The alarm clock's red digits glowed 4:47 AM when Alex finally gave up on sleep. His mind was racing through wind calculations, breathing techniques, and the increasingly complex choreography of precision shooting that Rodriguez had been drilling into him during their private sessions. In three days, Bravo Company would leave for the Eastern Regional Championship, and Alex still felt like he was drowning in the deep end of competitive airsoft.
He padded downstairs quietly, not wanting to wake his mom before her early shift at the hospital. The kitchen was dark except for the microwave's clock, and Alex moved by muscle memory to start the coffee maker—a ritual that had become essential during his intensive training schedule.
While the coffee brewed, Alex reviewed his shooting log from the previous day's practice session. Every shot recorded, every environmental condition noted, every mistake catalogued with the obsessive detail Rodriguez demanded from his serious students. The numbers told a story of gradual improvement, but Alex wasn't sure it was happening fast enough.
His phone buzzed with a text from Maya: *Team meeting at 0800. Final equipment check and strategy session. Bring everything.*
Alex sipped his coffee and stared out the kitchen window at the pre-dawn darkness. Somewhere out there, dozens of other teams were making their own final preparations, checking their own equipment, running through their own strategies. Teams with years of experience, professional-grade gear, and the kind of tactical cohesion that Bravo Company was still developing.
The thought should have been intimidating. Instead, Alex found himself looking forward to the challenge.
By 7:30, Alex was loading his gear into his mom's car—a process that had become significantly more complex since acquiring the VSR-10. The precision rifle required its own hard case, along with a separate bag for the scope, bipod, and specialized ammunition. His regular Combat Machine and associated gear filled another bag, and his newly organized load-bearing vest contained enough magazines, tools, and tactical accessories to outfit a small army.
"You sure you have enough stuff?" his mom asked, watching Alex arrange the equipment with Tetris-like precision in the car's trunk.
"Rodriguez says redundancy is survival," Alex replied, checking his mental inventory one more time. "Better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it."
"Sounds like something a Marine would say."
"Pretty much everything Rodriguez says sounds like something a Marine would say."
The team meeting was held in Marcus's garage, which had been transformed into a tactical planning center complete with maps, equipment lists, and a whiteboard covered in diagrams that looked like they belonged in a Pentagon briefing room. The core members of Bravo Company were already assembled when Alex arrived, their gear spread out for final inspection.
"Alright, people," Marcus began, his voice carrying the authority that had made him the team's natural leader. "This is it. Three days of competition against some of the best teams on the East Coast. Before we start talking strategy, let's make sure everyone's equipment is squared away."
What followed was the most thorough gear inspection Alex had ever experienced. Every rifle was chronographed for velocity compliance, every magazine was loaded and function-tested, every piece of tactical equipment was examined for potential failure points. Rodriguez had taught them that equipment failures during competition weren't just inconvenient—they were mission-killers that could eliminate an entire team from contention.
"Alex, let's see the precision setup," Marcus said when they reached Alex's station.
Alex unpacked the VSR-10 with the careful reverence the rifle deserved, assembling the scope and bipod with movements that had become automatic through repetition. The weapon drew appreciative murmurs from his teammates—even experienced players recognized quality equipment when they saw it.
"Jesus, Alex," Sarah said, shouldering the rifle to test its balance. "This thing is serious business. What's the effective range?"
"Rodriguez has me consistently hitting targets at 250 feet," Alex replied. "Theoretical maximum is probably closer to 300, but that's beyond my skill level."
"For now," Maya added with a grin. "Give it another few months of practice and you'll be threading needles at 400 feet."
Marcus studied the rifle through its scope, checking the clarity of the optics and the precision of the adjustments. "This changes our tactical options significantly," he said finally. "Having a genuine precision shooter opens up overwatch possibilities we couldn't consider before."
"Assuming I don't choke under pressure," Alex said.
"You won't," Marcus said with quiet confidence. "I've seen you shoot, Alex. When it matters, you deliver."
The strategy session that followed was unlike anything Alex had experienced in recreational play. Marcus had studied video footage of previous Regional competitions, analyzing successful teams' tactics and identifying patterns that Bravo Company could exploit. Maya had prepared detailed range cards for the competition venue, complete with wind patterns and environmental factors that could affect long-range shooting. Jake had researched the other competing teams, creating profiles of their likely strategies and equipment loadouts.
"We're going in as underdogs," Marcus explained, pointing to a tournament bracket displayed on his laptop. "Most of these teams have been competing at this level for years. They have experience, resources, and reputations we can't match."
"So what's our advantage?" David asked.
"Unpredictability," Maya said. "They'll expect us to play conservatively, try to minimize mistakes and hope for the best. Instead, we're going to be aggressive, take calculated risks, and force them to react to our tempo."
Marcus nodded. "Plus, we have something most of these teams don't—genuine tactical diversity. Alex's precision shooting, Maya's leadership experience, Jake's technical expertise, Sarah's assault capabilities. We're not just eight players with rifles; we're a balanced unit with complementary skills."
Alex felt a flutter of pride mixed with anxiety. Being identified as the team's precision shooter was an honor, but it also meant that his performance could make or break their chances in certain scenarios.
"What if I miss?" he asked. "What if the pressure gets to me and I can't deliver when the team needs me to?"
The garage fell quiet. It was the question everyone had been thinking but nobody had wanted to voice.
"Then you miss," Rodriguez said from the doorway, where he'd been listening unobserved. "And then you take the next shot, and the one after that, until you hit what you're aiming at."
The former Marine entered the garage with the purposeful stride that commanded immediate attention. Alex hadn't expected to see Rodriguez at the team meeting, but his presence somehow made everything feel more official, more serious.
"Pressure is a choice," Rodriguez continued, addressing Alex directly. "You can let it paralyze you, or you can use it as fuel. The rifle doesn't know it's a competition. The target doesn't care about the stakes. The only thing that changes is what's happening in your head."
"Easy to say," Alex replied. "Harder to do when everyone's counting on you."
"True. But that's why we train under pressure, why we practice until perfect shots become automatic. When the moment comes, you won't have time to think—you'll just react based on your training."
Rodriguez moved to Alex's rifle, examining the setup with professional interest. "This is quality equipment, properly configured. Your fundamentals are solid, your practice routine is disciplined. The only variable left is confidence."
"I'm working on it."
"No, you're overthinking it. Confidence isn't something you work on—it's something you earn through preparation. And Alex, you've put in the work. Trust that."
The meeting continued with detailed discussions of communication protocols, contingency plans, and the logistics of traveling to the competition venue. But Alex found his attention drifting to Rodriguez's words about confidence and preparation. Had he really done enough? Was three months of intensive training sufficient to compete at this level?
"Alex," Maya said, pulling him aside as the meeting broke up. "You're spiraling again. I can see it in your face."
"I just keep thinking about all the ways I could let the team down."
"Stop. Right now, stop thinking about failure and start visualizing success. See yourself making the shots that matter, contributing to wins, helping the team succeed. Mental preparation is just as important as physical training."
That afternoon, Alex drove to his favorite practice spot—a secluded section of state forest where he'd set up targets at various ranges and could shoot without interruption. The familiar routine of unpacking equipment, setting up firing positions, and running through his pre-shot checklist was soothing after the morning's intensity.
His first string of fire was perfect—five shots grouped within a circle the size of a quarter at 200 feet. His second string was nearly as good. By the fourth string, Alex was shooting with the kind of unconscious competence that Rodriguez had been trying to instill in him.
This was what confidence felt like, he realized. Not the absence of doubt, but the knowledge that his preparation was sufficient to handle whatever challenges arose.
His phone rang as he was packing up his equipment. His mom's name appeared on the screen.
"Hey, Mom. What's up?"
"I just got some news," Maria said, her voice carrying an excitement Alex hadn't heard in months. "The hospital offered me the head nurse position. It's official—I start Monday."
Alex felt a surge of pride and happiness that momentarily pushed aside all thoughts of competition anxiety. "Mom, that's incredible! Congratulations!"
"Thank you, mijo. It means more responsibility, longer hours sometimes, but also significantly better pay. We're going to be okay, Alex. Really okay."
The implications hit Alex immediately. Financial security, his mom's professional recognition, the validation of all the hard work she'd put in since the divorce. It was the kind of good news their family had been needing for months.
"I'm so proud of you," Alex said. "You deserve this."
"We both do. And Alex, I want you to know—watching you pursue your passion, seeing how dedicated you've become, it's inspired me to push harder for my own goals. We make a good team, you and I."
As Alex drove home through Millbrook's familiar streets, he felt a sense of completion that had nothing to do with airsoft or competition. His mom was succeeding, he was pursuing something meaningful, and their small family was finding its footing in their new life.
The Regional Championship was still three days away, with all its challenges and uncertainties. But for the first time since receiving the invitation, Alex felt ready for whatever came next.
He had the skills, the equipment, and the support system. Most importantly, he had the confidence that came from knowing he'd prepared as thoroughly as possible.
Whatever happened at Regional, Alex Rivera would be ready.