The late March air carried the promise of spring as Tristain jogged the final curve of North Bridgeton's track, sweat glistening on his forehead despite the cool morning. Six weeks of track training had transformed his conditioning in ways that even Coach Milton's brutal football regimen hadn't touched.
"Time!" Coach Torres called as Tristain crossed the finish line.
Tristain bent forward, hands on knees, breathing hard but recovering quickly. After checking his stopwatch, Torres gave a satisfied nod.
"22.3 seconds. Your 200 time keeps dropping. District qualifying standard is 22.5."
"Not bad for a football player," remarked Tyler Reed, the team's senior sprinter who had reluctantly surrendered his status as fastest man on campus. His tone carried competitive respect rather than resentment.
"Speaking of football players," Torres said, gesturing toward the bleachers where a man in a suit sat observing practice, clipboard in hand. "Looks like Milton's national championship announcement is already drawing attention."
North Bridgeton High School's football program had been mediocre at best for over a decade. With 3,800 students, they were neither small enough to dominate lower classifications nor good enough to compete consistently with the state's powerhouses. The Northern Indiana Conference was filled with similarly sized schools, creating competitive balance but also a reputation for being a step below elite high school football. North Bridgeton's last winning season had been four years ago, with a dismal 2-8 record last year and a rotating cast of quarterbacks due to injuries and inconsistent play.
Tristain straightened, eyeing the visitor while pretending not to. He tucked his hands into his track jacket pockets to hide the subtle blue glow pulsing beneath his skin.
College scout? This early? he thought, equal parts nervous and excited. Definitely not here for North Bridgeton's stellar football reputation.
The QB System pulsed in response to his elevated heart rate, both from exertion and anticipation.
[SLOT 1: JOHNNY MANZIEL - SCRAMBLING ABILITY - 49% ASSIMILATED]
The text flashed briefly across his vision. Track had accelerated the System's development dramatically. What had taken months to reach 40% had jumped nearly another 10% in just six weeks of sprints, hurdles, relay training, and now long jump practice.
"Alright, relay team!" Torres called. "4x100 handoff practice. Davis, Reed, Walker, Dyce—in that order!"
Tristain jogged over to join his teammates on the track. Marcus Walker had joined track shortly after him, claiming he needed the conditioning work but clearly motivated by the same college exposure opportunities. Davis Wilson had returned to shot put but also added the 4x100 relay to his repertoire, leveraging his surprising explosiveness despite his linebacker build.
As they took their positions, Tristain's phone buzzed in his track bag. Probably the group chat blowing up again. The guys had been relentless since Milton's national championship announcement, a constant stream of memes, trash talk, and increasingly ridiculous predictions.
"Focus, Dyce!" Torres called. "You're the anchor for a reason!"
Tristain settled into position, watching Reed burst from his blocks for the first leg. The handoff between Reed and Walker was smooth, a testament to countless practice repetitions. As Marcus rounded the curve toward him, Tristain began his acceleration, timing his stride to the approaching baton.
The exchange happened in a flash—Marcus's arm extending forward, Tristain's reaching back, the baton slapping into his palm. And then Tristain was flying, legs churning beneath him, arms pumping, the track disappearing under his strides.
In these moments, the QB System seemed to merge seamlessly with his natural abilities. The Manziel template's explosive mobility helped with sprint mechanics, but it was mostly coordinatio. As Tristain crossed the finish line, the System pulsed with unusual intensity.
[SLOT 1: JOHNNY MANZIEL - SCRAMBLING ABILITY - 50% ASSIMILATED] [SLOT 2: UNLOCKED - TEMPLATE SELECTION PENDING]
Tristain stumbled slightly, the unexpected notification momentarily disorienting him. Fifty percent. Holy shit. Halfway to complete integration, and now a second slot had opened. The implications raced through his mind as he jogged back to his teammates.
"You okay?" Marcus asked, noticing his momentary lapse.
"Yeah, just pushed a little hard on that one." Tristain
Marcus raised his eyebrow with a confused expression. "Something new?"
"Tell you later," Tristain muttered as Coach Torres approached.
"Good work today, gentlemen," Torres announced as practice concluded. "First meet next Tuesday against Westfield and Riverside. Dyce, I want you in the long jump pit for twenty minutes before you go. And Milton wants to see you in his office after that."
As the team dispersed toward the locker rooms, Coach Torres walked alongside Tristain toward the long jump pit. "Our visitor was impressed," he said quietly. "That was Coach Ellison from Purdue. Here specifically to see you after Milton sent him your track times."
Tristain's pulse quickened. Purdue—a legit Division I program. "For track or football?"
Torres laughed. "Both, I imagine. That's the beauty of being a dual-sport athlete." He studied Tristain for a moment, curiosity evident in his expression. "You know, I've been coaching track for fifteen years, and I've never seen someone with your particular background develop speed mechanics this quickly."
"What do you mean?" Tristain asked cautiously.
"Most converted football players have raw athleticism but struggle with sprint technique, for example your block starts are still horrendous. You were a pure pocket passer at Southfield, right? Not much scrambling or designed quarterback runs?"
Tristain nodded, wondering where this was going.' If only he knew how pure a pocket passer I was. I made statues look mobile.'
"That's what makes it interesting," Torres continued. "Your father was a sprinter though, wasn't he? Haitian national team if I remember what Milton mentioned."
"Junior national team," Tristain corrected, surprised by the coach's knowledge. His father had indeed run track in Haiti before emigrating to the United States, a detail Tristain didn't really mention. "Never qualified for the Olympics or anything."
"Still, genetics matter in sprinting. Fast-twitch muscle fibers tend to run in families." Torres gestured toward the track. "Combine that with the physical maturation you've clearly gone through in the past year, add proper technique training, and suddenly natural ability that was always there gets unlocked."
The coach wasn't wrong. Tristain had grown two inches and added nearly ten pounds of muscle since his junior year began. His father had always told him his speed would come later, a late-bloomer trait that ran in the family.
"Plus," Torres added with professional admiration, "your movement efficiency is pretty good—the way you distribute force through your stride, maintain forward lean, minimize lateral movement. That comes from somewhere beyond just raw athleticism. It's like your body instinctively understands optimal mechanics once you're shown the basics."
'The System maybe', Tristain thought but didn't say. The Manziel template wasn't just adding scrambling ability—it was fundamentally rewiring how his nervous system coordinated movement by discarding the bad and replacing with Manziels and keeping the good, creating efficiency that translated across different athletic movements.
"Now, about the long jump," Torres said, transitioning topics. "You've got a natural explosion off the board. Today I want to focus on your approach and takeoff angle..."
---
Ayana Sayana squinted through her camera viewfinder, adjusting the zoom to better capture the long jump practice. Photography had been her hobby since freshman year, though few people beyond the yearbook committee knew about it. Watching Tristain work with Coach Torres, she couldn't deny he made for compelling subject matter—the perfect confluence of athletic movement and afternoon light.
'For the school paper, she told herself firmly. Just documenting the new track team additions.'
But she knew that wasn't entirely true. There was something interesting about Tristain Dyce—something beyond his obvious athletic talents or the easy charm that had won over half the school in barely two months. It was the contradiction of him: the confident quarterback who sometimes looked lost in the hallways; the focused athlete who could weirdly quote Shakespeare with surprising insight; the popular transfer who spent Friday nights studying instead of partying.
Through her lens, she captured his approach to the long jump—twenty controlled strides, building speed, then an explosive launch that seemed to defy physics. She caught the moment of suspension, his body stretched horizontal against the blue sky, before landing with surprising grace in the sand pit.
'Its pissing me off how he still looks good even covered in sand' She thought to herself
Torres's whistle blew, followed by approving comments Ayana couldn't quite hear. Tristain nodded, brushing sand from his legs, and then glanced up—directly toward her position in the bleachers.
Ayana lowered her camera quickly, but not before their eyes met. Even across the distance, she felt the connection like a physical jolt.
'Great. Caught being a creeper.'
Her phone buzzed with a text. Scarlett.
Scarlett: Please tell me you're not still taking stalker pics of Track Star
Ayana: Yearbook assignment. And journalism project.
Scarlett: Right. For all those hard-hitting articles about sand in unfortunate places.
Ayana: Don't you have a debate to prepare for?
Scarlett: Actually yes and so do you btw!!! Where's your lab report for tomorrow?
Ayana: Nearly done. Want to compare at Westbridge after school?
Scarlett: Can't. Debate practice until 6. Tomorrow morning?
Ayana: Fine. Early.
Ayana slipped her phone back into her pocket, gathering her camera equipment. As she descended the bleachers, she saw Tristain heading toward the locker rooms. Part of her wanted to acknowledge what had just happened, to make some sarcastic comment to defuse the awkwardness. But another part—the part that kept her walls carefully constructed—made her turn in the opposite direction, pretending she hadn't seen him at all.
---
Coach Milton's office reflected the struggling program he was trying to rebuild—modest but aspirational. A few faded championship photos from the 1990s hung on the walls, alongside more recent team pictures that told a story of declining success. The whiteboard covered one entire wall, filled with formation diagrams, player notes, and a detailed spring practice schedule.
When Tristain entered, Milton was reviewing film on his laptop, game footage from one of North Bridgeton's conference rivals.
"Close the door, Dyce," Milton said without looking up. "Grab a Gatorade if you want one."
Tristain took a blue Gatorade from the mini-fridge, mentally calculating how much liquid he could drink without triggering another bathroom break during afternoon classes. High school problems.
"Have you seen this?" Milton asked, turning his laptop to show a news article: "HSFA Announces Inaugural National Championship Tournament—Top Teams From Five Regions to Compete for True National Title."
"Torres mentioned something about a championship announcement," Tristain said, scanning the article. "Is this new?"
"Brand new. The High School Football Association finally got the state athletic federations to agree on a post-season tournament. Sixteen teams total—the champions from each region's qualifying states competing in a bracket. Five regions: Northeast, Southeast, Midwest, Southwest, and West.Before the 16 team national playoffs. First ever true national champion crowned in December."
Milton leaned back in his chair, studying Tristain's reaction. "Most years, this wouldn't concern us. North Bridgeton hasn't had a winning record in four seasons, not even contended for state. But most years, we didn't have you."
The directness of the statement caught Tristain off guard. "Coach, we haven't even played a game yet. The season's still six months away."
"True. But I've been coaching long enough to recognize a chance and not let it slip by. The kind that changes trajectories." Milton closed his laptop. "That's why coaches like Ellison are already showing up. Word travels in football circles."
Tristain shifted uncomfortably. "I'm just trying to learn the system, get better each day."
"And that's why you'll succeed." Milton's voice softened slightly. "Look, I didn't call you in here to add pressure. Quite the opposite. I want you to understand the opportunity in front of not just you, but this program."
He stood, moving to the whiteboard where he'd drawn out North Bridgeton's hypothetical path: win the Northern Indiana Conference, then the state playoffs, then the Midwest Regional against other state champions, and finally the national semifinal and championship.
"A longshot? Absolutely. The kind of longshot that makes for legendary stories when it happens? That too." He paused. "And between you and me, you're the kind of talent that makes longshots possible."
Tristain absorbed this, the reality of Milton's ambitions becoming clear. This wasn't just about improving a mediocre program. This was about a legitimate championship dream.
'No pressure or anything,' Tristain thought sarcastically. 'Just turn a 2-7 team into national champions. Maybe after that I can solve world hunger.'
"Torres says my track times are improving," he said, deflecting from the weight of football expectations.
Milton smiled knowingly. "They are. I hope you realize why I sent you there now."
"The track team is definitely helping," Tristain acknowledged. "Different movement patterns, different muscle groups. It transfers back to football in unexpected ways."
"Exactly why I approved it. Torres tells me you're already hitting district qualifying times."
"Apparently so."
Milton nodded approvingly. "Good. Success breeds success. The more our athletes excel across sports, the stronger our overall program becomes." He checked his watch. "You should get to class. Just wanted you aware of the national championship picture. Something to work toward."
As Tristain turned to leave, Milton added: "By the way, we're holding receivers meetings all this week. I want you there—time to build real chemistry with your full arsenal."
"The whole receiver corps?"
"All of them. Marcus is your clear number one, but championships aren't won with one weapon." Milton tossed him a roster sheet. "Get familiar with these names. They're your supporting cast."
Tristain scanned the list as he left the office:
Marcus Walker - Senior - X Receiver - 6'3" - 205 lbs - Team captain, big-bodied boundary receiver Deshawn Harris - Junior - Z Receiver - 5'11" - 170 lbs - Speed threat, developing route runner Jaylen Washington - Senior - Slot - 5'9" - 165 lbs - Quick, elusive, best hands on the team Elijah Foster - Sophomore - Y Receiver - 6'4" - 215 lbs - Raw talent, basketball player, huge upside Terrell Jenkins - Junior - Slot/RB - 5'10" - 180 lbs - Versatile athlete, special teams ace Carlos Rodriguez - Senior - X/Z Receiver - 6'0" - 175 lbs - Reliable possession receiver
Tight Ends: Jackson Moore - Senior - 6'5" - 235 lbs - Returning starter, good blocker, average hands Corey Phillips - Junior - 6'3" - 225 lbs - Former basketball player, athletic but raw Liam Watson - Sophomore - 6'4" - 230 lbs - retired Coach's son, high football IQ, developing physically
Nine targets in the passing game, plus the running backs. A true arsenal indeed, if he could develop chemistry with all of them. The national championship dream suddenly felt slightly less like fantasy.
As he headed to class, his phone exploded with notifications from the team group chat:
Deshawn: yo anybody see that scout at practice? 👀
Marcus: Purdue. Talking to Dyce after his track superstar moment
Davis: Already? Season's 6 months away lol
Jaylen: You see that natty championship thing coach posted?
Carlos: We ain't won conference in 4 years and y'all talking championships 😂
Marcus: New year, new QB, new attitude. Catch up or get left
Elijah: First we gotta survive spring ball. Milton's gonna kill us
Deshawn: @Tristain you alive bro? Coach kidnap you?
Tristain: Just got out. Meeting about receiver sessions this week
Marcus: 👑
Deshawn: Finally someone who wants to work 🙏🏽
Jaylen: Can we do after track? Some of us got two sports too
Tristain: Yeah we'll figure it out. I'll make a schedule
Carlos: Our QB makes schedules. We really are turning into a program 😭
Marcus: About damn time
Tristain smiled, pocketing his phone as he entered his history classroom. The team chemistry was building, even through something as simple as group texts. Maybe Milton's championship dreams weren't completely insane after all.
---
Scarlett Clarke was already at their usual library table when Tristain arrived for their weekly study session. What had started as a one-time Macbeth consultation had evolved into a regular academic partnership, with Scarlett helping Tristain navigate North Bridgeton's challenging curriculum while he helped her understand the social dynamics she typically ignored.
Today, her curly hair was pulled back in a messy bun, several pencils stuck through it in what appeared to be both a fashion statement and practical storage solution. She didn't look up as he approached, focused intensely on a stack of notecards.
"You look preoccupied," she observed without lifting her eyes from her work.
Tristain dropped his backpack on the floor. "How do you do that? You weren't even looking at me."
"I have a highly developed Tristain-radar," she replied proudly, finally meeting his gaze. A small smile played at the corner of her mouth, softening her usual intensity. "Also, you breathe weirdly loud when you're stressed."
"I do not!"
"Do too. Like Darth Vader deciding whether to destroy another planet." She demonstrated with an exaggerated heavy breath.
Tristain laughed despite himself. This was the Scarlett few people got to see—the one with the unexpected humor beneath the serious academic exterior. In the past weeks, he'd discovered she was a Marvel movie addict, could recite entire episodes of Brooklyn Nine-Nine from memory, and secretly enjoyed trashy reality TV and K-dramas while pretending to watch documentaries.
"Coach Milton just showed me the national championship announcement," he said, settling into the chair across from her.
"Ah, the football fantasy. My father mentioned it at breakfast." She rolled her eyes. "He thinks it's going to cause academic problems for schools that make deep runs. God forbid sports interfere with standardized test prep."
Dr. Clarke, as principal of North Bridgeton Elementary and member of the district school board, often took such practical positions on athletic initiatives. Tristain had met him several times now at track meets and community events, finding him intimidating but fair.
"Potential December games would run into finals week," Tristain acknowledged. "But it's a pretty distant concern for most schools."
"Including yours?" Scarlett asked, studying him with that perceptive gaze that always made Tristain feel she could see right through him. "Your coach seems to think differently, based on how he's strutting around campus."
"Milton thinks we have a shot."
"Because of you." she replied
It wasn't a question, but Tristain nodded anyway. "He's putting a lot of faith in what he's seen in practice."
"Well, your track performance suggests it's not misplaced." Scarlett tapped her pencil against her notebook. "Your 200-meter time dropped almost a full second in six weeks. And now suddenly you're a long jumper too? You're a monster at this point."
The observation hit close to the System's influence. "I've got some genetic advantages. My dad ran track in Haiti."
"OF course the monster was birthed from a bigger monster," Scarlett acknowledged like it made perfect sense, "but not the acceleration curve. Torres says you're picking up technical aspects that usually take years to master."
Tristain shrugged. "Late bloomer physically. Plus, being a quarterback helps with certain movement patterns—quick reaction time, good weight transfer, body control and plus my block starts still suck." he said as a depressive aura surrounded him
"Hmm." Scarlett studied him for a moment longer, then abruptly changed topics. "Where's Ayana today? I thought we were reviewing for the AP Physics midterm."
"Debate team emergency. Regional competition preparation." Scarlett slid a textbook across the table. "Just us today."
Tristain ignored the slight disappointment he felt. His relationship with Ayana had warmed considerably since Emma's birthday in February, when he'd video-called his sister from the Sayanas' house and they'd all sung to her. After that night, they'd evolved into something not quite friendship but definitely not the cold distance of their first weeks. They still circled each other cautiously, each seemingly aware of an undercurrent neither was ready to acknowledge.
With Scarlett, things were different—more direct, more clearly defined. She had no patience for social niceties, preferring straightforward communication regardless of potential awkwardness. It was refreshing, if occasionally jarring.
"Torres says you're running the last heat in the 200 next week," she said as they settled into studying. "Next to Tyler Reed."
"He's still probably faster than me," Tristain replied.
"For now." Scarlett's confidence in his abilities was unflinching. "Your mechanics improved because you finally learned proper form. Most people spend years developing muscle memory you picked up in weeks."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "It's weird, actually."
"What?"
"Nothing." She flipped open her textbook. "Just observing patterns. It's what I do."
She sees too much, Tristain thought. Gotta be more careful around her.
"Ayana thinks you'll qualify for regionals in your first meet," Scarlett added casually.
"She said that?" His interest spiked embarrassingly quickly.
"Not to you, obviously." A sly smile spread across Scarlett's face. "You two are ridiculous, you know that? Like two middle schoolers with a crush, except instead of passing notes, you actively avoid eye contact while secretly taking photos of each other."
"She takes photos of me?" The words tumbled out before he could stop them.
Scarlett's smile widened. "I didn't say that."
"But you implied—"
"Focus, Big idiot." She tapped the textbook. "AP Physics waits for no one, not even track stars with girl problems."
"I don't have girl problems," Tristain protested weakly.
"Uh-huh." Scarlett raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Page 237. Start with the practive problems. And stop blushing—it clashes with your track uniform."
---
That night, Tristain dreamed.
He stood on a football field shrouded in mist, the familiar hash marks stretching into infinite distance. The stands were empty, the scoreboard dark. He wore no uniform, no pads, just athletic shorts and a t-shirt.
"Impressive progress." The voice came from behind him, measured and thoughtful.
Tristain turned to find Andrew Luck standing at the forty-yard line, bearded and relaxed in Stanford cardinal gear. Not the NFL version that had retired early, but the collegiate Luck at the height of his powers—the prototypical quarterback combining intelligence, athleticism, and leadership.
"You're my second slot," Tristain said, understanding immediately.
Luck nodded. "Maybe. The System responds to need and opportunity. Manziel's template serves your mobility and improvisation development. I represent a different dimension."
He approached, studying Tristain with analytical eyes. "Football IQ. Pre-snap recognition. Pocket manipulation. The less popular aspects that elevate good quarterbacks to greatness."
"Why you?" Tristain asked. "Why now?"
"You reached 50% integration with the first template. The System evolves as you evolve." Luck smiled, the expression warming his intense features. "As for why me specifically—you tell me. The System draws from your consciousness, your understanding of the game, your aspirations. What does Andrew Luck represent to you?"
Tristain pondered for a moment before replying. "The complete quarterback prototype. Physical tools plus complete mental mastery. Someone who could beat you with either."
"A balance," Luck nodded. "Johnny creates magic when plays break down. I prevent plays from breaking down in the first place."
He picked up a football that had materialized at his feet, spinning it in his hands with familiar ease. "The first template teaches reaction. Mine teaches anticipation." He tossed the ball to Tristain. "Both are necessary for what's coming."
"The national championship tournament," Tristain said, catching the ball smoothly.
Luck's expression turned serious. "That's the external goal, yes. But the System serves a deeper purpose. Integration isn't just about absorbing athletic abilities. It's about becoming something more complete than either the templates or your original self alone."
The mist swirled around them as Luck approached, placing a hand on Tristain's shoulder. "You'll continue developing the Manziel template. Nothing changes there. But now you have a choice to make."
"What choice?"
"Whether to activate the second slot. The System can support two active templates for now, until you reach full integration with both. If you choose mine, the process begins. If you wait, perhaps another option will present itself later, I mean the others would be pretty excited to get picked."
The implication was clear: commit to Luck's template now, or leave the second slot open for a potential alternative. A significant decision with unknown consequences.
"What would you do?" Tristain asked after thinking to himself for a while.
Luck smiled. "I'd approach it like any pre-snap read—gather information, identify the defense, make the best decision based on available data. But ultimately, trust your instincts." He stepped back into the mist. "You've chosen a path that few would understand, let alone attempt. That says something about who you are."
As the dream began to fade, Luck's voice remained clear: "Slot 2 is active but dormant. When you decide, the integration will begin."
Tristain woke with a start, the dream still vivid in his mind. Outside his window, dawn was breaking over North Bridgeton, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. He reached for the journal Ayana had given him, recording every detail of the dream while it remained fresh.
At the bottom of the page, he wrote a single question:
'Manziel for creativity, Luck for control. Couldn't I ask for more?'
The QB System pulsed once, displaying the updated status:
[SLOT 1: JOHNNY MANZIEL - SCRAMBLING ABILITY - 50% ASSIMILATED] [SLOT 2: ANDREW LUCK - IQ and PROCESSING ABILITY - 0% ASSIMILATED (DORMANT)]
Tristain stared at the notification, understanding the significance of the choice before him. The national championship tournament provided a concrete goal, a clear path forward. But as Luck had said, the System served a deeper purpose—one Tristain was only beginning to comprehend.
He closed the journal, mind made up. First track meet Tuesday, spring football starting the following week, wide receiver chemistry sessions to develop, academics to maintain, relationships to navigate.
His phone buzzed with a new group text:
Deshawn: Morning practice CANCELLED ☔️ Torres says track flooded
Jaylen: YESSSSSS extra sleep
Marcus: @Tristain receiver session instead? Fieldhouse should be empty
Carlos: I'm in
Elijah: Me too
Tristain: 8:30 work for everyone?
Deshawn: Our QB never rests smh
Marcus: Winners work when losers sleep 💯
Deshawn: Fine I'll bring donuts
Jaylen: NOW we're talking
Tristain smiled, setting his phone aside. For now, North Bridgeton High School—a struggling program with dreams bigger than its recent results—was his focus. A school that had posted a 2-8 record last year, yet somehow now harbored championship aspirations. A school whose fortunes were changing because of his presence, a responsibility both exhilarating and terrifying.
And beneath it all, the QB System continued its quiet transformation, preparing him for challenges he could only begin to imagine.