There was something electric about game day—the roar of the crowd, the flashing lights, the way thousands of eyes clung to every movement on the pitch.
But Rafael wasn't listening to the noise.
He was watching faces.
Not the fans.
His teammates.
One by one, he studied them.
Tyson — the self-proclaimed "leader," still wearing arrogance like armor, barking orders in the locker room like nothing had changed since high school.
Marco — quieter, meaner, never making eye contact, but Rafael noticed how his leg bounced nervously every time he sat.
Guilt? Or fear?
Jude — always laughing too loud, trying to play the lovable clown. Rafael remembered how Jude had held Eli's arms down while the others took turns kicking.
And now… they all called him Rafa.
Their new prodigy.
Their "brother."
The irony made him want to vomit.
But he smiled. Always smiled.
Even as he laced up his boots, heart steady, mask perfectly in place.
"Playmaker of the month, eh, Rafa?" Tyson smirked, clapping him on the back.
"You might actually carry us to playoffs this year."
"Wouldn't that be something," Rafael said smoothly.
But his mind wasn't on the match.
It was on the file he had left—anonymously—on a journalist's desk that morning. A flash drive. Unlabeled. Containing a video.
The security footage had been buried deep in a school server for years. Rafael had spent weeks cracking into it. Frame by frame, you could make out just enough.
Not enough to arrest.
But enough to stir the flames.
The news was going to break tonight.
Right before the second half.
Right when the world was watching.
And when it did, the media wouldn't know who Eli was.
Not yet.
But they'd ask. They'd dig.
And eventually, they'd find everything.
"This is just the first card," Rafael whispered to himself as they walked into the tunnel.
"And it's not red yet.
Just yellow."
A warning.
To let them know the game had only just begun.
The team was still drenched in sweat when the manager stormed in with his phone in hand and a face carved from fury.
"Which one of you saw this coming?" he snapped, throwing the phone onto the bench.
The screen lit up.
A video. Blurry. Grainy.
A group of high school boys, circling someone on the locker room floor.
The sound was muffled, but you could hear one thing clearly:
A scream.
Then a voice shouting, "He thinks he's better than us?"
Silence fell like a guillotine.
Marco's head dropped.
Tyson didn't blink, but his jaw flexed—hard.
Jude let out a breath that sounded too much like a prayer.
None of them said a word.
But Rafael was watching. Calm. Arms folded. Heart steady.
"Eli," the manager muttered, scrolling through the article underneath.
"That was the kid's name."
He looked up slowly. "Any of you know him?"
Tyson finally spoke. "Nope. Just media reaching. Nothing to do with us."
But his voice cracked. Just a little.
Rafael stepped forward, his expression unreadable. "They're saying it's from a school up north. Horizon High?"
Marco flinched.
"Oh," Rafael said. "That's where you lot played before going pro, right?"
Dead silence.
The manager narrowed his eyes. "You think this is going to go away easy? Press wants a name. Hell, they're saying one of the players in the video looked like you, Tyson."
Tyson stood. "It's nothing. No face, no sound, no proof. People get jealous when you're on top."
"Right," Jude muttered, but his voice was tight. "Just trolls. Fake outrage."
Rafael looked down at the phone again. At the boy in the video.
Bloodied. Still. Silent.
He could still hear the name echoing in his head.
Eli.
The one they buried in shadows. The one they laughed about after.
The one they didn't even pretend to mourn.
He looked up, forcing a frown.
"Terrible stuff," he said.
"Whoever that kid was… he didn't deserve that."
None of them looked at him.
Because deep down—they knew.
And for the first time since Rafael had joined the team…
They were scared.