The second game of the week took Lincoln High back on the road.
Another away day. Another chance to carve their mark.
The iconic team bus rolled into Westbrook territory, engine rumbling like a beast at rest.
The moment the doors hissed open, winter air clawed at their lungs—sharp, biting, alive with the faint tang of dry soil.
The smell was different here, a mix of frozen earth and the faint metallic hint of rust from the old bleachers looming over the pitch.
It wasn't hostile, but it wasn't welcoming either.
Julian's cleats crunched against a pitch that had more scars than grass. The turf was thin, brittle, with patches where bone-dry dirt stared back like exposed bone.
Every step felt like stepping over landmines—divots, uneven ridges, and stubborn clumps of frost.
Across the field, Westbrook High waited in their colors—deep purple and silver flashing under the pale sun.
