San Dimas looked reborn.
Kai stood over the kickoff, eyes glinting with the kind of intent that said we're done playing safe. The whistle blew—he nudged it to their new arrival.
Miles Becker.
The boy's touch was pure silk. He didn't rush, didn't force. Just pivoted and slid the ball backward, the way old-school teams baited the press.
The home stands responded instantly, clapping in unison, their voices rising into a pulsing chant.
The gold-and-silver banners shook as the San Dimas supporters leaned over the rails, screaming for their team to "push, push, push!"
Normally, Lincoln would've stayed patient. They had the lead. No need to chase shadows.
Except Coach Owen's voice still rang in their heads—The best defense is offense.
The fire caught.
Blue jerseys surged forward, breath fogging the frosty air, boots pounding the turf like war drums.
San Dimas were pushed into their own half, their passing squeezed into tighter and tighter lanes.
