CHAPTER 84: CHAPTER 84: THE FURNACE OF WINTER

Monday.

Winter break was over, and with it came the start of another school term—more importantly, the beginning of the high school football season in full.

Julian walked out of class, his bag slung over his shoulder, when Leo intercepted him with his usual grin.

"Hey, dude. How was your break?" Leo asked, easygoing as always.

Julian thought of New York—the glittering party, the weight of the Ashfords, Adrian, the quest now etched into his soul. His lips curved into something dry.

"Same old shit, maybe."

Leo laughed, clapping his shoulder. "Figures."

As they moved together toward the field, the rest of the crew fell in: Riku sharp-eyed as ever, Cael bouncing with restless energy, and even Noah, quiet but steady, his presence grounding them. The group swapped quick stories—Christmas, New Year’s, the little nothings that filled the two-week void.

Their voices overlapped in a warm mess of inside jokes and playful insults.

The sound of lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, and students calling across the halls filled the background—but for the Lincoln core, everything narrowed to one destination. The field. The start of their real season.

By the time they reached the locker room, Cael was already racing ahead.

"Let’s goooo!" he shouted, bursting through the door like it was kickoff already.

Inside, he inhaled deeply, chest puffed out. "The smell of our youth."

Pakk!

A smack landed on the back of his head.

"Ouch!" Cael winced, rubbing the spot.

"Please don’t sound like an old man," Riku muttered, hand still raised.

"Yes, sir, Riku." Cael gave a mock salute, making the others snicker.

Soon, the whole team had gathered, filling the space with chatter, footsteps, and the rustle of gear.

The locker room’s air was thick with the mix of detergent, sweat, and the faint bite of winter carried in from outside

The metallic tang of lockers mixed with the rubbery sting of cleats on tile.

Laughter came in bursts, quick and raw, but beneath it lay nerves—the kind only the first day of season training could bring..

Julian opened his locker. For the first time in weeks, his uniform stared back at him.

He reached in, pulling it free. The fabric was rough in his hands, familiar. He pressed it close, inhaling deeply, almost like it was a lost part of himself.

"You gone crazy or something?" Riku raised an eyebrow at him.

"No," Julian answered simply, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Just missed it."

Riku studied him for a second, then nodded once. No teasing, no mocking—just quiet understanding.

Because deep down, they all knew: football wasn’t equal for everyone. Some saw it as sport. Some saw it as escape. For Julian—it was lifeblood. His battlefield. His oat

After the last locker door slammed shut, Leo rose to his feet. Instantly, the chatter dimmed, all eyes drawn toward him. Their captain.

"Our first half of the season—" Leo’s voice carried steady and proud, "—was one of the best in Lincoln history. Two weeks off, and we’re still making noise in the media. Some call us a fluke. Others say we’re just lucky. A one-time hit."

His gaze swept the room, locking onto Julian, then Cael, Noah, Riku, and the rest. His voice hardened.

"But we know the truth. We know how hard we’ve trained. We know what we’re fighting for. And we’re not stopping here."

He raised his fist high. "This season—we aim for champions!"

A roar erupted, raw and reckless.

"YEAHHHHH!"

Fists slammed lockers. Cleats stomped against tile. The fire spread like contagion, every chest swelling, every throat straining.

For a heartbeat, they weren’t high schoolers anymore—they were warriors, already charging toward war.

The fire spread from one player to the next, a chain reaction. Hearts hammering, voices cracked, the air itself trembling.

Leo slammed the locker room door open. A blast of cold January air poured in, biting skin, fogging breath.

But none of them cared—their blood ran hotter than ever. One by one, they filed out, boots thudding against the ground like war drums.

...

Julian stepped into the chill, eyes narrowing toward the field.

Out there, Coach Owens already waited, arms crossed. Beside him stood Laura, clipboard in hand, her calm presence a perfect foil to his storm.

"Nice. You made it on time," Coach Owens barked. His grin was anything but kind. "One more minute, and I’d have you running till you puked."

Groans rippled through the squad.

Julian almost smirked. The demon’s back. After Crenshaw, after Brighton, the holiday hadn’t dulled him. If anything, it sharpened him.

"This is our first day back after two weeks," Owens said, rolling his neck with a crack. "So today, no ball. Just body. We’ll see who’s been lazy. Who’s been soft. And who’s ready for war."

The whistle dangled between his lips. His eyes gleamed like a predator spotting prey.

"As athletes, your season doesn’t wait for you. Your body—your engine—must be ready every single day. If not?" He let the silence hang like a blade. Then, sharp and merciless—

"Then you’re done."

Prrriiiitttt!

The whistle cut the air.

"Move! Run until I tell you to stop!"

Lincoln bolted forward as one. Breath steaming, boots pounding, lungs already burning.

Julian surged with them, every stride devouring the cold ground. The world shrank to rhythm—inhale, exhale, push harder, don’t break.

They would die today.

Maybe.

But more likely—

They’d be reforged.

Julian’s lungs burned.

Huff—huff—huff.

Each breath came heavier than the last, steam spilling from his mouth like smoke from a furnace.

The session was merciless. Run two laps, then hit the ground for burpees. Again. Again. Again. Owens had laid it out with no sympathy.

"If you can’t take it," the coach had growled, "then collapse. But if you collapse before you’ve given every ounce, then don’t you dare call yourself mine."

The first four laps, no one broke. Bodies surged together, boots pounding, sweat dripping. The rhythm of war.

But by lap ten, the cracks showed. Ricky folded first, hitting the ground with a gasp. Caleb followed soon after, then Zion, faces pale, legs trembling. One by one, the weaker links fell.

By lap fourteen, Tariq stumbled. Felix collapsed next, rolling onto his back, chest heaving like a drowning man.

The survivors pushed on. By lap twenty, only Lincoln’s core remained—Julian, Leo, Riku, Noah, and Cael.

But Cael’s face had already gone purple, his lungs wheezing, his body trembling like an overstrained engine. He clenched his fists, teeth bared, refusing to bow out.

"Don’t you dare quit on me, Cael!" Leo roared, but even he knew.

Two laps later, Cael crashed to the ground, choking out a laugh even as he lay flat.

The circle grew smaller.

Lap twenty-three—

Leo, their captain, chest heaving, legs wobbling, staggered, then dropped to his knees.

Lap twenty-five—

Riku, Lincoln’s wall, his body a fortress of muscle, finally gave in, collapsing with a grunt.

Only three left.

Julian.

Noah.

And the fire still burning in their veins.

Lap twenty-six.

Lap twenty-seven.

Lap twenty-eight.

They ran shoulder-to-shoulder, eyes sharp, steps steady, refusing to surrender.

By lap twenty-nine, Noah’s breathing had gone ragged, but he still stayed with Julian, matching stride for stride.

Julian shot him a glance—saw the resolve carved into Noah’s jaw, the stubbornness in every trembling muscle.

In that moment, Julian respected him more than words could show. A comrade. A brother in arms.

Lap thirty. Noah stumbled, legs buckling. He crashed down, face first into the turf.

Only one remained.

Julian.

He ran. And ran. And ran.

Each stride thundered through his body. Each inhale scorched his lungs. His vision blurred, his chest ached, his calves screamed.

Lap thirty-three—

Julian finally staggered, body giving out.

He hit the ground, arms spread, drenched in sweat. His entire body shook with exhaustion.

But even collapsed, his heart still raged.

I won’t stop. I can’t stop. Not now. Not ever.