The field is already alive by the time I jog out, cleats crunching on damp grass. Coach is shouting about hustle like it’s a sermon and the rest of the guys are goofing off during stretches.

“Yo, Logan,” Marcus calls out. “You finally pass English or are you still doomed?”

“Creative writing,” I say, dropping my bag by the benches. “They’re making me write my feelings.”

That gets a laugh. Jacob fake gasps and clutches his chest. “You? Write? What’s next—journaling during halftime?”

“I’m just there to pass,” I say, grabbing a ball and starting a few toe taps. “Boost the GPA, stay eligible. That’s the plan.”

“Who’s your partner?” Marcus asks, jogging up beside me. “Please say it’s that weird senior chick who talks to herself.”

I shake my head. “It’s Eli.”

“Eli who?”

“You know. Hoodie. Sketches a lot. Kinda ghost-like.”

Marcus’s brow furrows, then he snorts. “Oh, that kid. You sure he’s not mute?”

I shrug. “He talks. Just not a lot.”

They keep laugh and joke, and I let it wash over me because that’s what we do. Banter, chirps, no feelings. Just the game.

Still, while we run drills and Coach barks orders, my brain drifts. Not to plays or plays I should’ve made—but to that damn sketch. The trees. The way Eli didn’t even look up when I sat down. The way he looked through me when he finally did.

I don’t know what his deal is.

I just know I’ve never met anyone who could say so much without opening their mouth.