The team was ready.
Uniform bags slung over shoulders. Cleats clinking against the pavement. Excitement buzzing like static in the air.
They walked together toward the bus parked outside Lincoln High's main building.
Two factions formed naturally.
One, led by Leo and Cael, felt more like a school trip than a serious match.
Leo had his headphones around his neck, singing half-loudly with Cael harmonizing off-beat, both dancing like idiots down the sidewalk.
The other? Riku's unit—orderly, focused, intense. Riku barked reminders about water bottles, towels, shin guards.
The guy walked like a military officer prepping for war.
And in the middle of it all was Julian.
Not leading. Not following. Just walking.
Silent.
Observing.
As they approached the bus, Julian slowed slightly.
He'd seen them on the streets before—these long, wheeled metal beasts—but this was the first time he'd ever ridden one.
The vehicle towered in front of him like some steel leviathan. It wasn't magic, but it might as well have been.
Big windows. Vents humming. Luggage bays folded open like jaws.
In my old world, Julian thought, this would be a noble's private carriage. Or maybe even one of the magic tower's sky-floaters—
No. Not quite.
This was simpler.
More human.
He followed the others one by one up the steps and into the body of the bus.
The interior smelled of faux leather and vending machine snacks. The seats were soft but stained.
Stickers and worn-out fabric told stories of years of student sweat and spilled Gatorade.
Julian found an empty window seat and sat. His fingers brushed the edge of the chair. Still amazed.
Then—Coach Owens stood at the front of the aisle, his clipboard in hand, voice cutting through the chatter.
"Alright. You all know the game plan. Laura already went over their formation, their key players. So here's our starting lineup tonight."
Silence settled over the bus.
Coach read it out loud, clear and steady.
…
Starting XI:
GK Cael Morgan
CB: Riku Tanaka, Tariq Okoye
RB: Zion Blake
RB: Miles Carter
CDM: Aaron Bishop, Ethan Rhodes
RW: Felix Moreno
LW: Tyrell Brooks
AM: Leonardo Luz
ST: Ricky Zhang
Substitutes:
Julian Ashford
Damien Silva
Liam Walker
Caleb Dominguez
…
Julian leaned back slightly, eyes on the ceiling as his name landed in the sub list.
Expected.
He'd just gotten clearance to play again—Sean's final check this morning gave him the green light. Still, there was a flicker of frustration in his chest.
His competitive fire didn't know how to sit still.
Coach Owens continued. "Brighton Catholic isn't some random school. They made CIF Playoffs. Division 3. They know how to press. They know how to break shape. So tonight's not just about fitness or formation. It's about mentality."
His voice dropped.
The words still echoed in Julian's head.
"If we beat them, we send a message before the season even begins."
A quiet hum of energy passed through the bus.
The kind that didn't shout or cheer—but settled, deep in the bones.
The kind that meant something was coming.
Leo nudged Ricky with a grin.
Riku gave a sharp nod, jaw clenched.
Cael? He leaned back in his seat, humming the opening theme of some anime like he was already picturing the victory montage.
Julian, seated by the window, just stared outside as the engine grumbled to life.
The city crept past them—streetlights flickering on in perfect sync, painting the sidewalks in stripes of amber and gold.
People strolled beneath neon signs.
Laughter in the air. Windows glowing in apartments above.
The world moved.
And Julian didn't blink.
His fingers curled around the hem of his warm-up jacket, tightening like a slow draw of a blade from its sheath.
He wasn't just here to warm the bench.
Tonight…
Brighton Catholic would remember his name.
…
The ride didn't take long.
Just an hour and a half down the highway, leaving Lincoln High at 5:00 PM and rolling up to Brighton Catholic's gates by 6:30 sharp.
Julian's first thought as the bus pulled into the lot?
So this is a boys-only school tied to a religion?
He expected something... holier.
Monk robes. Rosary beads. Chanting in Latin, maybe?
But instead, the students looked… normal.
Baggy hoodies. Soccer cleats. Loud voices. Laughter. Shouting. Trash talk already floating across the lot.
Maybe that's just how this world works, Julian thought.
The team filed out of the bus.
Coach Owens led the line, Laura beside him, her clipboard already in hand. Leo and Cael followed—one serious, the other bouncing on his heels like this was a field trip.
Julian walked quietly, his breath steady now, body loose but primed.
They reached the edge of the pitch.
The turf was immaculate. Lights already humming above, painting the grass in a stadium glow even though the sun hadn't fully set yet.
Coach Owens stepped forward and shook hands with a bald man in a navy-blue track jacket—the opposing coach, no doubt.
Julian watched them carefully.
This coach had a younger face than Owens. Tall. Strong posture. The same clean-shaven dome.
Was this some hidden rule among coaches in America?
Do they all take a vow and shave their heads once they earn their badge or something?
"Been a while, Callahan," Owens said, offering his hand.
"Too long, Owens," the man replied—Coach Callahan, apparently. His voice was younger, smoother. But there was a spark in his eye.
The handshake turned into a one-arm hug. That universal coach greeting: part challenge, part respect.
Coach Callahan wasn't alone.
Beside him stood a towering figure—tall, slim, with broad shoulders and an aura like polished steel. Bald as well, weirdly enough. But younger. His eyes were sharp, calculating. His posture screamed discipline.
"This here's my captain," Callahan said. "Marcus Hale. Goalkeeper."
Julian's eyes narrowed slightly.
So this was #1. One of Brighton's key players.
Marcus stepped forward and extended a hand.
"Coach Owens," he greeted with a firm shake.
Owens nodded, then turned slightly. "This is Leonardo Luz. Our captain."
Leo stepped up, all casual charm, and shook hands with both Callahan and Marcus.
"Nice to meet you," Leo said, giving the taller keeper a friendly nod.
Marcus didn't smile. Just nodded. A keeper's calm. A predator's eyes.
Julian could already feel the tension in the air beginning to sharpen.
No threats exchanged. No words needed.
It was just presence.
Two captains. Two teams. One night.
After the brief introductions, both squads were directed to their respective benches to warm up and prep.
The game would start soon.
And even though Julian wasn't in the starting eleven...
He could feel it.
That itch. That fire.
His body might've been on the sidelines—but his soul was already on the pitch.