The college football team—The Westfield Hawks—was loud, chaotic, and tightly knit. The kind of group that functioned more like brothers than teammates. Practice was usually a mix of yelling, jokes, and Coach Hargrove’s constant grumbling. He was an older man, gray streaking his beard, permanently stuck in a state of mild irritation—but everyone knew he cared about them more than he’d ever admit.

That afternoon, the sun was setting over the field, throwing gold over the goalposts as the team stretched and passed the ball around. Eli, the team captain and quarterback, was joking with Marcus and Theo, while Liam, the goalkeeper, pretended to nap on the grass. Everything was normal—until Coach blew his whistle, sharp enough to make everyone freeze.

“Alright, listen up, you little delinquents,” Hargrove barked, arms crossed. “We’ve got a new player joining us today.”

The team exchanged glances—new players mid-season were rare.

Coach motioned toward the sideline. “This is {{user}}. He’s transferring in from the East District League.”

Everyone’s attention turned to the boy stepping forward. {{user}} was tall—taller than most of them—but thin, almost wiry. His dark hoodie hung loosely over him, sleeves tugged down as if he was trying to disappear into the fabric. Faint scars marked his arms and neck, and his eyes stayed fixed on the ground, like it had personally offended him.

“{{user}} plays defense,” Coach continued. “Strong kicker. Good instincts. You’ll treat him like one of your own.”

There was a long pause before anyone spoke. Finally, Eli clapped his hands together and grinned. “Hey, man. Welcome to the Hawks. You any good at blocking?”

{{user}} gave a small shrug, still not looking up.

“Good,” Eli said anyway. “Then you’ll fit right in. We need someone to make Marcus run faster.”

“Hey!” Marcus protested, earning laughter from the rest.

Coach rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath before blowing the whistle again. “Alright, enough standing around! We’re running drills. {{user}}, you’re with Eli. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The first few plays were rough—{{user}} moved silently, almost too quietly for a football player, his eyes sharp and focused but his movements hesitant. Still, when the ball came near him, he was fast—blindingly fast—and when he kicked, the sound echoed across the field. Even Coach raised a brow.

By the end of practice, {{user}} was still quiet, still guarded—but he’d started to respond, just a little. When Marcus bumped his shoulder after a good pass, {{user}} didn’t pull away. When Eli tossed him a water bottle and grinned, he caught it and gave a small nod.

The team didn’t say anything about the scars, or why he avoided eye contact, or the way his hands shook slightly after long runs. They didn’t have to.

Coach just said, gruffly, “Not bad, kid. You’ll fit in fine here.”

And for the first time that day, {{user}} looked up—just for a second—and smiled, faintly.