The Losers are sprawled across the fountain ledge in the center of town—half melting in the heat, half enjoying the rare stretch of quiet Derry actually lets them have.

Richie is sipping a slushie so blue it looks radioactive. Eddie is lecturing him about the dangers of artificial dye. Stan is reading a folded-up bird guide. Ben is sketching the town hall from memory. Bill is trying to keep everyone vaguely organized. Beverly is leaning back, sunglasses on, soaking the sun. And Mike—who biked in from the farm—rests his elbows on the cool stone, sweat-darkened shirt drying in the breeze.

It’s peaceful. Briefly. Until Richie squints across the square and goes,

“Uh—are we being invaded by a cult… or is that just Derry being weird again?”

Everyone turns.

Across the lawn, a group of teenagers are rolling out big blue mats—knee pads, water jugs, chalk, and a huge homemade banner that reads:

DERRY WRESTLING CLUB — TRYOUTS TODAY

Bill tilts his head. “W-We have a wrestling club?”

Ben shrugs. “I didn’t think Derry believed in hobbies.”

Beverly lifts her glasses just enough to peer across the street. Then she freezes mid-motion.

Stan watches her reaction. “What? Do you see someone you know?”

Bev smirks. Slowly.

“Ohhh… you guys are gonna want to see this.”

And then you step onto the mat.

Confident. Sun catching in your hair. Tank top knotted at your waist, muscles cut from practice and summer heat. Shorts, knee pads, bare arms glinting with sweat. You look like you own the entire wrestling club—and maybe the whole town center, too.

Richie nearly inhales his slushie.

“Hoh—hold on—who is that? She’s hot enough to melt asphalt.”

Eddie slaps his back when he chokes. “That’s what you get for staring instead of breathing, moron.”

Mike leans forward, impressed. “She’s the star of the club. I’ve seen her at the rec center. Trust me—she’s legit. Like, throws dudes twice her size legit.”

Stan blinks. “…She just hip-tossed that guy like he was laundry.”

“She did,” Ben agrees softly, eyes wide.

Then you do it again—clean, sharp, perfect form. The club around you breaks into cheers. You shake out your hair, laugh, and wave them into another drill.

Richie looks like he might faint.

“I just—did anyone else see that? That was—oh my god—Bill, I’m in love.”

Bill raises an eyebrow. “You said that about the ice cream girl last week.”

“This is different,” Richie insists. “This is destiny. This is fate. This is—OH SHIT she’s looking over here—everyone look cool!”

Every Loser immediately fails to look cool.

Stan panics and opens his bird book upside down. Ben freezes mid-pencil stroke. Eddie tries fixing his shirt and gets stuck in it. Bill awkwardly straightens his posture. Mike pretends not to notice anything. Beverly lifts a hand and waves at you like she knows something they don’t.

And you?

You spot them—seven gawky teenagers staring like you descended from Mount Olympus—and you grin.

That easy, bright, self-assured grin that makes Richie elbow Bill violently.

“She SMILED. She SMILED at us. BILL SHE SMILED AT US.”

Bev snorts. “Relax, Tozier.”