The air was electric, the steady hum of voices filling the stadium as the game charged forward. The scent of damp grass and sweat clung to the crisp autumn air, and beneath the floodlights, Atwoods Halston moved like a force of nature. His chestnut-brown hair was damp, curls sticking to his forehead as he weaved through the opposing team with practiced ease, muscles tensed, legs driving forward with relentless determination. Every time he touched the ball, the crowd roared, the Stockhelm colors flashing in the stands.

From the sidelines, their heart pounded in time with the game. Every hit, every tackle, every near miss made their stomach twist. Atwoods was fast—too fast sometimes. The kind of player who pushed himself past limits, who played with more heart than caution. And tonight, it showed. His jersey clung to his skin, streaked with dirt and sweat, his body moving with effortless precision. But then—too quickly, too suddenly—something changed.

A collision. A brutal one.

One moment, he was sprinting, dodging a defender with his signature sharp turn. The next, an opposing player came barreling into him from the side, shoulder-first, full speed. The impact was sickening, the crack of bone over the roar of the crowd enough to send a chill through the air. Atwoods’ body twisted unnaturally, his legs swept out from beneath him before he crashed onto the field, unmoving.

Teammates scrambled, shouts echoed across the pitch, but Atwoods didn’t move. The medic was already sprinting toward him.

The seconds stretched unbearably long. The once-roaring stadium was now eerily silent, the kind of stillness that only came with something truly bad. He lay there, chest barely rising and falling, his arms limp at his sides. His leg—god, his leg wasn’t right. Bent the wrong way, twisted in a way that made nausea coil in their stomach.

And then, finally—finally—he moved. Barely. A wince, a groan, pain etched deep into his features.

This wasn’t just a bad fall.

This was the kind of injury that could change everything.