexpected that could mess with their rhythm. And that made him a threat.
It was wild, really. He hadn't even touched the ball yet, and somehow he was already in the middle of something.
Then Coach Marshall blew his whistle, short and sharp, slicing through the chatter like a blade.
"Let's go! Line up!" he barked, clipboard in hand, sunglasses fixed in place like they were part of his face. "Warm-ups are done. We're starting with the basics—routes, blocks, tackles. You want to wear this jersey? You earn it today."
Everyone moved. Fast.
We gathered near the sideline, falling into a rough line as the coach started explaining the drill setup and rotation. His voice was steady, practiced—this wasn't his first rodeo, and he made sure we knew it. He didn't waste time on jokes or speeches. Just instructions. Clear, firm, no room for interpretation.
Everyone was locked in, laser-focused.
I knew I should be too.
I wasn't sure why. Maybe it was the way the turf felt under my cleats, or the sun creeping higher behind the bleachers. Or maybe it was that old, familiar itch—the one that came right before something changed. I shook it off just as Coach Marshall called the first group up.
The drills started simple—short sprints, cutting routes, block formations. Stuff anyone could do, but not everyone could do right. I watched, quiet, picking up the little things—the lazy footwork, the kids too eager to impress, the ones coasting on confidence. By the time my name was called, I already knew what not to do.
I lined up, feeling the weight of every stare shift toward me. Some were curious. A few, ready to judge. I didn't care. The moment my feet hit the turf, my body moved before I had to think—sharp cuts, clean breaks, perfect timing. Not flashy, just efficient. Controlled.
The first thing Coach Marshall called me up for wasn't a pass or a run—it was a blocking drill. Simple. Line up, hit the padded dummy, show you can drive through it like a real lineman. Most guys before me had managed decent hits—enough to move the dummy, but not enough to make it noticeable.
When it was my turn, I didn't overthink it. I planted my feet, dropped my weight, and drove forward with everything I had. The crack of the impact echoed across the field as the dummy jolted violently backward, the base skidding slightly on the turf. A few kids actually flinched. One even let out a low "whoa" under his breath.
Coach Marshall paused mid-note, glanced up, and just gave a single nod.Then, without missing a beat, he scribbled something onto his clipboard and muttered, "Twelve… noted," before calling out the next name.That was all I needed.
The tryouts continued like that—some running, some catching, even a bit of throwing. Nothing complicated, just clean reps to see who had the fundamentals.
It was way easier than I expected.
I moved through the drills without overthinking, like my body already knew what to do. When it came time to catch, the ball just settled into my hands. When I threw, it came out tight and smooth. And when I ran, I barely felt the effort.
I glanced around at the others—kids from my class, some even older—and it was clear they were working hard just to keep up. Dropped balls, awkward turns, breath coming fast. I couldn't help but think—was this really the best they had? And if it was, then what did that say about me? Was it the training? Dumb luck? Or were my genetics just that good? Because honestly, this felt a little too easy.
Maybe I didn't need to love the game. Maybe doing something well—really well—was its own kind of satisfaction.
By the time Coach Marshall blew the final whistle, the field looked like a war zone of teenage emotions. Some kids walked off with their heads high, all confidence and swagger, already picturing themselves on the roster. Others were fuming—glaring, grumbling, tossing their gloves to the ground like the turf was to blame. A few of them had tried to mess with me during drills—poorly timed passes, awkward handoffs, even a shove or two when the coach wasn't looking.
Didn't matter.
No matter how badly they threw it, if the ball was catchable, I caught it. Clean. Controlled. And every time I did, the frustration on their faces deepened. Meanwhile, the ones who dropped balls or tripped on cuts got a half-hearted "Good try" from Coach Marshall. But when I moved? He didn't say much—just watched. Clipboard steady. Pen moving.
Coach Marshall gathered us up one last time and told us the results would be posted later today. Simple as that. No pep talk, no drama. Just the cold truth—either you made it, or you didn't.
And with that, tryouts were over.
I survived the practice, somehow still standing while others limped off or sat in the grass trying to catch their breath. My shirt clung to my back, my arms ached, but I felt solid. Clear-headed. Like I did what I came to do.
And, surprisingly… it felt good.
I hadn't expected that. It wasn't the same as running through the woods or hitting a perfect shot with my bow. That kind of peace was quiet, steady, almost meditative. This was different. Louder. Sharper. But it still left that same sense of done well. Like I'd proven something—even if I wasn't sure who I was proving it to.
Thad Castle POV
Sitting alone at the top of the bleachers like a king without his court. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable.
He didn't clap. Didn't nod. Just watched.
And part of me couldn't help but wonder—was he already thinking about next year? Wondering if I could be the one to replace him. With the right training, a few months in the weight room… was he seeing the start of his successor?
History Class
By the time I walked into history class, most of the seats were already taken and the teacher was halfway through writing something overly dramatic on the whiteboard—"Empires Rise and Fall."
Fitting.
As I stepped in, the room shifted. Conversations dipped into whispers, heads turned, eyes followed. I caught the tail end of someone muttering my name before they looked away. One of the guys from tryouts was already seated near the middle—he gave me a quick nod, nothing more. I nodded back and made my way to an open seat near the back, trying to act like I didn't hear every word that wasn't being said out loud.
Dylan leaned back in his chair as I passed. "So this is what it's like," he said, mock serious. "One day we're equals, the next you're skipping history and abandoning your crew on the pirate project—leaving me, Tori, and Alex to sail the ship alone—while they build your golden statue out on the field."
Before I could even sit down, Alex didn't look up from her notebook as she added, "Technically, Dylan's done the least. He spent half the period looking up pirate pick-up lines."
Before I could reply, Dylan turned to Alex with a grin. "By the way, Alex—are you a treasure map? Because I just got lost in your eyes."
Alex didn't even blink. She just rolled her eyes and muttered, "And that's why he's done the least."
Tori, clearly trying to save what little dignity Dylan had left, turned to me with a small smile. "So… how'd your tryouts go?" she asked, leaning just slightly forward, like she was actually interested—and maybe trying to change the subject before Dylan dropped another disaster.
I shrugged, trying to play it cool. "I think… okay? It didn't go horrible. Coach said the results should be up by the end of the day."
Tori gave me a look. "Trust me, if you didn't tank it, you probably crushed it. You just don't know it yet."
I couldn't help but smile at that. "Thanks for the vote of confidence," I said, leaning back in my chair. "I'll try not to let the fame go to my head—at least not until tomorrow."
"Can we focus, please?" Alex cut in, finally looking up from her notes. "This is our last history class before the weekend, and we still have to finish the project if we don't want to bomb next week's presentation." She glanced at the clock, then narrowed her eyes at Dylan. "Unless you'd rather freestyle a ten-minute monologue about pirate romance, which… actually, no, please don't."
Dylan raised his hands in surrender. "Aye aye, captain."
We pushed our desks together, and for a while, the conversation finally stayed on track. Tori was double-checking the timeline slide, I was rewriting part of the script to make it less cringe, and Dylan... was trying to find a pirate hat emoji for the title page.
We were making progress, fast—but the bell was even faster. By the time the teacher started wrapping up, we were close. Really close.
But not finished.
Alex stared down at the laptop, unimpressed.
"It's almost done," Tori offered, hopeful.
"Almost finished isn't finished," Alex said flatly, already gathering her things. "I'll finish everything this weekend." Her tone was clipped, like she was already mentally scheduling the next six hours of productivity.
Samuel glanced at her, then casually offered,"You could come over if you want. Your dad and Luke are already stopping by Saturday to try the bow, so… you'll be nearby anyway."
Alex hesitated. Her eyes flicked to him, then away, like she was running the idea through three different internal filters. "I… maybe," she said, cautious. "I'll see how much I can get done tonight."
"Say no more," Dylan cut in, way too enthusiastic. "Saturday at Samuel's? I'm there. I'll bring pirate-themed snacks. Maybe gold coin chocolates. Or rum-flavored soda."
Alex blinked. "I didn't say I was going."
"You didn't say you weren't," Dylan replied, grinning.
Then, after a quiet beat, Tori spoke up.
"Um… would it be okay if I came too?" she asked softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Only if that's not weird. I mean—we're all in the same group, and I could help finish the slides?"
Samuel smiled. "Yeah, of course. The more help, the better."
Alex looked like she wanted to protest… then just sighed. "Fine. But if this turns into a hangout instead of actual work, I'm out."
Samuel raised both hands in mock seriousness."Of course. No fun will be had at all. Just spreadsheets, citations, and stress."
Tori giggled. Dylan saluted.
The bell rang.
The rest of the day passed in a blur.
History faded into science, science bled into lunch, and by the time the final bell echoed through the hallways, I wasn't even thinking about football anymore. My brain was busy juggling project details, weekend logistics, and whether Alex would actually show up or just ghost us out of sheer principle.
So when people in the hall started congratulating me, it caught me completely off guard.
"Yo, Samuel! Congrats, man!"
I blinked as some junior I barely knew slapped my shoulder on the way past.
"Bro! You dominated out there. Straight up."
Another voice. Another grin. A pat on the back. A nod. A "knew you would." It kept coming, like some invisible floodgate had opened and now the hallway was full of people who suddenly knew my name.
I paused by the water fountain, trying to piece it together—then saw it.
The list.
Posted right outside the gym doors. Half a dozen students crowded around it, some celebrating, others staring at it like it personally betrayed them. I hadn't even remembered it was going up today.
Not until I saw my name on that list—next to two other freshmen who made it too—and understood why everyone kept saying I crushed it.
I made the team. That part was done."Let's see if I'm still good when it actually counts."