Leo jogged over to Julian, eyes still gleaming from the goal.
"Dude—let's do the celebration," he said, almost bouncing.
Julian's lips curved. Oh, right. The bet.
He sprang toward the corner flag, boots pounding against the turf.
The home stands erupted—not with cheers, but with a sharp, confused roar. San Dimas supporters leaned over the rail, some booing, some shouting half-laughing insults.
The sound wasn't warm; it was the restless noise of a crowd watching an outsider take center stage on their field.
The crowd tilted toward him, sensing something.
Julian planted his feet and bent his knees, hands gripping an imaginary rod.
He gave it a sharp tug, reeling back with exaggerated strain—like he'd just hooked a monster.
Near the halfway line, a San Dimas player muttered something under his breath, pointing toward Julian's act.
