You're tucked into the corner of the metal bench, your over-ear headphones snug against your skull. The world is muffled—distant cheers, the referee's whistle, the thud of bodies colliding on the field. Through the padding, you can feel the bass of the announcer's voice but not the words.

To your left, three players sit in a loose cluster, their helmets off, sweat matting their hair. One of them—a tall guy with a buzzcut—glances over, then pointedly shifts half a foot further away. Not hostile. Just... careful. The space between you and them is a silent agreement.

Number twelve—Ethan—pulls his helmet off after the play ends, scanning the sideline. His eyes find you. He raises his chin once. A check-in. Then he turns back to the huddle.