Visions, Hallucinations, or… Reality?
Cohen
Gracie: Go get ’em, big brother. I’m watching you on TV.
Me: Hey G. You good?
Gracie: Stop worrying about me. Love you!
The new kits hang in a row like soldiers: red jerseys with white stripes, white shorts, numbers bold on the back.
Mine, is there—the number nine.
Derek “The Wall” Haskins is sitting on the bench, fingers laced, head bowed.
When he finally lifts his gaze, you just know he’s ready to run through fire.
Turbo, on the other hand, can’t keep still.
He’s pacing, throwing punches in the air, shaking his head like he’s about to walk onstage at a concert.
“Guys, we’re crushing them today!” he yells.
“Westbridge doesn’t know what’s coming!”
“You don’t know what’s coming,” Doc mutters as he tapes Blaze’s ankles.
Blaze chews his gum calmly, like he’s made an unholy deal with someone who now owes him a favor.
Saint is quiet. He’s sketching something on the tactics pad like he’s solving a physics problem.
Laughter cuts the tension.
I tighten my laces, pull up my white socks, adjust my shin guards.
Rituals. Always the same. Always in the same order.
My brain finally falls into place.
The coach enters and the room snaps to attention.
Julian Heart is a controlled storm—steady stride, clear eyes, a voice that slices the air.
“Alright, listen up,” he says.
The noise dies instantly.
“Westbridge is fast, aggressive, but sloppy. They’re confident—too confident. And what do we do with people who overestimate themselves?”
Turbo raises his hand. “We make them cry.”
“Correct. But without talking, Klein.”
Laughter ripples—light, freeing.
Heart continues, “I don’t want lone heroes. I want the team. Look at each other, feel each other, trust each other. The armband’s on Delgado today, but the responsibility is everyone’s. Clear?”
“Yes, coach!”
I exchange a look with Javier.
The armband shines on his arm, and for the first time since he got it, I don’t feel even a trace of bitterness.
Just pride.
It’s his time.
And I’m… I’m part of the game again.
Heart claps once. “Becker, lead the warm-up.”
I nod. “Yes, coach.”
I stand, slap hands with the guys.
“Let’s go, Lakewood!”
The locker room erupts—shouts, pounding fists, energy bouncing off the walls.
The hum of the crowd bleeds through from outside, steady and alive, like a heartbeat.
Saint steps beside me.
“Ready?”
“Always.”
“Lie.”
“Always,” I repeat, quieter.
We walk into the tunnel.
Neon lights flicker overhead.
The smell of wet grass mixes with hotdogs and fries drifting down from the stands.
The second I step out, the roar hits me in the bones.
Red and white flags everywhere.
A giant banner reading LAKEWOOD PRIDE sways across the stadium.
The whole place vibrates—a living wave.
I press a hand to my chest, right over the number nine.
It burns under my fingertips.
My place.
My field.
My breath.
First half.
The ball moves fast, sharp, alive.
Doc controls the center, Derek commands the defense like a drill sergeant.
Turbo streaks down the wing, Blaze cuts inside.
I look for spaces, anticipate, breathe.
The crowd is loud but muffled—inside my head it’s all rhythm and heartbeat.
My first shot comes at the fourth minute.
Short pass from Saint, chest stop, turn, shoot.
Just wide.
The roar still rises.
My instincts flicker awake.
My body remembers.
“Good idea, Becker!” Heart shouts from the sidelines.
I nod without looking over.
At the twelfth minute, Turbo sends in a perfect cross.
I jump, head it in—
Their keeper barely tips it onto the crossbar.
Post.
More shouts, more applause.
We’re close.
Westbridge pushes back—aggressive, borderline dirty.
A defender slams into me with high elbows.
Doc jogs over, touches my shoulder. “You good?”
I nod.
Time stretches and collapses at once.
Sweat burns my eyes, my pulse pounds in my ears.
About halfway through, after a rough tackle, something stops me cold.
A glimpse.
A movement in the stands, between the sea of red and white.
For a second I think I’m hallucinating.
A figure in the crowd, hair pulled back, red scarf over her shoulders.
A face I know too damn well.
Sloane.
I freeze.
Just for a second—
but enough to feel the field slip away from under my feet.
A chill bolts down my spine.
Did I imagine her?
“Becker!” Heart roars.
I snap back and sprint into the box.
Turbo sends the ball my way, but I’m late.
Their defense steals it.
I rake a hand through my hair.
Breathe.
Focus.
Saint shoots me a look. “You okay?”
I nod.
“You’re pale as a ghost.”
“Just remembering I can’t afford distractions.”
Too late.
I already am distracted.
Every time I run near the stands, I see her again—
Sloane sitting beside Katherine Heart, legs crossed, eyes glued to the field.
Lips pressed together.
Fingers gripping a hotdog.
A smile slips out of me.
Mistake.
A defender strips the ball off me and launches a counterattack.
Westbridge shoots, Derek deflects—
the ball grazes the post.
“Jesus, Becker!” Blaze yells as we drop back into position. “Who the hell are you thinking about?!”
“About how slow you are, maybe!” I yell back, but my voice is tighter than usual.
The halftime whistle blows.
Zero-zero.
I wipe my face with my jersey, inhale.
Then I look toward the stands again.
Sloane drops her gaze—
but I know she was staring.
And this time, it’s not a hallucination.