The bleachers were packed—half in Beacon Hills red and black, half in Oakridge blue and gold.

The air smelled like grass, sweat, and the sharp bite of competition.

On the field, players clashed in a blur of sticks and helmets. Whistles pierced the noise every few seconds.

You adjusted your ponytail and felt the weight of someone's stare.

Not from the crowd.

From the field.