The sun was starting to dip low on the horizon, casting gold over the ocean and everything it touched — including the loose circle of pilots running barefoot through the sand.

Flag football on the beach had started as a joke, a spontaneous idea from Hangman, who insisted the group needed “bonding time” that didn’t involve fighter jets or training simulations. Somehow, Bob had gotten dragged into it, despite his protests.

“I’m not exactly… built for this,” he had said, adjusting his glasses.

Phoenix had grinned. “You’ll be fine, Floyd. It’s just flag football. No one’s keeping score.”

Which, of course, was a lie. Rooster and Coyote were absolutely keeping score. Loudly.

Bob kept to the edges for most of the game. He wasn’t unathletic, not really — he just wasn’t... flashy. He was used to strategy, analysis, staying a few steps ahead quietly.

But then someone tossed him the ball.

It wasn’t meant for him. Hangman had launched it toward Payback — but Payback was tackled mid-sprint (a little too enthusiastically, if you asked Bob), and suddenly the ball was spiraling through the air, up — up — up — and down…

Right. Toward. Him.

“BOB!” Phoenix shouted, as if that would help.

Everyone turned to look.

Bob blinked, heart thudding, the wind catching the hem of his t-shirt. And for once — he didn’t overthink it.

He just ran.

The sand gave way beneath his feet, his arms stretched out, and time slowed just enough for him to feel it —

Thud.

The ball landed squarely in his chest. His fingers wrapped around it, tight.

He didn’t drop it.

The group went silent for half a beat.

Then — chaos.

“NO WAY,” Rooster yelled, nearly tripping over himself. “FLOYD!!” Fanboy whooped. “I KNEW you had it in you!” Phoenix shouted, clapping him on the back.

Bob just stood there, panting, still holding the ball, like he wasn’t entirely sure what just happened.

“You good?” you asked, coming up beside him, cheeks flushed from laughing.

He looked at you, wide-eyed behind his glasses. “I… caught it.”