Julian didn't even wait for the whistle to settle.
He strode straight toward Dante Cruz.
"So?" His voice was low, sharp, meant only for the boy in red and black.
Dante's smirk faltered. His teeth clenched tight enough that Julian heard the grind.
His hands twitched like he wanted to swing. For the first time, Julian saw it—rage cracking through the mask.
And maybe it was a slip. Maybe Julian shouldn't have said anything. But after everything, after Cael's blood, after Leo's red, after the war East Valley had dragged them into—he couldn't hold it in.
He turned his back on Dante and walked away. A deliberate dismissal. The kind of insult no words could match.
...
Kickoff restarted.
The clock read 80 minutes.
Ten against eleven. East Valley still pressed with fire in their eyes, chasing hope that didn't exist.
They threw bodies forward, clattered into tackles, fouled at every chance.
But Lincoln didn't bend.
