The school had mostly emptied, leaving behind only a few clubs finishing late and the distant, rhythmic sweep of the janitor's broom.
Tracy walked quietly beside Ronan, their footsteps echoing softly as they turned a corner and approached the secluded area behind the gym. It was calm there—an isolated patch of worn turf surrounded by concrete walls and rusted chain-link fences.
"You sure he's still here?" Tracy asked softly, her eyes scanning the empty space.
Ronan nodded slightly. "See for yourself."
There he was.
A lone boy stood at the far end of the lot, a soccer ball dancing effortlessly between his feet. Each touch precise and deliberate. No audience. No distractions. Just quiet, steady mastery.
His hood was up, headphones nestled firmly in his ears.
"He really doesn't speak much," Tracy murmured, almost hesitantly.
"He doesn't need to," Ronan replied simply. "We're here for his skills, not his voice."
They approached carefully. The boy glanced up but kept juggling, his movements unbroken, his gaze curious but guarded.
Tracy waved slightly, offering a friendly smile. "Hey! We've watched you juggling. You really have good control."
The boy caught the ball cleanly beneath one foot but said nothing. His shoulders tensed slightly, uncertainty clear.
Tracy faltered, searching for another approach. "We're trying to complete the roster for our team. Interested?"
Still nothing. The quiet stretched, uncomfortable.
Ronan stepped forward, his voice calm. "He's mute."
Tracy turned sharply. "You knew?"
"Yeah," Ronan answered, meeting the boy's eyes directly.
Then, unexpectedly, he raised his hands—fluid, assured motions forming silent words:
You always here this late?
The boy's eyes widened, stunned. He hesitated, clearly shocked. Finally, tentatively, he lifted his hands in response:
How do you know sign language?
"Picked it up," Ronan replied aloud while continuing to sign effortlessly. "Thought it could be useful, especially on the field. No need to shout to communicate."
The boy stared in disbelief, then a sudden, joyous smile broke across his face—warm, wide, radiant.
His hands now moved swiftly, animated:
You're the goalkeeper. The one with red eyes. One day, I saw you training on the field together with others.
"That's me," Ronan signed back, the barest hint of amusement in his expression. "And this is Tracy. She might glare, but she's not actually scary."
"Hey!" Tracy protested, only half-joking.
Ronan continued, undeterred. "We have ten players already. You seem sharp, and your control of the ball is exceptional as far as we observed."
The boy's expression dimmed momentarily, eyes drifting to the ground.
His fingers moved again, slower, hesitant:
I've tried other teams. They gave up. Walked away. Said I'm hard to communicate with in the heat of the moment.
"We won't," Ronan said firmly. "I don't care how you speak, only how you play." He paused, making sure the meaning was clear before continuing. "Are you in?"
The boy's hesitation lasted only a heartbeat. His nod was firm, decisive.
"Was that a yes?" Tracy whispered.
Ronan glanced at her. "Definitely."
A relieved smile appeared on Tracy's face. "Welcome aboard, then! Wait, do we even know your name?"
The boy pulled a small notebook from his jacket, quickly scrawling on a page. He held it up.
Reed.
"Reed," Ronan echoed with a slight nod. "Got it."
Tracy gave him an encouraging grin. "Practice tomorrow, four sharp. Don't ghost us."
Reed returned her smile with a small salute, quietly sliding the ball under his arm.
As Tracy and Ronan started to walk away, Ronan paused briefly, glancing back.
Reed remained rooted in place, a soft, content smile lingering on his face, eyes bright.
—
The wind brushed gently past Reed, lifting the edges of his hoodie as he watched their figures fade into the distance.
He didn't move.
Didn't juggle again.
He simply stood, gazing thoughtfully at where they'd been, trying to capture the moment before it slipped away.
A real team.
His fingers traced the edge of the notebook tucked securely in his pocket—the silent keeper of all his discarded conversations. Where friendships had withered, fading quietly into ink-stained pages.
But Ronan had known.
Hadn't hesitated, hadn't asked him to speak louder or explain himself.
He'd simply signed back, effortlessly. Naturally.
For the first time in forever, Reed felt understood… normal.
He glanced at the ball under his arm, then slowly raised his hand, fingers moving almost unconsciously:
They didn't walk away.
A smile, small yet filled with quiet, bubbling happiness, bloomed across his face.
"I'm on a team," he mouthed softly, savoring each silent word.
And for the first time in a long time, Reed believed it.
—
As they left the school grounds, Tracy bumped Ronan's shoulder playfully.
"You never mentioned you knew sign language."
"You never asked," Ronan said simply, gazing forward. "Besides, some things are worth learning quietly."
Tracy chuckled, shaking her head slightly. "Always full of surprises."
—
Back at home, Reed zipped his sports bag slowly, fingers trembling slightly. He paused, taking a deep breath to steady himself. A gentle knock drew his attention to the doorway, where his older sister leaned against the frame, smiling softly.
"They sound like good people," she said reassuringly.
Reed nodded, the hopeful tension in his shoulders easing slightly as he signed back, I think they really might be.
She stepped forward, giving him a gentle squeeze on the shoulder. "You deserve this, Reed. Go show them what you've got."
Reed smiled gratefully, determination settling firmly within him. Tomorrow couldn't come soon enough.
—
The team gathered early the next afternoon, an eager buzz of chatter filling the clubroom. Ronan stood at the front, arms folded calmly, Tracy beside him with an easy grin. Even more on the side was Reed, who not only looked but was very nervous about how the team would react to him joining.
"We got him," Ronan announced clearly, and the room immediately erupted into excited murmurs.
"Headphones Guy?" Leon practically bounced in his seat, eyes shining.
"His name's Reed," Tracy corrected, unable to hide her amusement at Leon's enthusiasm. "And yes, he's officially joining us. And before you try asking your questions, Reed is mute; he doesn't talk at all, so unless you know sign language or are planning on waiting for Reed to write down his answers to all of you, leave it for later."
Isaac clapped his hands loudly, grinning from ear to ear. "Finally! I've been dying to see him play with us."
"He must be good with his balance and nerves of steel," Jordan chimed in. "Did you see how focused he always is? We just got a lot stronger."
"He doesn't talk, right?" Chris clarified, a touch more serious. "How will that work during matches?"
Ronan answered calmly and confidently. "He communicates differently. It means we need to pay attention and learn."
Tracy nodded firmly. "Exactly. Reed's just as much a part of this team as anyone here. We adapt, and we improve."
Mason looked thoughtful, then gave a determined nod. "Then we'll figure it out."
"We definitely will," Devon agreed, punching the air. "This is it—The team is complete!"
A cheer went up around the room, excitement infectious.
"Speaking of complete," Tracy glanced around the room with a slight frown. "Where's Jules? She's usually early."
As if on cue, the door swung open forcefully, nearly slamming against the wall. Juliette "Jules" Yang stood in the doorway, breath slightly heavy from a sprint, eyes sharp and assessing. She scanned the room briefly, pausing on Reed.
"So, the silent one's here," Jules remarked indifferently, crossing her arms as she stepped fully into the room. "Guess we'll see if he's actually worth the hype. At least he is more bearable than the talkative ones."
Devon laughed nervously, clearly unsure if Jules was joking or completely serious. "Always so motivational, Jules."
Jules raised an eyebrow, giving him a flat stare. "With your skills, you need it the most, Devon."
The room relaxed slightly with a ripple of laughter as Jules leaned against the wall, her attention shifting dismissively away from Reed. Reed hesitated, staying quiet and observant, understanding he'd have to earn her respect on the field and hoping that it would be enough.
The room settled, the last ripple of chatter fading into focus as Ronan stepped forward.
"Alright," he said. "Now that we're all here, let's go over adjustments."
Tracy moved to the whiteboard and wiped away the old formation diagram, replacing it with a new one. Reed's name was written clearly in the left-back slot.
"This gives us full coverage across the field," she said. "Reed will support Mason on the left. Jules, you're up front with Devon."
Jules gave a slight shrug, unimpressed but not objecting. Devon, on the other hand, fist-pumped like he'd just won a trophy.
"Time to make magic happen," he said, winking at no one in particular.
Chris groaned under his breath. "Please don't do that again."
Tracy ignored them and kept going. "Reed will rely mostly on signals. Ronan's going to help sync those up with our system. If you don't understand something, ask. Don't assume."
"Some of you need to get better at watching the field anyway," Ronan added. His gaze lingered on Isaac, who looked away and pretended to cough.
"So what now?" Leon asked, already leaning toward the door. "Are we training or just talking?"
"Field," Ronan said. "Now."
—
The late afternoon sun spilled over the field, casting long shadows across the grass. The team assembled in a loose circle, stretching and warming up.
Reed stood quietly to the side, bouncing the ball lightly on his thigh. A few players snuck glances at him, still unsure how they should interact with the new member.
"Alright!" Tracy clapped her hands. "We'll run three-on-three to start. Devon, Jules, Leon—you're one team. Chris, Isaac, Reed—you're the other. Ronan and I will sub in and watch positioning. Jordan, Mason, rotate in next round."
Jules walked past Reed without even looking at him. "Hope you're better at defense than you are at introductions," she muttered.
Reed didn't flinch. Just gave a tiny nervous smirk that tried faking confidence and walked to his spot.
The match kicked off.
It didn't take long.
Reed didn't run fast, but he moved smart. He watched body language, anticipated passes, and covered space like he'd rehearsed the field in his mind a dozen times. Devon's early attempt at a flick pass was stopped with a clean intercept. Jules' drive down the wing was cut short when Reed timed a slide to perfection and nudged the ball to Chris.
"Whoa," Leon muttered. "He's like… spooky efficient."
"Yeah," Isaac added. "He doesn't yell, doesn't flail—he just does."
Devon charged again, trying to shake Reed with a step-over.
Reed didn't bite. He waited. Then, just as Devon committed to a shot, Reed angled his body and stuck out one foot, tipping the ball sideways and letting Isaac scoop it up.
"Dang it!" Devon groaned. "That was supposed to be a highlight move!"
From the sidelines, Jules tilted her head slightly. Just enough to acknowledge what she saw.
Still not impressed.
But interested.
—
By the end of the scrimmage, Reed had earned at least one thing: space.
No one treated him like a mystery anymore. He had carved out his place, not through volume or swagger, but through action. Through precision.
As they gathered to pack up, Tracy nudged Jules. "What do you think now?"
Jules didn't answer immediately. She glanced at Reed, who was wiping down a practice cone and handing it silently to Mason.
"He's alright," she said finally. "Still not much of a presence, but at least he is tolerable."
"And?"
"And he's not a waste of space either, I guess."
Tracy grinned. For Jules, that was practically glowing praise.
Ronan stood a few feet away, arms folded as always. Watching.
And this time, when Reed looked his way, he didn't just nod. He gave Ronan a small thumbs-up.
The team was complete.
Now, they had to become something more.
—
The late sun bathed the field in gold as the team finished their cooldowns. For once, there was no yelling, no frustration, no awkward silences. Just the easy hum of people who had the same goal.
Devon was attempting a dramatic celebratory pose with a cone on his head while Leon tried—and failed—to do a double backflip.
Jules leaned against the fence with her arms crossed, watching the chaos uninterested, not wanting to participate in it if she didn't need to. It was not a smile, exactly, but not disapproval either.
Reed sat near the bench, lightly juggling a spare ball with rhythmic touches. Chris and Mason were packing cones together, discussing whether their defense had improved more from communication or just luck.
And for a brief moment, this group felt like a team with a future.
Then it happened.
"KANDA'S RUNNING!" Isaac shouted, pointing like it was an alien invasion.
True enough, Kanda was barreling down the path from the school building, legs pumping, clipboard flapping wildly in her hand like it was trying to escape.
Tracy stood up fast. "Something's wrong. She never runs."
"She barely walks with purpose," added Jordan.
Kanda skidded to a stop at the edge of the field, doubled over and panting hard. "...We've got a match," she managed, voice wheezing.
Everyone froze.
"What?" Tracy blinked.
Kanda held up the clipboard like it was the gospel. "We've. Got. A. Match."
Devon leapt to his feet. "Like, for real? Not a scrimmage?"
"Not practice. Not a rumor. Not a maybe." Kanda jabbed a finger at the schedule. "An official, sanctioned, district match. Next Thursday. 4 PM."
Ronan stepped forward calmly. "Who's the opponent?"
Kanda looked up, eyes serious. "Brookwell Blaze."
Silence.
"Brookwell?" Chris echoed. "The team that crushed Eastside 5–1 but showboated so hard they almost blew it?"
Isaac snorted. "Aren't they the ones who celebrated a corner kick like they won a trophy?"
Leon nodded. "They lost their last playoff game and still posted highlights like they won. Total clowns."
Jules straightened slightly, interest sparking in her eyes.
Devon let out a high-pitched laugh. "Okay! Okay, cool, great! So we're gonna die."
Tracy stared. "Why would they agree to play us? We don't even have a coach yet."
Kanda shrugged. "District scheduling software had an open slot. Brookwell's coach took it instantly. No questions asked. Probably thought it'd be free training."
Jordan let out a low whistle. "They think we're target practice."
"That's not all," Kanda added, tapping the clipboard again. "Their captain made a comment. Said—and I quote—'Do we even need a keeper for this one?'"
Everyone turned to look at Ronan.
Ronan didn't blink and didn't say anything, but his eyes narrowed slightly.
Reed stood up slowly, his expression unreadable. He walked over, ball in hand, and tapped a question into his phone before showing it to Tracy.
"Are they strong?"
Tracy read it and nodded. "They're strong. Big, fast, experienced. They play aggressively and use their physical strength and stamina to overwhelm their opponent."
Reed nodded once.
Then calmly rolled the ball to Ronan. Ronan caught it without looking.
"We've got a week," he said. "We use every minute."
Mason looked nervous. "What if they destroy us?"
"They can try." Ronan answered, and his words were filled with absolute confidence.
Devon grinned. "I say we make them regret showing up."
Tracy turned to Kanda. "Can you get us anything on them? Videos, match reports?"
Kanda already had her phone out. "Way ahead of you. I'll pull footage tonight."
Reed signed something small.
Ronan translated. "Let's show them what our team can do."
For the first time, even Jules smirked.
Isaac cracked his knuckles. "Guess we're underdogs."
Chris adjusted his goggles. "Then let's be dogs that bite. Like chihuahuas."
Everyone turned towards Chris and looked at him strangely, at which the nervous boy tried to explain himself as quickly as possible.
"They are small but terrifying."
No one argued.
They had seven days to prepare.
And they weren't wasting a second.
—
The first meeting after the announcement was different.
No more casual warm-ups or dragging feet. Every player arrived early. Even Jules. Even Leon, who, for the first time, wasn't making a joke the second he stepped onto the field.
They split into units. Tracy and Ronan directed everything with ruthless efficiency. Kanda brought printed footage stills and notes, clipped and highlighted, breaking down Brookwell's most-used formations.
"Number 7's their main striker," she explained, tapping the page. "Fast, direct, loves cutting inside. But he only uses his left. Every time."
Ronan took the sheet silently, eyes narrowing.
"Number 12 is the showboat. Will taunt. Will waste time. Ignore him unless he's near the box."
"Sounds like Devon," Jules muttered.
"Hey!" Devon said, pretending to be wounded. "I waste time strategically."
"Then strategically shut up," Jules snapped.
Practice wasn't just fun anymore. It was focused.
Ronan worked Reed and Mason through coordinated cover drills, positioning them against imaginary wingers. Tracy ran triangle passing circuits until Leon begged for mercy. Chris and Isaac did defensive sprints and worked on interception reads. And through it all, Kanda paced like a coach in disguise, scribbling down observations, occasionally tossing in a dry, "That angle was terrible," or "You fell for that step-over. Again."
It was the most intense training they'd ever done.
But no one quit.
Brookwell might not take them seriously.
But everyone was preparing as if their lives depended on it.
—
Five days passed in a blur of sweat, drills, and whispered strategy. The day before the match, the team gathered in the clubroom one last time to go over final plans. The energy was tense, but determined.
Tracy stood by the whiteboard, marker in hand. Kanda sat nearby with a binder of notes and a folded sheet she hadn't shown anyone yet.
"We've tightened the defense," Tracy said. "The attack flow's better than ever. We're ready."
Kanda cleared her throat. "Not quite."
Everyone turned.
She held up a printout.
"Official district rulebook," she said. "Page six: All registered teams must have an adult coach present at the match. No coach, no participation."
A stunned silence swept the room.
"You're joking," Chris said.
"She's not," Ronan replied calmly.
"You knew it too!? Why no one told us that before!?" Isaac asked loudly.
"Because I only learned about it today as I went through all the rules to see if we had everything that we needed. Good that I did too, apparently." Kanda countered back and seemed almost, smug or cocky, but it was only directed at Isaac, who appeared to blame her for that oversight when she was the one who brought it up thanks to her diligance.
Isaac then turned to Ronan, who shrugged. "I trust that she wouldn't lie about something like that in a time like that."
The club room went into panic.
"Wait, wait—so we're disqualified?" Devon's voice cracked. "Just like that?"
"We can't be," Mason said quickly. "We've worked too hard—there has to be a way."
Leon slumped into his chair. "I knew it. We're cursed."
"We need an adult," Isaac said, "but we don't even have a candidate. No staff member volunteered."
"I can't ask my parents," Chris muttered. "They think I'm wasting my time already."
"I don't even know where mine are half the time," Jordan added with a shrug.
Ideas were tossed out rapidly: a random substitute teacher, a retired neighbor, the janitor. Devon even suggested dressing up as an old man and pretending, and Leon added that he should take a long coat to cover both of them to make them taller for the intimidation factor. Both of them shook each other's hands, and a friendship was born that day.
"No," Jules said flatly.
Ronan, quiet through the chaos, finally spoke.
"There is someone."
Everyone turned to him.
He looked at Tracy.
"Your mom."
Tracy blinked. "My—what?"
"She's available," Ronan said simply. "She's a stay-at-home mom. And she knows and supports you playing soccer. That's enough for one match."
"That's… not a bad idea," Kanda admitted.
Tracy groaned, rubbing her eyes. "She's gonna milk this forever."
"So she'll say yes?" Mason asked hopefully.
Tracy sighed. "She'll say yes. But she'll never let me live it down. Every time I'll do something wrong, she'll start acting like a coach. 'Have you done your homework. No? To think that you ignored your coach's instruction like it was nothing. Yellow card to you, young lady."
"Does she know that coaches don't give out cards?" Isaac asked.
"Probably not."
"Worth it," Isaac said.
Ronan stood. "Then we go ask her."
"You mean now?" Tracy asked, eyes wide.
"Yes," he said simply. "Together."
So they did.
The entire team—eleven strong—marched out of the clubroom and down the street, still in half-uniform and practice sweat, toward Tracy Lin's house.
To ask her mom to be their coach.
—
The group stopped outside a modest two-story house with flowerpots on the porch and wind chimes tinkling softly in the breeze.
Tracy hesitated at the gate. "Okay. She's probably in the kitchen. Nobody be weird."
Devon immediately raised his hand. "What counts as weird? Because I brought compliments."
"That," Tracy said flatly and opened the door.
"Mom!" she called. "We're coming in. And I brought... a lot of people."
The team filed into the Lin family living room in a crooked row and a lot of awkward energy.
From the adjacent kitchen, a soft voice called out. "You brought people? That's nice. Do they want tea?"
Mei Lin appeared in the doorway, wearing a loose sweater and a calm expression. She paused when she saw the full team lined up like they were in a school play.
"Oh my," she said gently. "That's... quite a few people. Hello."
Tracy rubbed her neck. "Hi, Mom. So... uh, this is the everyone from the team. You know Ronan already. The rest are..."
She paused as the group awkwardly waved.
"Hi, Mrs. Lin," Mason said politely.
"Hello!" Devon added with a grin. "Your house smells amazing. Just like—uh—good decisions."
Mei Lin blinked, then smiled softly. "Thank you, dear."
Ronan stepped forward. "We need to ask you a favor."
Mei Lin tilted her head slightly. "Of course. What kind of favor?"
Tracy gave a sheepish smile. "We need a coach for our match tomorrow. Just someone to stand on the sidelines. Technically. Officially. You don't have to yell or do anything intense. Just... be there."
Mei Lin looked at the group again. Eleven sweaty kids, hopeful eyes, mismatched socks, and mismatched personalities.
She looked at her daughter.
"Will I need a whistle?"
"No," Tracy said quickly.
"But could ?" Mei Lin asked, and Tracy looked strangely at her own mother, but it was Ronan was the one who answered.
"We'll buy you a whistle, but don't use it during the match."
"Then I'll do it, but I do want a team picture after the match—for the fridge. By the way, what's the team's name?" Mei asked her daughter, and Tracy froze. Then the young girl turned to Ronan, who turned his head away and stayed silent, but there was a saviour among this team.
"We are called Liberty Storm FC." Kanda answered. "I'm surprised that you didn't know." She added.
"We were busy finding the members and training, and then the match announcement happened. It just slipped my mind. And I wasn't the only one," Tracy said as she looked at Ronan, who still didn't look back. She knew it was because he didn't know the team's name either.
After that, relieved cheer broke out among the team.
Devon wiped fake sweat from his forehead. "Phew. I was about to nominate myself as a coach, and I only know one tactic."
"What is it?" Leon asked.
"Flail and pray."
Jules groaned. "We made the right choice."
"I don't know." Jordan started. "I am a certified coach and could lead our team to victory."
Everyone except Mason and Mei ignored Jordan's lie.
Tracy smiled. Ronan gave Mei Lin a respectful nod.
Liberty Storm had a coach.
Sort of.
—
Match day.
The locker room buzzed with tension.
Laces tightened. Shin guards strapped in. The sound of cleats tapping against tile echoed like a countdown.
Devon sat backwards on the bench, nervously bouncing his knee. His eyes flicked to Ronan across the room—silent, focused, tying his gloves with slow, deliberate precision.
'He barely talks', Devon thought. 'Doesn't joke. Doesn't brag. But somehow, when he looks at you, it's like he already knows where you're gonna be on the field—like he sees the whole match in advance. I used to think soccer was just something kids did to kill time. A fun thing. But Ronan? He makes it feel important. Real. Like every move matters. He's calm when everyone else freaks out. That calm spreads. I talk too much—he barely says a word. But somehow, I trust him. More than I've trusted anyone in a long time. Maybe it's because he was the one who invited me to play. I did it because I wanted to show off to Tracy, but somehow the tables have turned, and she was the one who showed off, and she showed me how football can be fun. I can say now that I like playing soccer, and because of that, I don't want to mess up my first match. That's why I'll give it my all so I won't have any regrets. If we lose today, I'll train twice as much so this won't repeat in the future.'
Leon leaned against the wall beside him, fidgeting with his jersey collar.
'I thought I had the loudest energy in the room. But Ronan? He doesn't need noise. He's got presence. Quiet, solid, centered. That first scrimmage, he dived for an unstoppable shot and blocked it. Then got back up like it was nothing. Like it didn't take effort. I cracked jokes. He cracked silence. And his silence won. And Tracy? She doesn't have to shout either. She *knows*. Always two steps ahead. She reads the game like a chessboard, and every time she talks, it's something that helps us click. She makes sense of the madness. Keeps us orbiting the same goal. When they came to the training for the first time and started their routine, I couldn't help but think that they were serious about this sport... unlike me. Running and playing around was fun, but seeing them, I wanted to try more. I'm not sure about the others, but I guess no one took soccer seriously before these two came. Maybe that's why we started following their instructions without a second thought. Let's see if the world is ready for one and only Leon Mitchell.''
Leon grinned to himself.
Across the room, Chris was adjusting his shoes again. Tight. Then again. Then again.
'I second-guess everything. Even now. But Ronan? He gave me a single correction—pointed at a patch of grass—and that fixed half my positioning problems. No drama. Just clarity. Tracy doesn't just run drills. She *builds* them. Every pass she designs has a reason. Every setup has a flow. And I need that structure. They make me feel like I belong, not like I'm hanging on by luck. That matters. Even during our first training, their presence alone made me follow their instructions, and I just continued listening and getting better. As long as I follow them, I won't need to worry and second-guess. I'll just trust them.'
Mason sat nearby, laces looped in his fingers, resting his elbows on his knees.
'I didn't think I was good enough to play seriously. I was just... background. But Ronan looked at me like I was part of something. Not a backup. Not filler. A *piece.* And Tracy? She actually listens. Asked what I thought, once. No one ever asked before. That stuck. They don't act like they're better than us. But somehow, they make you want to rise to match them anyway, and I don't want to disappoint them.'
Jules sat at the end of the bench, elbows on knees, head slightly lowered. Watching everyone. Measuring.
'Strength is all that matters in soccer. You can play nice and for fun, but to win, all you need is strength. Ronan is strong. That's why I joined this team. Most others are barely worth mentioning. Ronan gets things done. And Tracy... she doesn't let him bulldoze over everything. She reins it in. Directs the current. It's like they're two halves of a map—Ronan shows the destination. Tracy draws the route. Maybe it will be worth following them. We'll see.'
Isaac stood, pacing a short line by the door, his hands clenched and unclenched.
'I used to think leading meant barking orders. Getting loud. But Ronan leads by presence. Tracy leads by steadiness. And the weirdest part? No one ever argues. The moment they appeared, everyone followed. They didn't demand it, but everyone did it anyway. Because we all know, they know what they are doing. They don't act like they've earned authority. They just *are* authority. I'm unsure if they wanted to find more new members for the team or decided that we are worth something in their eyes, but I know we wouldn't exist without them, and I want to prove that they didn't make a wrong choice. That we are worth more than they thought we were.'
Jordan leaned forward, elbows on knees, fingers tapping anxiously.
'I've bullshitted my way through my life. That's the only way I know how to live. The only one who believes my lies is Mason, and he would believe in anything. Sometimes I worry about that little guy. I never met someone like Ronan. He didn't even register my lies. He ignored all I said until it was something relevant. At this point, I try to see if he'll ever react to whatever I say. But that made me wonder what kind of reaction he will make when my lies become the truth.'
Malik sat motionless, gaze locked on the floor in front of him.
'They haven't been here long. But it doesn't matter. Time doesn't make a leader. Charisma does. And they definitely have it. Ronan doesn't need to yell. Tracy doesn't need to prove anything. Their presence does the work for them. I follow because I believe. Not just in them, but in what they're building. What we're building.'
Reed sat in the corner, his gaze soft but steady, watching the others. His eyes landed on Ronan and then Tracy. His fingers curled slightly in his lap—familiar, calm motions like signing to no one.
'They didn't flinch when they met me. Didn't stumble or hesitate. They didn't treat me like a problem. They treated me like a player they want on a team. They didn't walk away. That's all I needed to join.'
He signed softly, a whisper of motion: *I'll prove I belong here.*
At the front of the room, Tracy stood by the whiteboard, scanning each face. The team she and Ronan had helped shape almost from the ground up.
'No more tactics. No more planning. We are finally doing the real thing after so many simulations in my head. Just us and the pitch. I don't need to shout to be heard—not here. They listen. They trust. And I trust them right back.'
She clapped her hands once. Firm. Clear.
"Alright, Liberty Storm. Time to walk."
And one by one, they stood.
---
END