House of El: Reforged

Kent Farm – 6:37 PM

The Living Room – Where World-Changing Conversations Happen Over Casserole and Sweet Tea

The sun bled gold through the farmhouse windows, casting the room in that cinematic, heartland glow only Kansas seemed capable of. Outside, the wheat swayed like it was holding its breath. Inside? The tension could've snapped a pitchfork in half.

Lilly Kent—no blazer, sleeves rolled up, red hair pinned into what could only be described as a battle bun—paced the living room like it owed her answers. Clark stood by the fireplace, arms folded, jaw set, radiating quiet power and fatherly disapproval. His Henley shirt clung to his frame like it was grateful to be there. Martha sat calmly on the couch, a half-knitted scarf in her lap and that same steel-threaded kindness in her gaze. She'd seen this movie before. She just wanted to make sure no one died before dessert.

Roslyn sprawled across the loveseat armrest in her oversized sweatshirt, her bubblegum popping like a metronome of teenage judgment. "Strong Girls Lift Planets" screamed across her chest in glittery font. Her hair was braided to the side, and she was already rolling her eyes in preparation for whatever nonsense Hadrian was about to spew.

Zatanna lounged on the floor like a cat in combat boots, shuffling her tarot deck and humming Nirvana under her breath. Kara and Donna stood sentinel by the window, like two goddesses moonlighting as emotional support statues. Kara's expression teetered between sisterly concern and reluctant hope. Donna? Donna looked ready to commit murder with perfect posture.

Hadrian was upside down in an armchair, legs draped over the back, emerald green eyes focused on the ceiling fan like it held life's secrets. Neville, perfectly upright beside him, looked like a younger, moodier Alan Ritchson with black hair and the emotional restraint of a haunted monastery.

"So," Hadrian said, flipping the stress ball from hand to hand, "are we seriously holding a family tribunal over extracurricular activities now? Because if so, I want an official statement read into the record that I did not explode the grain silo. That was a freak wind." He paused. "Possibly summoned by Zatanna."

Zatanna didn't look up. "If I was summoning wind, Hadrian, you'd be in Oz by now."

Clark's voice cut clean through the sarcasm. "You cracked a hydrant with your shoulder. In full view of thirty students. That's not 'extracurricular.' That's an insurance nightmare."

Hadrian sat up, blinked slowly. "Okay, but counterpoint: I saved a kitten named Buttercup. And she kissed me. Twice. Right here." He pointed to his cheek, then smirked at Donna. "Jealous yet?"

Donna snorted. "Of a kitten? Please. I have better hair and a significantly higher IQ."

"She purrs louder, though."

"Try that line again when you're not wearing socks with cheeseburgers on them."

"You noticed my socks?"

"Only because you were upside down like a caffeinated bat."

Neville groaned. "Can we get back to the part where Clark thinks we're about to murder people on the football field?"

Clark turned to him. "I'm not saying you will. I'm saying one slip, one lost temper, and someone will get hurt."

"I didn't even touch Chad," Neville said. "He just... fell. Dramatically."

Zatanna offered, deadpan: "Gravity is a harsh mistress."

Roslyn popped her gum. "So the moral of this meeting is: don't Hulk out and murder anyone. Got it. Solid parenting."

Martha sighed. "Roslyn..."

"I didn't swear!"

Lilly finally stopped pacing. "Clark, they're not asking to join the Justice League. They want to be normal. Or at least as normal as two boys who bench press tractors can be."

"Normal doesn't involve the risk of dismembering your classmates," Clark said.

Kara stepped forward. "Neither does hiding who they are. That just turns them into pressure cookers. You know that."

Donna leaned in, arms crossed. "Trust isn't just about hoping they make the right choice. It's believing you raised them to."

Hadrian spread his arms dramatically. "Look, I'm a walking, talking alien demigod with charm to spare. But even I can't keep playing the dumb jock routine forever."

Donna smirked. "You don't play the dumb jock. You are the dumb jock."

"I am deeply hurt by that."

"You thought Tasmania was a vegetable."

"In my defense, it sounds like a root."

Lilly clapped once, loudly. "Okay, banter buddies, focus."

Neville stood, shoulders squared. "We know what we can do. But we also know the danger of not doing anything. You want us to hide. But what happens the next time someone needs saving? We don't help because we're scared of being seen?"

Clark's jaw clenched. "You think I don't know that weight? I carried it my whole life."

"Then you should understand," Hadrian said, standing now. "Because you raised us to care. And we do care. But caring means doing."

Silence. Heavy and deep.

Martha looked up from her knitting. "You always told them the truth, Clark. So let them live it."

Roslyn grinned. "Also, Hadrian already signed up. The coach called earlier."

Everyone turned.

Hadrian froze. "Betrayal, thy name is little sister."

"You used my phone!"

Clark blinked. "You already joined?"

Hadrian shrugged. "Well... technically. Coach said he'd forge the paperwork if I gave him my apple pie recipe."

Donna rolled her eyes. "You are unreal."

"Thank you, I try."

Zatanna tilted her head. "Wait, you bake?"

Neville muttered, "It's terrifying."

Lilly turned to Clark. "So? Are you going to let them live their lives or keep trying to wrap them in bubble wrap and anxiety?"

Clark looked at each of them. At his children. His chaos. His legacy.

Then sighed.

"Fine. You can play. But one slip, and you're benched until you're thirty."

Hadrian whooped. Roslyn high-fived Zatanna.

Donna smiled. "Try not to get tackled too hard. I like your face."

Hadrian grinned, eyes softening for half a second. "You're obsessed with me."

"Only when you're quiet."

Martha rose. "Well. I'll put on more potatoes."

"Can I backflip off the barn in celebration?" Hadrian asked.

Clark deadpanned. "Only if you land in the hay this time."

Neville leaned in. "Football?"

Hadrian bumped his shoulder. "Football."

The Kent Farm might've looked like the calmest place on Earth.

It wasn't.

It was just where legends began.

—

Luthor Manor – 7:08 PM

Upstairs Study — Gothic Drama with a Side of Trauma Bonding

The Luthor estate rose like a perfectly groomed middle finger on the edge of Smallville—black stone and neo-Gothic arrogance, looming like it belonged in a Tim Burton fever dream. Inside, the aesthetic was exactly what you'd expect if money and trauma had a baby that got into legacy admissions and espresso martinis before puberty.

Lena Luthor was currently curled up on a velvet fainting couch—because of course it had one—wrapped in a slouchy black sweater, one sock halfway off, the other missing entirely. Her laptop balanced precariously on her stomach, the screen still aglow with the chaotic firestorm that was The Torch group chat. Someone had renamed it "Flirting, Fires, and Fight Club: A Memoir" and she didn't have to scroll to know Raj was responsible.

Across the room, her older brother lounged on the windowsill like he was modeling depression for a perfume ad. One leg bent, the other dangling, green tea in hand—served, naturally, in a chipped LexCorp mug that looked like it had been microwaved during a boardroom betrayal. The bandage in his head was new; his haircut was a war crime; and his voice had that signature cadence—like he was narrating a true crime podcast about your choices.

"So," Alex began slowly, eyes never leaving the night sky beyond the window, "how's exile going? Have they started the hazing rituals yet, or are they still sizing you up for the ceremonial pitchforks?"

Lena didn't even look up. "It's Smallville High, not a coven."

He hummed. "Same thing. Less blood. More awkward boners."

She snorted, rolled her eyes, and shut the laptop with a soft snap. "It's… not terrible."

Alex finally glanced over. "That's dangerously close to optimism, Lena. You know how I feel about that."

"I'm aware," she said, dry. "But for once, the people are… real."

"Define real." He narrowed his eyes. "Because if you're being lured into some kind of corn-fed cult, blink twice."

"I'm not." She gave him a look. "And if you make one more Children of the Corn joke, I swear I will replace your meds with laxatives."

Alex smirked. "Joke's on you—I already have IBS."

"Tragic," Lena muttered, tossing a pillow in his general direction.

He caught it with his good hand. "So tell me. Who are they? Your merry band of chaos."

She hesitated for a beat, then said, "There's Maya—editor, agent of chaos, possibly part-gremlin. Zatanna—wears black lace, casts actual spells, might've read my soul like a grocery list. Donna—could kill me with a look. Probably will. And Kara."

"Kara Who?" Alex sat up straighter. "And do we like this Kara?"

"Yes… we do," Lena said carefully.

He stared at her.

She stared back.

"Cool," he said. "Good to know. Does the janitor breathe fire?"

Lena shrugged. "Wouldn't shock me."

"And the others?"

Her smile curled like smoke. "Neville and Hadrian."

He tilted his head. "Neville? What, like the moody one who looks like he punches drywall for fun?"

"Yes," Lena replied evenly. "Except he also reads Latin poetry and I've heard he makes tea like an old soul trapped in a linebacker's body."

"And Hadrian?"

Lena hesitated, then said, "He's… complicated."

Alex perked up. "Oho. We're using the word. Do tell. Is he brooding? Mysterious? Tragically hot in a morally confusing way?"

"He wears flannel," Lena said flatly.

"So, yes."

"He's… like if sarcasm and trauma had a baby that got possessed by a golden retriever."

Alex blinked. "That's the most specific thing you've ever said and I'm terrified of how accurate that probably is."

"He saved your crispy ass from a fiery car death," she added casually. "You're welcome, by the way."

Alex grimaced. "Right. Him."

"He pulled you out before it exploded. You were crying about your Yeezys."

"I liked those Yeezys."

"They had sequins."

"Limited edition." He pouted. "So—Hadrian. Is he flirting? Are you?"

Lena gave him the driest look in her arsenal. "He doesn't flirt, he sasses."

"And you?"

"I occasionally respond with scathing commentary and long-suffering sighs."

"Oh my God," Alex whispered. "You like him."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to. Your face said, 'I'd push him into traffic, but also maybe kiss him first.'"

"I will smother you with this pillow."

"That's elder abuse."

"You're eighteen."

"And you're blushing."

"I'm going to commit crimes," she muttered.

He grinned like a man who lived off her suffering. "Just saying, Lena… you've got that look."

"What look?"

"That 'I swore off attachments but accidentally found a found family full of attractive disasters and now I'm catching feelings like it's the plague' look."

Lena stared up at the ceiling for a long moment. "I… think I like them. That's weird, right? I didn't mean to. But they're… funny. They call each other out. They share snacks. They threaten each other with bodily harm and still show up when it counts. It's the most dysfunctional healthy dynamic I've ever seen."

Alex's expression softened. For all his sarcasm, he knew that tone. "You needed this."

"Maybe." Her voice dipped. "I haven't wanted people in a long time. Not since… everything."

"You're not broken, you know," he said, quiet for once. "You're just… rebooting."

She snorted. "Thanks, Dr. Phil."

He gave her a long, fond look. "I mean it. You're different with them. Lighter."

Lena nodded slowly, then smirked. "Just promise me something."

"Anything."

"If I ever fall for someone with a tragic backstory and a morally grey aesthetic—"

Alex raised his mug. "—Call me first so I can draft the background check. Done."

Lena grinned, full of teeth. "You're the worst."

"And you're doomed," he replied.

They both laughed, deep and real and unexpected. And for the first time since she'd traded corporate glass towers for cornfields and chaos, Lena Luthor didn't feel like the world's ticking time bomb.

She felt… real. Flawed. Seen.

Part of something.

And she liked it.

—

Smallville High – Football Field – 6:03 AM The Dawn of Dumb Decisions and Dumber Nicknames

Mist clung to the field like it had separation anxiety. The grass sparkled under the early Kansas sun, glistening like a field of green diamonds waiting to be trampled by testosterone and poor judgment. Somewhere in the distance, a bird chirped optimistically. It would regret that decision in about five minutes.

Hadrian Kent strolled through the locker room doors like he owned the place—because, in a metaphysical sense, he did. His hoodie—dark red, cracked lettering reading Death Before Decaf—hung loose over a frame that should've belonged to a Greek statue or a Calvin Klein billboard. Wet hair tousled in carefully engineered chaos. Emerald green eyes half-lidded in a way that suggested he was either bored or planning to seduce time itself.

His duffel bag thudded against his back.

Neville trailed him in full gear, shoulder pads tight, helmet under one arm. His black hair was slightly damp, and his pale green eyes surveyed the field like a predator choosing which antelope to emotionally destroy first. His hoodie read There Is No Planet B, a streak of what may have been dried blood trailing down one arm.

Hadrian whistled low. "Smells like teenage regret."

Neville muttered, "Or Axe body spray and crushed dreams."

They stepped onto the dewy grass.

Coach Daniels was already on the field, arms crossed like a bouncer at Heaven's gate. He wore aviators, a buzzcut, and a scowl that looked like it had been sharpened on a grindstone of disappointment. Muscles strained under his windbreaker like they were trying to escape. If you told a child to draw a football coach and gave them a war movie marathon, they'd draw Coach Daniels.

"Kent. Kent." His voice hit like a sledgehammer to the ego. "Glad to see you figured out what time AM happens."

Hadrian gave him a lazy salute. "Coach."

Coach Daniels tossed him a helmet. "Quarterback."

Hadrian blinked. "Me?"

"You've got a throwing arm like Zeus on caffeine and faster feet than half my defense. You're QB."

"I threw a corncob, Coach. At a squirrel."

"Forty-yard spiral. Squirrel lived. I call that talent."

He turned to Neville. "You? Receiver. You catch. You don't maul. Got it?"

Neville grunted. "Mostly."

Coach Daniels's voice darkened like a thundercloud. "Brad. Chad."

Two golden-haired gods of douchebaggery turned from the bench. Brad had that smug smirk only former quarterbacks and prom kings seemed born with. Chad looked like he'd been carved out of beer ads and bad decisions.

Brad growled. "Coach, you're kidding."

"Do I look like I'm kidding, Brad? You skipped practice. Showed up drunk. You tried to pants a freshman. And you laid hands on my new QB. You're lucky I didn't feed you to the cheerleaders."

Chad muttered, "Freaks."

Hadrian smiled. It was slow, predatory, the kind of smile that said I read your obituary in advance and made notes.

"Don't worry, Chad," he said sweetly. "I'll sign your cast. Maybe draw a unicorn."

"You threw a football at my face!"

"Accuracy's a gift."

"You're not better than us."

"Correct. I'm significantly better."

Coach Daniels turned away with the grace of a man seconds from a homicide. "Ethan! Get over here."

A tall, muscled teen in a sleeveless tank and neon cleats jogged over. His skin gleamed in the morning light, and his smile could've jump-started an apocalypse.

"What's up, Coach?"

"This is Kent. Your new quarterback. Try not to scare him."

Ethan grinned. "Damn. You look like a CW reboot of Varsity Blues."

Hadrian offered a hand. "Hadrian. Farm boy extraordinaire. Sometimes bakes."

Ethan shook it. "Ethan Michaels. Center. I keep quarterbacks alive and emotionally stable. Mostly."

Neville raised an eyebrow. "Therapist-slash-bouncer, huh?"

"Depends on the day."

The three walked toward the huddle. Brad, from behind, hissed, "This is a freakshow."

Hadrian didn't look back. Just said, "Get used to it. We're the main event."

"You're going to choke."

Hadrian turned slightly, eyes gleaming. "And yet, here you are. Fetching Gatorade like a budget butler."

Chad stepped forward. "Say that again."

Neville, without breaking stride, murmured, "Please do. I haven't thrown anyone this morning."

Coach Daniels's whistle pierced the air.

"Warm-up laps, people! Let's move those tragic life choices you call legs!"

The team shuffled into motion. Ethan leaned over to Hadrian.

"You know we're totally gonna get decked today, right?"

Hadrian grinned. "Wouldn't be high school if we didn't."

Neville jogged beside them. "Just remember to duck."

"You say that like you're not going to throw yourself at a linebacker on purpose."

Neville shrugged. "Gotta stretch the legs somehow."

As they ran, gossip and tension floated in the air like perfume. Brad and Chad glared daggers. Coach Daniels muttered obscenities into his clipboard.

Hadrian looked up at the sky, smile widening.

"Welcome to Smallville," he whispered. "Where the freakshow's just getting started."

—

Smallville High – Football Field – 6:15 AM

Laps of Shame, Sarcasm, and Suppressed Super Speed

The whistle didn't blow.

It exploded.

"FOUR LAPS! FULL FIELD! CLOCK STARTS NOW!" Coach Daniels bellowed from midfield, clipboard clenched like it owed him money and trauma. "You slack, you jog home. You crawl, you sit out the next game. You puke… you clean it up!"

Hadrian groaned under his breath. "God, he's like an angry windstorm in a muscle suit."

Neville, crouched beside him tying his cleats, shot him a look. "Says the guy who could do this entire run backwards while composing a haiku."

"I did that once!" Hadrian said brightly, stretching his arms above his head. "You're still mad it rhymed."

"I'm mad because it scanned. Proper meter. That's just offensive."

Hadrian snorted. "Don't hate the player, Nev."

Neville stood, six-foot-something of brooding intimidation, his black hair already damp from warm-up drills. "I am the player."

"Okay, Thor." Hadrian smirked. "Let's remember to run slightly slower than the speed of light, yeah? No Kryptonian cardio bursts."

Neville rolled his neck, cracked his knuckles, and muttered, "Define slow."

Hadrian just smirked, eyes glinting emerald under the rising sun. "You know. Human slow. Angsty, pubescent, 'we have SATs and acne' slow."

A few yards behind them, Ethan jogged up with a smile like it could melt steel.

"Yo," Ethan said, falling in beside them like he'd been there all along. "We feeling Olympic tryouts or depression jog this morning?"

Hadrian grinned sideways. "Option C: 'Run like you're being chased by your unresolved trauma.'"

Neville raised a hand. "That's every day."

Ethan laughed. "Man, you two are weird."

"And yet strangely magnetic," Hadrian said, tossing his hoodie aside with the flourish of a Disney prince mid-transformation sequence. His white undershirt clung in all the right places. "We contain multitudes."

The whistle blew again.

They were off.

Hadrian kept his stride long and lazy, deliberately throttling down the power in his legs. He even added a little bounce in his run—just enough to make it look like he was trying. Beside him, Neville jogged like a war machine running diagnostics, silent and steely, eyes forward.

Ethan whistled, matching their pace easily.

"You guys are in stupid good shape."

Hadrian gasped theatrically. "Are you flirting with me, Ethan? Because I already named one of my abs after you."

Neville shot him a side-eye. "You literally named them 'Truth' and 'Justice.'"

"Exactly," Hadrian said with a grin. "Ethan's the truth."

Ethan barked out a laugh. "You're a whole damn comic book."

Brad and Chad trailed a good twenty yards behind, both already huffing like their egos were heavier than their protein-packed muscles.

"I swear to God," Brad muttered, hands on his hips mid-jog, "if Kent wins another goddamn lap, I'm putting Icy Hot in his jockstrap."

Chad, red-faced and sweaty, scowled. "He broke my nose."

"It wasn't broken, bro. You just cried."

"In front of cheerleaders, Brad! It was a traumatic moment!"

Hadrian slowed just enough to let their voices catch up—because of course his super-hearing had clocked every word—and then tossed a wink over his shoulder without breaking stride.

"Brad," he called, "you should hydrate. Jealousy's a thirsty emotion."

Neville didn't even glance back as he added, flat as a sniper's tone, "Also, your nose is crooked."

Chad tripped on air.

"HEY!" Coach Daniels' voice thundered across the field like a sonic boom. "Less bitching, more sprinting! You sound like my ex-wife's book club!"

Lap one down.

Hadrian exhaled dramatically. "Wow. That felt so mortal."

Neville side-eyed him. "You're sweating like a Disney prince during a sword fight."

"Gotta commit to the aesthetic."

Lap two.

The sun was higher now, bathing the field in gold. The boys cast long shadows, their breaths fogging faintly in the cool morning air.

"You guys really twins or just terminally codependent?" Ethan asked, glancing between them.

Neville's response was instant. "Codependent."

Hadrian added, "With unresolved familial tension."

Ethan blinked. "What?"

"Kidding." Hadrian grinned, throwing an arm briefly around Neville's broad shoulders. "He's too emotionally repressed. I'm more into disaster blondes and emotionally complicated brunettes."

"You are describing three-quarters of our cheer squad," Neville muttered.

"Exactly."

Lap three.

Some of the other guys were starting to slow, but Hadrian and Neville kept pace easily—too easily. Hadrian even started humming.

"Seriously," Ethan huffed. "What are you two made of?"

"Wheaties. And trauma," Hadrian said cheerfully.

"British trauma," Neville clarified.

Ethan chuckled between breaths. "What is British trauma?"

"Tea gone cold. Fathers gone colder."

Brad tripped over his own feet behind them. "God, shut up!"

Coach Daniels pointed his clipboard at him like a sword. "You keep yapping, Manning, and I'm gonna make you run until you fart blood."

Brad groaned. "Jesus, Coach."

"DON'T BRING HIM INTO THIS. HE DOESN'T HAVE A CLIPBOARD."

Final lap.

Coach Daniels barked, "Last one across gets to scrub the mud outta my cleats. Spoiler alert: I don't own socks."

Hadrian leaned over to Neville as they started the final stretch. "Alright, fifth gear. Just enough to look like winners, not Olympians."

Neville nodded. "You do realize you're the drama?"

Hadrian cracked his neck, his green eyes gleaming. "I am the moment."

Together, they kicked into a final sprint—controlled, powerful, but very much within human parameters (barely). The world blurred just enough to look cinematic. They crossed first, side by side, breathing hard but still bantering like they were filming a deodorant commercial.

Behind them, Ethan came in strong. Brad stumbled across next, face tomato-red and soul halfway to the afterlife. Chad collapsed immediately after, making a sound that could only be described as "jock existentialism."

Coach Daniels blew the whistle one last time. "Hydrate, stretch, and thank the gods I let you live. Passing drills in ten."

He jabbed the whistle toward Hadrian.

"Kent. You get cocky, I put you on waterboy duty."

Hadrian raised his hands innocently. "Coach, I am the humblest icon you've ever met."

Neville muttered, "You named your towel 'Excalibath.'"

Ethan wiped sweat off his forehead. "Oh man. I'm gonna love this season."

Hadrian beamed, dropping to stretch. "Welcome to the freakshow."

—

Smallville High – Football Field – 6:52 AM

Passing Drills, or: That Time God Enrolled in Public School and Took Gym

Coach Daniels smacked his clipboard against his thigh so hard that every junior within earshot winced in sympathy.

"All right, ladies and gentlemen—though I question both labels right now—partner up! One throws, one receives! If that ball hits the ground, you'll be running routes until your ancestors feel it!"

He paced the field like a lion guarding a shrine of discarded dreams, jaw tight, eyes scanning for weakness.

Hadrian Kent rolled the football between his fingers, the leather rotating with lazy precision like it was trying to seduce the air. He turned to Neville with the kind of grin that made teachers suspicious and cheerleaders bite their lip.

"You ready to make Coach question everything he believes about physics?"

Neville exhaled slowly, pulling on his gloves with mechanical calm. His black hair was sweat-damp and swept back like a reluctant prince heading into war.

"As long as you don't throw it into orbit again."

Hadrian scoffed. "That was one time."

Neville gave him a deadpan look. "Hadrian, NASA called me personally. I was on a list."

Hadrian placed a hand over his heart. "You wound me."

"Emotionally? Good. Maybe it'll slow your ego down."

They took their positions. Hadrian backed up to the twenty-yard line with a flourish, rolling his shoulders, eyes narrowing beneath the early sun. His shirt—white, clingy, and one catastrophic laundry cycle away from illegal—shimmered with sweat, clinging in ways that defied public decency laws and gravity alike.

Coach Daniels hovered nearby, arms crossed, face like a thunderstorm looking for an excuse to rain on someone.

"Let's see it, Kent."

Hadrian raised the ball. "Prepare to witness some mythology in motion."

He stepped back, twisted at the waist, and launched.

The ball sang through the air. No, really—it moved like music, a perfect spiral slicing the morning fog like a divine decree. It glinted in the sun, hung in the air just long enough for awe to bloom, and then—

Whap.

Neville caught it without breaking stride.

Not flinching. Not struggling. Just inevitable.

Coach Daniels' eyebrow twitched like it was considering a career change.

"Well," he muttered, "that's… illegal in at least four states."

Ethan, currently paired with a red-faced sophomore who looked like he'd only recently stopped being afraid of shaving, let out a low whistle.

"Is this practice or a Gatorade commercial?"

On the sidelines, Brad sat hunched, still recovering from the emotional trauma of warm-up laps and being outperformed in front of two cheerleaders who used to follow his Instagram.

"They're showboating," Brad grumbled.

Chad, gulping water like he'd just crossed the Sahara, nodded sagely. "Total hacks."

Coach Daniels didn't even glance at them. "Again!"

Neville jogged back. The ball spiraled through the air, and Hadrian caught it behind his back just to prove a point that nobody asked him to make.

"Feeling cute," Hadrian said, smirking. "Might break the sound barrier later."

"You're insufferable," Neville replied, tossing him the ball. "It's honestly your most consistent trait."

"Consistency is key, Nev."

They lined up again.

This time Hadrian pump-faked, turned on a dime, and threw a pass so tight it could've shaved a gnat mid-flight. Neville dove—full stretch, one arm out—and still caught it like catching god-tier passes was just another Tuesday for him.

One of the freshmen watching let out a strangled gasp. "I think I just… ascended."

Hadrian clapped his hands. "And that's how you get recruited by every college that isn't legally bound to Earth."

"Dude," Ethan called, catching a pass from his partner with a one-handed snag. "Save some glory for the rest of us."

"Sorry, man," Hadrian said with a shrug. "It's hard being the main character."

Neville gave a snort. "Main character of a soap opera."

Brad stumbled over as they prepped for the next drill, red-faced and sweaty like someone had just challenged his masculinity with actual talent.

"This is crap," he muttered.

Hadrian turned toward him, smiling wide and unbothered. "Brad. You're about three seconds from getting benched by puberty."

Brad clenched his jaw. "I swear to God, if Coach doesn't see this—"

Coach Daniels, who had been watching silently, finally barked, "All right! That's enough foreplay. Scrimmage time! Let's see if any of you actually know what the hell to do with all that testosterone."

He stabbed the clipboard in the air like it was a weapon.

"Kent—you're quarterback. Other Kent—you're slot receiver. Ethan, center. Brad and Chad…"

He squinted at them like they were a particularly bad rash.

"…try not to cry this time."

Hadrian slung the ball under his arm as he jogged to the huddle. "Let's give the crowd something to gasp about."

Neville fell into formation, adjusting his gloves like a surgeon about to perform a miracle.

Ethan bounced in place, loose and ready. "All right, boys. Let's ruin some egos."

Hadrian called the play, low and quick. They lined up. The air was thick with tension and unspoken declarations of dominance.

The snap came fast. Hadrian caught it clean, dropped back three steps, eyes sweeping across the field like a predator choosing where to strike.

Neville cut sharp across the field. Brad was on him—desperately.

Too slow.

Hadrian fired.

The pass was art. Neville caught it mid-stride and spun around Brad, so graceful it felt like a cinematic slow-mo on instinct. He jogged ten more yards, casually, then flipped the ball underhand to Hadrian.

Brad came panting up like he'd just run a marathon in shame.

"He's cheating," Brad wheezed.

Neville didn't even look at him. "I'm just better."

Coach Daniels took a long, slow breath like he was digesting an existential revelation. "You two been holding back this whole time?"

Neville shrugged. "We didn't want to embarrass anyone."

Hadrian added, "Plus, you know, dramatic timing. It's about the arc."

Daniels ran a hand down his face. "You ever think about shutting the hell up?"

"Every day," Hadrian replied solemnly. "Hasn't worked yet."

Ethan cracked up. "I'm begging for this season to be filmed."

Coach Daniels blew the whistle one more time, voice echoing over the field like a divine proclamation. "Run it again!"

Hadrian looked at Neville. "One more for the haters?"

Neville nodded. "Make it pretty."

"Oh, darling," Hadrian said, stepping into position, "I am pretty."

And with that, the ball flew once more—like destiny in flight.

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Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!

I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!

If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!

Click the link below to join the conversation:

https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd

Can't wait to see you there!

If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:

https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007

Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s

Thank you for your support!