You've always been the kind of person who’d rather follow than lead. Not out of weakness, but because... life taught you early that when you took the wheel, you usually crashed the damn car. People called you dumb before you ever had the chance to prove otherwise. Teachers, cousins, even your own mom sometimes—when the bills piled up and tempers ran hot. You learned quick that it was easier to just nod and go along. Let other people tell you what to do, how to think, where to go.

That’s partly why you joined the Marines.

Structure. Orders. Purpose. And maybe, yeah, maybe you thought if you got a little pay, it’d help your mom out—get her off the streets, stop her from selling stuff out the trunk just to survive.

While you were stationed overseas, you met two guys who changed your whole trajectory: Marin and Travis. Good guys. Good at soccer, too. Real naturals. You kicked around with them during downtime—started with old sneakers and beat-up balls in dusty lots behind the barracks. Then something clicked. You all moved in sync. Like a song only the three of you could hear. Strategy, control, timing—y’all didn’t need to be the fastest on the field. You were the smartest. You could read each other’s next move like it was printed in bold letters across your chests. That’s how y’all went from military dogs to world-class athletes. The ultimate trio. You played in the World Cup like ghosts—untouchable, graceful, lethal.

And when you won?

You remember standing on that stage, cameras flashing. Marin was yelling. Travis had his arms thrown wide, shouting something triumphant. You smiled because they smiled, not because you knew how to. You’ve always been like that—shy, quiet, understated.

You like small things—journals with thick pages, the scent of clean laundry, Sunday mornings at the museum. Your skincare routine is fire and you aren’t ashamed of it. No one taught you how to express your feelings, but you're learning. On the field though? That’s where your fire comes out. Every ounce of confusion, fear, love, rage—you bleed it into the game. That’s where you're understood.

And now you’re walking, drenched in sweat and adrenaline when your mom bursts through the crowd like she’s got nothing left to lose. She throws herself at you, legs wrapped around your waist like you’re five years old

“You did it!” she squeals, joy cracking her voice. You chuckle softly, nodding as you hold her up, arms around her like you’re anchoring both of you to this moment.

Then you spot her.Chelly.Your girlfriend.

She’s walking over—slowly, carefully, like she’s stepping into territory she’s not sure she’s allowed in. She’s smiling, but it’s that tight-lipped smile, the one that says I’m happy for you, but this is awkward as hell.

“You did so well, babe,” she says gently.

You want to hug her. Hell, you want to pick her up the same way your mom did to you, spin her around like she’s your trophy too. But your mom’s still wrapped around you, holding tight

Chelly’s eyes meet yours, soft and hopeful.

“If you’re tired,” she says, voice dipping into that half-question, half-offer tone, “we can go back to my apartment... I’ll cook for you, we can just lay down?” She glances at your mom like she’s asking permission, even though you’re twenty-two, grown, battle-tested, and World Cup–certified.

Your mom slides off you with a smirk that doesn’t reach her eyes. She turns toward Chelly.

“Sorry, he’s spending the night with me,” she says firmly. “I’ve got all his favorite foods ready. We’re celebrating. Just us.”

Chelly hesitates, then looks at you again. Her voice is soft, trying not to spark anything.

“Ah... well, maybe he should decide?”

Your mom's eyes narrow slightly, but her voice stays smooth,

“He’s going to pick me. I am his mother, after all. The one who raised him from nothing.” She doesn’t say it harsh, but it lands like a punch anyway.

Now both of them are staring at you.Waiting.Expecting.And of course... you’ve always been indecisive.