Alex spent the entire evening researching airsoft online, falling down a rabbit hole of YouTube videos, equipment reviews, and tactical guides that kept him up until well past midnight. By the time his alarm went off for school, his browser history looked like that of someone planning a small military operation.
The day dragged by with the particular torture of anticipation. Every class felt like an obstacle between him and the weekend, when Jake had promised to show him around the local airsoft shop. Alex found himself sketching tactical diagrams in the margins of his notebook during chemistry, earning a concerned look from Mrs. Patterson when she noticed his detailed drawings of flanking maneuvers.
"Earth to Alex," she said, pausing beside his desk. "I know molecular structures aren't the most exciting thing in the world, but they're slightly more relevant to your grade than... what is that exactly?"
"Sorry, Mrs. Patterson. Just doodling." Alex quickly flipped to a clean page, his face burning as a few classmates snickered.
But even embarrassment couldn't dampen his mood. For the first time since the move, he had something to look forward to, something that felt like it might become his own rather than just another reminder of what he'd left behind.
When Saturday morning finally arrived, Alex was waiting outside Tactical Solutions—Millbrook's only airsoft retailer—a full fifteen minutes before it opened. The shop was squeezed between a used bookstore and a pizza place in the town's modest commercial district, its windows filled with realistic-looking weapons and military gear that would have intimidated him just a week ago.
"Eager much?" Jake's voice made him turn. His new friend was approaching with a large duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a grin that suggested he approved of Alex's enthusiasm.
"I may have done some research," Alex admitted.
"Research is good. Shows you're serious. But Pete's going to want to see if you're actually committed before he lets you handle the good stuff."
The shop's owner turned out to be the same gruff older man Alex had noticed at the field—Pete Morrison, a Vietnam veteran whose weathered hands and sharp eyes suggested he'd seen more real combat than most people would ever imagine. Despite his intimidating appearance, there was something grandfatherly about the way he moved through his shop, adjusting displays and checking equipment with obvious pride.
"So you're the kid who made that flanking run yesterday," Pete said without preamble as they entered. "Not bad for a first-timer."
"Thank you, sir."
Pete's eyebrows rose slightly at the respectful address. "Jake says you want to get into the sport properly. That means equipment, and equipment costs money. You got money, son?"
Alex's stomach dropped. He'd been so caught up in the excitement of finding something he enjoyed that he hadn't really considered the financial reality. His mom was already stretched thin with the move and new job, and his own savings from his Phoenix part-time job wouldn't go far if the price tags he'd seen online were any indication.
"Some," he said carefully. "Not a lot."
Pete studied him for a long moment, then nodded as if Alex had passed some kind of test. "Honest answer. I respect that. Jake, show him the starter packages while I finish inventory."
The next hour was like getting a crash course in a foreign language. Jake walked Alex through the bewildering array of options—AEGs versus gas guns, different BB weights, the importance of hop-up systems, and the endless world of tactical accessories. Alex's head was spinning by the time they'd narrowed it down to a few realistic options.
"This one's probably your best bet," Jake said, indicating a black rifle that looked military but not overly intimidating. "G&G Combat Machine. Reliable, affordable, good for beginners but not embarrassing if you stick with the sport. About two hundred for the gun, another hundred for basic gear."
Three hundred dollars. Alex tried not to let his disappointment show, but Jake caught it anyway.
"Look, I know it seems like a lot," Jake said quietly. "But you don't have to get everything at once. Pete's pretty good about payment plans for serious players, and there's always used gear."
"Used gear?" Alex perked up.
"Sure. Half the guys on our team started with hand-me-downs. Maya's still using a rifle she bought from Marcus's older brother. It's not about having the newest stuff—it's about showing up and playing."
Pete reappeared as if summoned by the conversation. "You boys figure out what you need?"
"We're looking at the Combat Machine package," Jake said. "But Alex is working with a budget."
"Aren't we all." Pete's expression softened slightly. "Tell you what, son. I've got a used CM16 in the back that came in on trade last week. Previous owner took good care of it, just upgraded to something fancier. Hundred and fifty for the rifle, and I'll throw in basic eye protection and a bag of BBs. You can add gear as you go."
Alex felt a surge of hope. "Could I see it?"
The rifle Pete brought out was obviously used but well-maintained. There were small scratches on the stock and wear marks where hands had gripped it, but it felt solid and purposeful in Alex's hands. More importantly, it felt like something he could actually afford.
"It's perfect," Alex said, then caught himself. "I mean, if the price is right."
Pete chuckled. "Kid's got negotiating instincts. I like that. Hundred and fifty, firm. But I'll tell you what—you help me reorganize my stockroom this afternoon, and I'll knock off another twenty."
"Deal." Alex didn't even hesitate.
Jake clapped him on the shoulder. "Welcome to the addiction, man. Fair warning—it only gets worse from here."
They spent the rest of the morning going over the rifle's basic operation and maintenance. Pete proved to be a patient teacher, showing Alex how to field-strip the weapon, clean the barrel, and adjust the hop-up system that put backspin on the BBs for better accuracy and range.
"Treat it with respect, and it'll serve you well," Pete said as Alex practiced loading and unloading magazines. "This isn't a toy, even if it's not lethal. The habits you build here—safety, maintenance, discipline—they matter."
"Yes, sir."
"And stop calling me sir. Makes me feel old. Pete's fine."
The stockroom work was hot, dusty, and exactly the kind of physical labor Alex had been missing without realizing it. As they moved boxes and reorganized shelves, Pete shared stories about the local airsoft community—the rivalries between teams, the legendary games that had become part of local folklore, and the players who'd moved on to military or law enforcement careers.
"Maya's probably the best natural shooter I've seen in twenty years of running this place," Pete said as they wrestled a particularly heavy box of BBs into position. "Girl's got eyes like a hawk and nerves like steel. But she's also one of the most generous players you'll meet. Always willing to help newcomers, share equipment, teach what she knows."
"She seems cool," Alex said, trying to sound casual.
Pete's knowing look suggested he wasn't fooling anyone. "She is. Also completely focused on getting into West Point, so don't get any ideas about distracting her from that goal."
"I wasn't—I mean, I don't—"
"Relax, kid. I'm just saying Maya's got her priorities straight, and she expects the same from the people around her. You want to earn her respect, show up prepared and play smart."
By the time they finished, Alex was sweaty, tired, and happier than he'd been in months. The rifle was his, along with a basic chest rig Pete had thrown in "because you can't carry spare magazines in your pockets like some kind of amateur."
"Next weekend's the monthly scenario game," Pete said as Alex prepared to leave. "Big event, teams from three counties. You should come watch, get a feel for serious play."
"I don't think I'm ready for anything that intense."
"Probably not," Pete agreed cheerfully. "But watching's free, and you'll learn more in one day than you would in a month of pickup games."
Jake walked Alex home, both of them carrying gear bags that marked them as members of some exclusive club. The afternoon sun was warm on their faces, and Alex felt the particular satisfaction that came from earning something rather than just buying it.
"So what's the deal with your team?" Alex asked as they walked. "Is it official, or just whoever shows up?"
"Bit of both. We call ourselves Bravo Company—yeah, I know it's not the most original name, but it stuck. There's about eight of us who play regularly, maybe a dozen more who show up when they can. Marcus is our unofficial leader, Maya's our designated marksman, I'm the guy who knows way too much about gear modifications."
"What would I be?"
Jake considered this. "Too early to tell. You've got good tactical instincts, but you need to develop your shooting skills. Your physical fitness is solid from soccer, which is huge—a lot of airsoft players are more interested in collecting gear than actually running around with it. Give it a few months, and we'll see where your strengths lie."
They paused at the corner where their routes home diverged. Alex hefted his gear bag, still not quite believing it was his.
"Thanks for today," he said. "For introducing me to Pete, helping me pick out gear, all of it."
"Don't thank me yet. Wait until you've been crawling through mud for six hours in a scenario game, getting lit up by some kid with a polarstar and more money than sense. Then we'll see if you still think this was a good idea."
But Jake was grinning as he said it, and Alex found himself grinning back.
That evening, Alex spread his new equipment out on his bedroom floor like a kid with Christmas presents. The rifle, the chest rig, the eye protection, even the bag of biodegradable BBs—each item represented possibility, the chance to be part of something bigger than himself.
His mom appeared in the doorway, drawn by the unusual sounds of activity from his room.
"What's all this?" she asked, though her tone was more curious than concerned.
"Airsoft gear. It's like... tactical laser tag, but with plastic pellets. I met some people who play, and they invited me to join their team."
Maria Rivera studied the equipment with the careful attention she brought to everything involving her son's wellbeing. "It looks very... military."
"It's just a game, Mom. A sport, really. Like paintball, but more realistic."
She picked up one of the magazines, turning it over in her hands. "And you enjoy this?"
"Yeah. I really do. It's strategic, requires teamwork, physical fitness. And the people are good—they've been really welcoming."
His mom was quiet for a long moment, and Alex held his breath. He could see her weighing concerns about violence and safety against the simple fact that he seemed genuinely excited about something for the first time since the move.
"You'll be careful?" she finally asked.
"Always. There are strict safety rules, and everyone takes them seriously."
"And these friends of yours—they're good kids?"
Alex thought about Jake's enthusiasm and patience, Maya's quiet competence, Marcus's natural leadership, even Pete's gruff mentorship.
"Yeah, Mom. They're good people."
She nodded slowly. "Then I'm glad you found them. You've seemed... lost since we moved. If this helps you feel more like yourself, then I support it."
The relief Alex felt was almost overwhelming. "Thanks, Mom. Really."
"Just promise me you'll still make time for schoolwork. And maybe consider trying out for the soccer team too? You don't have to choose just one thing."
"Maybe," Alex said, though privately he doubted anything could compete with the rush he'd felt during that flanking maneuver.
After his mom left, Alex spent another hour researching tactics and techniques online. He watched videos of professional airsoft players, studied diagrams of military small-unit tactics, and read forum discussions about everything from camouflage patterns to communication protocols.
By the time he finally went to bed, his head was full of plans and possibilities. Tomorrow was Sunday, which meant another pickup game at the field. This time, he'd have his own equipment, his own role to play.
As he drifted off to sleep, Alex found himself thinking about Pete's words regarding Maya—show up prepared and play smart. It seemed like good advice for more than just airsoft.
For the first time since the divorce, since the move, since his world had been turned upside down, Alex Rivera felt like he had a clear goal: prove himself worthy of the trust his new friends had placed in him.
The rifle case beside his bed seemed to glow with promise in the darkness, a tangible reminder that sometimes the best discoveries came when you were brave enough to step into unfamiliar territory.
Tomorrow couldn't come soon enough.