The second pickup game was nothing like the first.
Alex arrived at the field thirty minutes early, his new gear bag slung over his shoulder with the kind of pride usually reserved for varsity letters or driver's licenses. The weight of his own rifle felt different from the borrowed equipment—more substantial, more real. This wasn't just trying something new anymore; this was his.
Pete was already there, setting up chronograph equipment to test players' rifles for safety compliance. He nodded approvingly when he saw Alex approaching.
"Good to see you back, son. How's the CM16 treating you?"
"Great. I spent yesterday practicing with it in my backyard." Alex had set up targets using cardboard boxes, much to his mother's amusement and the neighbors' curiosity. "The hop-up adjustment you showed me made a huge difference."
"Muscle memory and familiarity," Pete said, gesturing for Alex to set his rifle on the chronograph. "Half of good shooting is knowing your weapon inside and out. The other half is not thinking too hard when it matters."
The chronograph reading came back at 347 feet per second—well within field limits. Pete made a note on his clipboard and handed the rifle back.
"You're good to go. Fair warning though—word's gotten around about your little flanking maneuver last week. Don't expect the same tricks to work twice."
Alex felt a flutter of nervousness. "People are talking about it?"
"Small community. Good plays get remembered, same as bad ones. Just means you'll have to earn your next victory."
More players began arriving as the morning progressed. Alex recognized most of them from the previous week, but there were new faces too—including a group of older teenagers who carried themselves with the confidence of serious competitors. Their gear was noticeably more expensive, their movements more practiced as they prepared for the day's games.
"College team from Riverside," Jake explained, appearing at Alex's elbow. "They come down here sometimes to practice against different opponents. Good players, but they can be a little... intense."
Maya joined them, already suited up in her familiar woodland camouflage. "By intense, he means they take pickup games way too seriously and get pissy when they lose to high schoolers."
"Have they lost to high schoolers?" Alex asked.
"Once or twice," Maya said with a grin that suggested she'd been personally responsible for at least one of those defeats.
The first game of the day was a simple team deathmatch—two sides, last team standing wins. Alex found himself on the opposite team from Maya and Jake, paired instead with Marcus and several players he didn't know well. It felt like a test, being separated from the people who'd welcomed him into the community.
"Alright, listen up," Marcus said as their team huddled before the game began. "Riverside's got four players, all experienced. They're going to try to dominate the center of the field and force us into defensive positions. We need to be smarter, not just aggressive."
One of the college players—a tall guy with expensive-looking gear and the kind of tactical beard that suggested he took his military simulation very seriously—was studying Alex with obvious dismissal.
"New kid's got basic gear," he said to his teammate, not bothering to lower his voice. "Probably won't last five minutes."
Alex felt his face flush, but Marcus put a steadying hand on his shoulder.
"Let your play do the talking," Marcus said quietly. "Gear doesn't win games."
The whistle blew, and chaos erupted.
Alex's team spread out according to Marcus's plan, but within minutes it was clear that Riverside had come prepared for conventional tactics. They moved with practiced coordination, communicating through hand signals and covering each other's movements with military precision. Alex watched two of his teammates get eliminated in quick succession, caught in a crossfire that seemed to come from everywhere at once.
"They're good," he muttered, pressing himself against a wooden barrier as BBs snapped through the air overhead.
"Yeah, but they're predictable," said Sarah, one of the regular players who'd ended up on his team. "They're running textbook small unit tactics. Problem is, this isn't Afghanistan—it's a game."
Alex risked a look around the barrier and immediately had to duck back as the bearded college player sent a burst of automatic fire his way. But in that brief glimpse, he'd seen something interesting.
"They're moving like they're in actual combat," he said. "Slow, methodical, always maintaining cover and communication."
"So?"
"So in soccer, when a team plays too conservatively, you can exploit their caution. Make them react instead of act."
Sarah looked at him with new interest. "What are you thinking?"
Alex studied the field layout, noting the positions where muzzle flashes had revealed the Riverside players. They were advancing steadily but carefully, treating every piece of cover like it might hide an enemy sniper.
"What if we gave them something to be cautious about?"
The plan Alex proposed was either brilliant or suicidal—possibly both. Instead of trying to match Riverside's tactical discipline, they would create chaos. Sarah would lay down covering fire from their current position, making noise and drawing attention. Meanwhile, Alex would sprint across the most dangerous part of the field—completely exposed, but moving too fast and unpredictably for careful aimed fire.
"That's insane," Sarah said. "You'll get lit up."
"Maybe. But if I make it, I'll be behind their line while they're all focused on you. Sometimes the crazy play is the one that works."
Marcus, who'd been listening from a few feet away, crawled over to join the conversation. "Alex, that's a huge risk. If you get eliminated, we're down to three players against four."
"If we keep playing their game, we're going to lose anyway," Alex pointed out. "They're better at conventional tactics than we are."
Marcus was quiet for a moment, weighing options. Around them, the sound of gunfire was getting closer as Riverside continued their methodical advance.
"Do it," Marcus decided. "But if you get shot, I'm never letting you live it down."
What followed was the longest thirty seconds of Alex's life. Sarah opened up with sustained fire, her automatic rifle chattering as she sent BBs downrange at anything that moved. The Riverside players immediately took cover and began returning fire, their attention completely focused on her position.
Alex took a deep breath and ran.
He sprinted across open ground in a zigzag pattern, changing direction every few steps to avoid presenting a steady target. BBs whizzed past him—some close enough that he could feel the air displacement—but none found their mark. His heart was hammering so hard he could hear it over the gunfire, and his legs felt like they might give out from the adrenaline surge.
Then he was across, diving behind a log pile that put him directly behind the Riverside team's position.
For a moment, Alex just lay there, amazed that he'd made it. Then training kicked in—the hours he'd spent watching tactical videos, studying military manuals, absorbing everything Jake and Maya had taught him about the sport.
The bearded college player was twenty feet away, focused entirely on Sarah's position. He never saw Alex coming.
"Bang, you're dead," Alex said quietly, pressing his rifle barrel against the player's back.
The college student spun around, his face cycling through surprise, anger, and grudging respect. "Nice move, kid. Didn't think you had it in you."
"Thanks," Alex said, then immediately shifted position as another Riverside player came looking for his eliminated teammate.
The psychological effect of Alex's successful flanking maneuver was immediate and devastating. Riverside's careful coordination fell apart as they realized their rear was compromised. Players began looking over their shoulders instead of focusing on their targets. Their steady advance became a confused scramble as they tried to deal with threats from multiple directions.
Alex eliminated two more players before the remaining Riverside team member finally managed to take him out with a lucky shot. But by then, Marcus and the rest of their team had rallied, using the chaos Alex had created to press their own attack.
When the whistle blew to end the game, Alex's team had won decisively.
"Holy shit, Alex!" Sarah whooped, pulling him into a congratulatory hug. "That was incredible!"
Even the Riverside players seemed impressed. The bearded college student approached Alex as they were clearing the field.
"That was a hell of a play," he said, extending his hand. "I'm Derek. Sorry about the gear comment earlier—I was being an ass."
"Alex. And no worries. You guys are really good."
"Good at following the manual," Derek said with a rueful smile. "You're good at thinking outside it. That's harder to teach."
Maya appeared at Alex's side, her own game having ended a few minutes earlier. "Not bad for someone with basic gear," she said, echoing Derek's earlier dismissal with obvious amusement.
"I got lucky," Alex said, though privately he was glowing with pride.
"Luck is when preparation meets opportunity," Maya replied. "You've been studying, haven't you? Watching videos, reading about tactics?"
Alex nodded, slightly embarrassed by how obvious his research had been.
"Good. Shows you're serious about improving. But there's only so much you can learn from YouTube. You want to get really good, you need proper training."
"What kind of training?"
Maya exchanged a look with Jake, who'd joined their group along with Marcus. Some kind of silent communication passed between them.
"There's a thing," Jake said carefully. "Monthly training sessions that some of the more serious players attend. Advanced tactics, marksmanship, scenario planning. It's... intense."
"More intense than getting shot at while running across open ground?" Alex asked.
"Different kind of intense," Marcus said. "It's run by a guy named Sergeant Rodriguez—retired Marine, takes the sport very seriously. He doesn't accept just anyone."
"But after today's performance," Maya added, "he might be willing to give you a shot."
Alex felt that familiar flutter of excitement mixed with nervousness. "What would I have to do?"
"Show up, keep up, and prove you're committed to more than just weekend games," Jake said. "Fair warning—Rodriguez doesn't coddle people. You screw up, he'll let you know about it."
"When's the next session?"
"Two weeks from Saturday. But Alex..." Maya's expression grew serious. "This isn't just about playing airsoft anymore. Rodriguez teaches real tactics, real skills. Some of his students go on to military careers. You need to be sure this is what you want."
Alex thought about the rush he'd felt during his flanking maneuver, the satisfaction of outthinking opponents who'd underestimated him, the sense of belonging he'd found with this group of players who'd become more than just teammates.
"I'm sure," he said.
The rest of the day's games passed in a blur of adrenaline and improvement. Alex found himself taking more calculated risks, thinking several moves ahead, communicating better with his teammates. By the final game, even Pete was nodding approvingly at his tactical decisions.
As the sun began to set and players started packing up their gear, Alex realized something had shifted. The nervous excitement of being the new guy had been replaced by something steadier—confidence, maybe, or just the knowledge that he belonged here.
"Good day," Marcus said as they walked toward the parking area. "You're developing real tactical instincts. Keep this up, and you'll be ready for serious competition soon."
"Competition?"
"Regional tournaments, scenario games, maybe even national events if you stick with it long enough. There's a whole world of airsoft beyond pickup games."
Alex hefted his gear bag, feeling the weight of his rifle and equipment. A month ago, he'd been drifting through his new life in Millbrook, disconnected from everything that had once mattered to him. Now he had goals, friends, and something that felt like a future worth working toward.
"Hey Alex," Maya called as they reached the edge of the field. "You did good today. Really good. But don't let it go to your head—next week, everyone will be ready for your tricks."
"Then I'll have to come up with new ones," Alex replied.
Maya's smile was approving. "Now you're thinking like a real player."
As Alex walked home through the gathering dusk, his gear bag bouncing against his hip with each step, he found himself already planning improvements. Better camouflage, maybe. More magazines. Eventually, when he'd saved enough money, a scope for longer-range shots.
But first, he needed to prove himself worthy of Sergeant Rodriguez's training. The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating.
For the first time since the move to Millbrook, Alex Rivera felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.