By Friday afternoon, Roosevelt High was louder than usual. Not because of exams, not because of parties—because of the game.
Roosevelt vs. Kingsdale.
Our biggest rivalry.
Every year it wasn't just a match; it was war.
The bleachers were packed, students waving banners and screaming themselves hoarse. Teachers pretended to supervise, but even they were caught in the fever of it all. The air reeked of sweat, popcorn, and tension.
But while the school roared, one person stood silent in the middle of the field. Derrick Kane.
He wasn't captain, but everyone knew he was the reason we had a shot. Derrick didn't just play football—he tore through it. He played like every kick was revenge, every goal was proof that he could outrun the demons clawing at his heels.
From my seat near the edge of the bleachers, I could feel it—the shift in the crowd whenever he touched the ball. Half-cheers, half-fear. Kingsdale's defenders circled him like sharks, waiting for a mistake.
And then it happened.
Second half. Score tied. Derrick got the ball at centerfield. He weaved past one defender—clean. Past another—smoother than water. But the third? That's where it turned ugly.
The Kingsdale captain, Tyler Briggs, slammed into him with a tackle that had nothing to do with football and everything to do with hate. Derrick hit the ground hard, the sound echoing across the stadium. Gasps. Shouts.
For a second, the world froze.
Then Derrick stood up. Slowly. Deliberately. His hoodie was gone, replaced with the school jersey, sweat sticking to his frame. His jaw clenched, fists tightening. And when he looked at Tyler, it wasn't the look of a player. It was the look of a fighter.
The referee blew the whistle, waving them apart, but the damage was done. The rivalry wasn't about teams anymore—it was about them.
Derrick didn't speak. He didn't need to. He just took the free kick, lined it up, and blasted the ball so hard it soared like a bullet, smashing into the back of the net. Goal.
The bleachers exploded. Roosevelt students screamed, stomped, chanted his name like he was both hero and villain.
But Derrick didn't celebrate. He just stared at Tyler, eyes burning with a darkness that said this was far from over.
And me? Watching from the sidelines, I realized something dangerous. This wasn't just high school rivalry. This was the spark of a fire that could burn through everything—and I was standing too close to the flames.
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