The crowd roared like a storm front crashing down over the stadium. Flashing lights swept across the bleachers, synchronized to the pounding rhythm of Destiny’s Child blaring through the speakers. Soldiers—real ones—lined the field in formation, their nerves raw beneath the surface of their smiles.

Travis leaned back in his seat, legs stretched out, a lazy smirk on his face like he had front-row tickets to a joke no one else got. The guy reeked of suburban privilege—perfect teeth, vintage Cowboys jersey, and the kind of confidence born from never being punched in the mouth. His words cut sideways into the atmosphere, casual but sharp.

“I mean, ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’? I’m totally down with that.”

The soldier beside him, Crack, stiffened—jaw tight, breath slow, eyes locked forward like he didn’t hear it. But everyone knew he did. Travis’s gaze swept over the squad seated in front of him, lingered just a second too long, and he laughed.

“At least they got the balls to join, right?”

It was like snapping a taut wire. Crack turned slowly, muscles twitching beneath his fatigues, and before anyone could breathe—

Travis found himself in a headlock.

“So how’s that feel?” “…Okay.” [CHUCKLES]