The morning light filtered through Tristain's bedroom curtains, casting long shadows across his floor. He'd barely slept. The weight of his decision had kept him tossing and turning all night, but as he watched the sunrise paint his ceiling gold, a strange calm settled over him. He'd made up his mind.
He reached for his phone on the nightstand and pulled up Coach Milton's number. His thumb hovered over the call button for a moment before he pressed it, his heart hammering in his chest.
"Tristain," Coach Milton answered on the third ring, his voice thick with sleep. "Early riser, I see."
"I'm in," Tristain said, the words tumbling out before he could second-guess himself. "I want to be a Royal."
There was a brief pause, then Milton chuckled. "Well, happy New Year to me. You've made the right choice, son. I'll email you all the paperwork today. How soon can you get here?"
Tristain swallowed hard. "I need to talk to my parents first. And my coach."
"Of course," Milton said. "Take care of what you need to. But don't drag your feet. Winter semester starts in two weeks, and I want you settled before then."
Two weeks. The timeline hit Tristain like a physical blow. In fourteen days, he'd be leaving behind everything he knew.
"I'll be ready," he said, surprised by the conviction in his voice.
After hanging up, Tristain sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the trophies lining his shelves—MVP awards from peewee football, MVP from junior varsity, the team photo from this year's championship. None of them felt like they truly belonged to him.
"This is it," he whispered to himself. "My shot."
"Indiana?" His mom's coffee mug froze halfway to her lips. "Tristain, honey, that's four states away."
His parents sat across from him at the breakfast table, their expressions a mix of confusion and concern. His dad's newspaper lay forgotten beside his plate of untouched eggs.
"I know it's far," Tristain said, "but this is the opportunity I've been waiting for. Coach Milton is guaranteeing me the starting position."
"And you trust this man?" his father asked, his brow furrowed. "Some coach who approached you after a game?"
Tristain slid his phone across the table, showing them the email Milton had sent that morning. It detailed the school's program, the scholarship covering his tuition, and the arrangement for housing with a host family close to campus.
"I've done some research on the school too," Tristain added. "They've been struggling for years, but they've got decent facilities and a solid academic program."
His mother scrolled through the email, her lips pressed into a thin line. "What about your friends? What about Alex?"
"Alex supports me," Tristain said quietly. "He was the first person I told."
His father sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair. "Son, I understand wanting your shot. God knows you've earned it. But this is a big decision. Moving across the country in the middle of your junior year..."
"I've been sitting on the bench for two years, Dad," Tristain cut in, emotion creeping into his voice. "Two years watching Jason get all the glory. I'm never going to start here. Not with Coach Peterson's favoritism."
His parents exchanged a look he couldn't quite read.
"We'll need to speak with this Coach Milton ourselves," his mother finally said. "And visit the school. I'm not sending my son to live with strangers without checking everything out first."
Relief washed over Tristain. It wasn't a yes, but it wasn't a no either.
"That's fair," he nodded. "Coach Milton said he'd arrange everything if we're interested."
His father reached across the table and squeezed his shoulder. "We're proud of you for chasing your dreams, Tristain. We just want to make sure you're chasing them safely."
The athletic department hallway felt longer than usual as Tristain made his way to Coach Peterson's office. He'd rehearsed this conversation a dozen times in his head, but his palms still sweated as he knocked on the frosted glass door.
"Come in," Coach Peterson called out.
Tristain stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Coach Peterson sat behind his desk, game tape playing on his computer screen. He looked up, seeming surprised to see Tristain.
"Dyce. What can I do for you?"
Tristain took a deep breath. "I wanted to talk to you about something important, Coach."
Peterson paused the video and leaned back in his chair, gesturing to the seat across from him. "Have a seat."
Tristain sat down, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. "I've been offered a starting quarterback position at another school. In Indiana. And I've decided to take it."
Coach Peterson's expression didn't change, but his eyes narrowed slightly. "Indiana? That's quite a move. What school?"
"The Royals," Tristain replied. "Their coach approached me after the championship game."
"Brad Milton," Peterson said, nodding slowly. "I've heard of him. Decent coach, struggling program." He studied Tristain for a moment. "And you're certain about this?"
Tristain nodded. "I need this chance, Coach. I've worked too hard to spend another year on the bench."
Peterson sighed, removing his reading glasses and setting them on the desk. "I understand your frustration, Tristain. But there are no guarantees in football. Or in life. Jason earned his spot—"
"Jason's dad is the biggest booster the school has," Tristain interrupted, the words sharper than he intended. "We both know that's why he starts."
Coach Peterson's face hardened. "That's out of line, Dyce. Jason Reynolds is a talented quarterback who's led this team to a state championship. Your attitude is exactly why you're not starting."
The words stung, but Tristain held his ground. "My decision is made, Coach. I just wanted to tell you in person. I respect what you've done for this program."
Peterson was quiet for a long moment, then nodded. "I appreciate that. And I respect your decision to pursue what you think is best for your future." He stood up and extended his hand. "I hope it works out for you, Tristain. I really do."
Tristain shook his hand, surprised by the coach's sincerity. "Thank you, sir."
As he turned to leave, Peterson called after him. "And Tristain? Don't burn bridges on your way out. You never know when you might need to cross them again."
---
The next two weeks passed in a whirlwind of paperwork, packing, and goodbyes. Tristain's parents had flown out to Indiana for a weekend to meet Coach Milton and the host family—the Sayanas, whose son had graduated from the school the previous year and played on the football team.
"They seem like good people," his mother had said upon returning. "And the school has a strong academic program. If this is what you really want..."
Now, surrounded by boxes in his half-empty bedroom, it was all becoming real. Alex sat cross-legged on the floor, helping Tristain sort through the last of his belongings.
"So," Alex said, tossing a football from hand to hand, "How does it feel to be leaving tomorrow?"
Tristain zipped up his duffel bag and sat down beside his friend. "Honestly? Terrifying. But also... right, you know?"
Alex nodded. "You were never meant to be a benchwarmer, man. The Royals won't know what hit them."
"I hope so," Tristain said, doubt creeping into his voice for the first time. "What if I'm not as good as Milton thinks I am?"
"Then you'll work until you are," Alex said simply. "That's what you've always done."
A knock on the doorframe interrupted them. Tristain looked up to see his sister, Emma, leaning against the door.
"Mom says dinner's ready," she said, her eyes red-rimmed. At fourteen, Emma had taken the news of his transfer harder than anyone.
"We'll be right there," Tristain replied.
Emma lingered for a moment. "I still think this is stupid. Moving to Indiana for football? What about us? What about your life here?"
Tristain stood and crossed the room, pulling his sister into a hug. "This isn't goodbye forever, Em. You can come visit during spring break. And I'll be back for summer."
"It won't be the same," she mumbled against his shoulder.
"No," he agreed. "It'll be better. Because when I come back, I'll be the quarterback I always knew I could be."
Emma pulled away, wiping her eyes. "You'd better call me. Every week."
"Twice a week," he promised.
As Emma headed downstairs, Alex clapped a hand on Tristain's shoulder. "She'll be okay. They all will. And so will you."
Tristain looked around his room one last time—at the walls he'd soon be leaving, at the life he was walking away from. Fear and excitement battled in his chest, but underneath it all was a steady certainty.
This was his path. His chance to rewrite his story.
"Come on," he said to Alex, his voice steady. "Let's go eat. Tomorrow's a big day."
The administrative office of Southfield High was quiet as Mrs. Patel, the registrar, prepared Tristain's transfer paperwork.
"Now, I've sent your transcripts electronically to North Bridgeton High already," she explained, sliding forms across her desk for Tristain's mother to sign. "But you'll need to take these hard copies with you as well. Your immunization records, academic history, and athletic eligibility forms."
Tristain's mother signed where indicated, her pen scratching in the quiet room. "Will there be any issues with his credits transferring?"
Mrs. Patel shook her head. "Indiana and our state have similar requirements. He's actually ahead in some subjects. The main adjustment will be their semester system—they're already three weeks into their winter term."
"Coach Milton said the teachers are prepared to help me catch up," Tristain offered.
"That's good," Mrs. Patel smiled. "Because I'd hate to see all your hard work here go to waste. You're a bright student, Tristain."
She handed him a manila envelope containing his records. "This is everything you'll need. Your official withdrawal is processed as of today."
The finality of those words hit Tristain like a physical weight. He was no longer a student at Southfield High.
"Thank you for everything, Mrs. Patel," he said, taking the envelope.
As they left the office, they passed the trophy case in the main hallway. The state championship trophy gleamed under the fluorescent lights, with a team photo beside it. Jason Reynolds stood front and center, holding the trophy aloft, his million-dollar smile capturing the moment Tristain had only watched from the sidelines.
His mother followed his gaze. "You'll have your moment," she said softly. "I believe that."
Tristain nodded, turning away from the case. "Let's go home. We've got an early flight tomorrow."
That night, after a tearful family dinner and final check of his luggage, Tristain lay in bed staring at his ceiling. His phone buzzed with messages from friends wishing him well, but one text from Alex stood out:
"Remember why you're doing this. Not just to prove everyone wrong, but to prove yourself right. You've got this, quarterback. Make us proud."
Tristain smiled in the darkness. Tomorrow,
he would board a plane to Indianapolis. Coach Milton would pick him up at the airport and drive him to North Bridgeton, to his new home with the Sayana, to his new team, his new life.
It was terrifying. It was exhilarating.
It was his chance to finally step out of the shadows and into the spotlight.
"Quarterback," he whispered to himself, testing how the word felt when it was truly his. "Starting quarterback."
For the first time in years, it didn't sound impossible.