The warm-ups faded into silence, tension hanging like frost in the air.
Then—
Prrrriiiittttt!
The referee's whistle split the winter evening.
Both teams gathered at the center, lined in ritual formation. Lincoln High in their home blue, Crenshaw North in their away white trimmed with teal. Two armies, one pitch.
Right hand extended for home. Left for away. The old gesture of respect before war.
Julian clasped palms that were rough, calloused, trembling with contained violence.
He could feel it in their grip—the Ross twins, the chaos engine of Crenshaw. D-Ro's grin was feral, D-Lo's smirk cold, calculated.
Tyrese's stare was wildfire, Javion's grip felt like steel clamps around his fingers.
The clash of hands wasn't a handshake—it was a warning. Every palm said the same thing: "I'm here to break you."
Then the line dissolved.
The referee raised the ball.
Dropped it.
The game began.
Kickoff. Crenshaw North, the away side, drew first blood with the ball.
