The first hit slammed Ethan so hard his teeth clacked together and he tasted metal and Gatorade.

“Hey! Quit it!” he grunted, shoved backward into the locker bay as laughter echoed off the concrete walls of the boys’ locker room at Ridgeview High, somewhere in the middle of American suburbia where football on Friday nights mattered more than math grades.

“Why don’t you make me?” Cody Reeves smirked, planting a palm in Ethan’s chest and giving him another shove, just because he could.

Ethan stumbled, sneakers skidding on the wet floor. Cody was all shoulders and swagger in a Ridgeview Lions T-shirt, the kind of guy who looked like he’d been born holding a football. Ethan, meanwhile, looked like he’d been born holding a laptop.

“That’s what I thought,” Cody said. “You can’t do anything.”

The other players snickered, grabbing their duffel bags and heading out to the parking lot where parents with SUV’s and college decals were waiting. The locker room door banged shut behind them, leaving Ethan alone with humming fluorescent lights and his ringing ears.

He let out a slow breath, fingers trembling as he reached for his backpack. His ribs ached. His pride hurt worse.

“Fire,” the Starbucks barista called, sliding a drink across the counter. “Iced white mocha with extra sweet cream foam.”

Brielle—perfect hair, perfect nails, perfect everything—grabbed the cup, sniffed it, then placed it in front of Ethan like a trophy.

“There you go,” she said. “Extra caramel too, duh.” She winked. “You know me so well.”

“Thanks,” Ethan said, already feeling the week-old bruise on his forearm relax a little. Brielle liked her drinks how she liked her life: sweet, complicated, and entirely someone else’s job.

“So,” she said, taking a sip from her own cup, “is my homework ready by chance?”

Ethan slid a neatly stapled packet across the table. “Physics. Finished the lab write-up and the extra credit.”

Her eyes sparkled. “You’re the best.”

Behind her, Katie caught Ethan’s gaze from the next table over and mimed typing, then wiping sweat from her brow. Secretary, she mouthed.

He shot her a look: Don’t.

She rolled her eyes dramatically and went back to her laptop, earbuds in.

By the time Ethan got home, the sun was sliding behind the trees. The small single-story house he shared with his mom was quiet except for the TV murmur from the living room. He dropped his backpack by the door and sniffed the air.

“Spring conditioning?” his mom called from the kitchen. “How was it?”

“Good,” he lied, kicking his cleats off. “Fine.”

She appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel, hair pulled back, lines of tiredness around her eyes that hadn’t been there before his dad’s accident.

“Do you think…” Ethan started, then stopped.

“Do I think what?” she asked gently.

He swallowed. “Do you think Dad would be disappointed? You know. In me.”

“Yes,” she said immediately.

He blinked, stung. “Wow. Thanks.”

“Because you’re being too hard on yourself,” she finished, stepping forward and cupping his cheek. “Eric Pace would be so proud of you. He loved this game, but he loved you more.”

He looked down, blinking hard.

“Dinner in ten,” she said, kissing his temple. “And lights out before midnight. You’ve been falling asleep in class again.”

“I’ll try,” he said.

It wasn’t because he was lazy. It was because he was doing twice the homework of everybody else—his and Brielle’s—and still squeezing in late-night film study, trying to convince himself he could be something more than “that kid on the bench whose dad used to be somebody.”

The next afternoon, Coach Reeves blew his whistle so hard it made birds scatter off the light poles.

“All right, boys!” he yelled across the turf, under the hot American sun. “Seven-on-seven. Positions. Move.”

Helmets glinted. Cleats pounded. Somewhere, a speaker played a country song about trucks and small towns and Friday nights.

Ethan stood on the sideline, water bottle in hand. He hadn’t even bothered to grab a red quarterback penny. No point embarrassing himself.

“Hey,” he heard from behind him. “You lost, son?”

He turned. EZ, the assistant coach—mid-thirties, beard, worn Lions ball cap—stood there with a clipboard tucked under one arm. Everybody just called him EZ. Nobody seemed to know what it stood for.

“I, uh…” Ethan swallowed. “I was wondering if… maybe I could try out for quarterback this year. For, like, next season. If there’s a spot.”

EZ lifted a brow. Before he could answer, Coach Reeves strode over, sunglasses on, whistle hanging over the logo on his Ridgeview polo.

“You?” Reeves barked a short laugh. “And I’m gonna win the lottery and ride a unicorn to state finals tomorrow.”

A couple players nearby snickered.

“Come on,” Coach said. “Let’s see it. Grab a ball.”

Ethan’s heart pounded. He wiped his palms on his shorts and picked up a ball. It felt bigger than it ever had, heavier.

“Set up,” Coach said, motioning his son to run a route. “Let’s see what you got, Pace.”

Cody lined up, all confidence and cocky grin.

Ethan took a breath, stepped back, and threw.

The ball fluttered out of his hand like a wounded bird, wobbling through the air and dying five yards short of its target. It thunked into the grass and rolled pathetically.

“Ball!” Cody called, jogging past, scooping it up, and tossing it back with one hand—perfect spiral, effortless.

“Dude,” Cody said with fake sympathy. “That noodle arm isn’t working out so well for you, huh?”

The other guys laughed.

“Noodle arms and butterfingers,” one of them said. “You’re making me hungry, Ethan.”

“Bench will miss your backside if you ever actually play,” Cody added.

Ethan’s throat burned. He nodded, walked off, and tried not to run.

He made it to his locker before the humiliation boiled over. He slammed the metal door so hard it rattled.

“What were you thinking?”

He turned. Brielle stood there, arms crossed, eyes flashing. Today her hair was braided just right and her lip gloss was the exact shade of alleged perfection.

“Trying out for quarterback?” she demanded. “In front of everybody?”

“I just wanted a shot,” he said. “Next year, maybe. I thought—”

“You thought.” She huffed. “Do you know how embarrassing that was? Watching my tutor—sorry, my ‘boyfriend’—throw like a baby gecko?”

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “Hey, I can make it up to us. I’ll buy us dinner, okay? We can go to—”

“Gross,” she said, making a face. “No. I’m done, Ethan.”

He stared. “Done… with what?”

“This,” she said, gesturing between them. “Us. Whatever this is. I was just using you so I could pass physics, which I did—thanks, by the way—but the year’s almost over, and so is your usefulness. Just like semester, this fake relationship is over.”

He felt the words like another tackle.

“You’re not serious,” he whispered.

She shrugged. “Good luck with your little bench career.”

Then she walked away, ponytail swinging.

From down the hallway, Katie watched, anger tightening her jaw.

“She heard that, didn’t she,” Ethan muttered later, trudging toward the parking lot with Katie beside him.

“Yeah,” Katie said. “I heard it too. And for the record, she’s the one who should be embarrassed.” She nudged him. “Ice cream?”

He shook his head. “I’m fine.”

He was lying again.

The next day, the bullying leveled up.

Ethan was alone at his locker when he felt fingers hook into the collar of his sweatshirt and yank.

“Hey!” he protested, spun around, and found himself nose to chest with Cody.

“What are you doing with my girlfriend?” Cody demanded.

“We broke up,” Katie said sharply from the end of the hall. “Remember, blockhead?”

“Girl, I wasn’t talking to you,” Cody said. “This is between me and Captain Pretend over here. All you do is play make-believe, don’t you, Pace? Pretend boyfriend. Pretend quarterback. Pretend tough guy.”

Ethan squared his shoulders because he was so tired of feeling small for reasons that had nothing to do with his height.

“I’m not pretending anything,” he said as steadily as he could, though his heart hammered.

Cody leaned in, breath hot. “You wanna prove how real you are?”

Before anyone could blink, Cody shoved him backward. Ethan’s shoulders hit the lockers with a thud; the back of his head bounced off the metal.

“Hey!” a voice snapped.

Hands grabbed Ethan’s arm, yanking him away before he could slide to the floor. “Come on,” Katie said, tugging him down the hallway. “Let’s go. You need a nurse.”

“No nurse,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “I’m fine. If they call my mom, she’ll freak.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, you’re already half concussed,” Katie muttered. “At least let me clean you up.”

Twenty minutes later, Ethan sat on the closed toilet in the back of the theater bathroom while Katie dabbed antiseptic on the back of his head.

“You know what you need?” she said.

“A new skull?” he asked.

“A new plan,” she said. She glanced at the bottle on the edge of the sink and frowned. “What are you doing with these, anyway?”

She picked up the white plastic container. No label. Just a sharpie scrawl: “SUPPLEMENT.”

Ethan snatched it back. “Nothing.”

“Ethan.” Her voice sharpened. “Are those what I think they are?”

“They’re just pills,” he said. “Stuff guys use to bulk up. It’s not a big deal.”

“Illegal performance pills are a huge deal,” she snapped. “Are you seriously thinking of taking them?”

“You got a better idea?” he shot back. “Because so far, all my hard work has gotten me a front row seat to Cody Reeves’ highlight reel and a brilliant career at polishing the bench.”

“Here’s a thought,” Katie said. “What about actually working your butt off this summer? The right way. You heard Coach. Quarterback isn’t just about muscle. It’s about reading defenses, making smart decisions under pressure. Pills can’t teach you that.”

“I’d rather have a shortcut than no road map,” he muttered.

She stared at him. “You do realize your dad went his whole career without ever touching this stuff, right? Eric Pace made it to Division I on hard work and actual talent.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not him, am I?” Ethan said.

“No,” a new voice said from the doorway. “You’re not.”

Ethan and Katie looked up. EZ leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“And that’s not a bad thing,” he said.

“You knew my dad?” Ethan asked later, sitting on the empty bleachers as the late-afternoon sun turned the field gold. The “supplements” sat between them like evidence.

EZ nodded, eyes on the thirty-yard line. “We were basically brothers in high school. Eric Pace and Ezra ‘EZ’ Jennings. He was the best quarterback I ever saw. I was the wide receiver who dropped more balls than I caught until he made me run routes for three hours a day.”

“That sounds… intense,” Ethan said.

“Yeah,” EZ said, chuckling. “He pushed me. I pushed him. No shortcuts. Just sweat, busted knuckles, and ugly practice film.”

He picked up the bottle and shook it, pills rattling.

“You don’t wanna go this route, kid,” he said. “Trust me. I’ve seen what this stuff does to guys. Messes with your body, your brain, your heart. It’s not worth it.”

“I don’t have his talent,” Ethan said quietly. “Or his size. Or his… anything.”

“You got something he didn’t,” EZ said. “You got his story. And you got me.”

Ethan looked up.

“I owe your dad a lot,” EZ said. “Probably more than I can repay. So here’s what I’m willing to do.” He held up one finger. “You throw these away. Right now. All of them. No stash under your bed, no ‘just in case.’”

He held up a second finger. “Then I’ll train you this summer. For real. Three days a week minimum. Weight room, footwork, film analysis, everything. We do this the right way, or not at all.”

Ethan stared at the bottle, hand shaking. All the pain, the humiliation, the disappointment pulsed there. All his small, angry, desperate hopes.

He unscrewed the cap, walked to the nearest trash can, and dumped the pills inside.

The sound they made hitting the plastic sounded like something breaking and something starting all at once.

“Okay,” he said, throat tight. “Let’s get to work.”

They started with his hands.

“You want a grip that feels like part of you,” EZ said, standing behind the empty bleachers, ball in his hands. “Three fingers across the laces, light but firm. You’re not choking it to death. You’re guiding it.”

He spun a perfect spiral. The ball hissed through the air and thunked into the net twenty yards away.

“Now you,” he said.

At first, Ethan’s passes floated, wobbled, died. EZ didn’t laugh. He adjusted Ethan’s pinky. Corrected his elbow. Made him throw again. And again. And again.

They worked drops next.

“Five-step drop,” EZ called. “One-two-three-four-plant. Hips to the target. Weight transfer. It’s not about arm strength. It’s about legs, hips, and timing. Your arm just finishes what your body already started.”

They drilled play-action.

“Part of being a quarterback is sleight of hand,” EZ said one afternoon, tucking the ball into the belly of an imaginary running back and then whipping it back behind his hip in one smooth motion. “Defense thinks it sees the ball here…”

He paused, ball held just long enough to sell the fake.

“…when really it’s here.” He bootlegged out, rolling to his right, and fired.

They did footwork on the track in the evening heat, Ethan’s sneakers slapping the rubber as he chased his own shadow.

“Come on, Pace!” EZ yelled. “Forty seconds left. Almost at a mile.”

Ethan’s lungs burned. He pushed harder.

His phone beeped. New personal best.

He bent over, hands on his knees, grinning through the sweat. “New record,” he wheezed.

He was still on the small side. But his legs felt stronger. His chest a little broader. His throws tighter. His brain sharper.

His hands, on the other hand, felt like balloons.

One afternoon, Katie squinted at him in the cafeteria.

“Why do your fingers look like tiny sausages?” she asked.

He glanced down. She wasn’t wrong. All the lifting had thickened his hands, turning his once-skinny fingers into swollen knuckles and calluses.

“Time for a hat,” EZ joked, tossing him a Ridgeview cap at the next practice. “If you’re gonna be the guy, gotta look like the guy.”

Ethan laughed for the first time on the field in months.

Summer blurred into early August. The air stayed hot, but the days started counting down to the first day of school.

Ethan was finishing sprints when Brielle showed up at the track with a friend, both in leggings and crop tops, holding iced coffees.

“Wow,” Brielle said when she saw him, chest heaving, shirt soaked. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“In a good way?” he asked, falling into step with Katie, who’d come with water bottles.

She shrugged. “Sure.”

Her new boyfriend—junior varsity basketball, apparently—wrapped an arm around her waist. “Hey, isn’t that the guy you were talking about?” he asked.

“The nerd who did my physics?” she laughed. “Yup.”

Ethan smiled thinly. “Well, my tutoring rates just went up.”

She rolled her eyes and turned away. For the first time, her opinion didn’t feel like law.

The first day of junior year dawned bright and humid, sun already beating down by seven.

“Wake up!” Ethan’s mom called, throwing open his door. “You’re gonna be late for the first day. Come on!”

He blinked awake, heart pounding. For a second, he thought he’d overslept for dawn sprints with EZ.

“I’m up,” he said, rolling out of bed, muscles aching in that satisfying way that meant they’d actually done work.

Ten minutes later he was in the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror. The face looking back was still his—same brown eyes, same messy hair—but his jaw was a bit sharper. His shoulders filled out his T-shirt better. The kid who lived on the bench had been doing something besides carrying water.

He laced up his sneakers and grabbed his backpack.

“Big year,” his mom said, kissing his cheek. “You look… different.”

“Good different?” he asked.

“The kind of different that would make your dad grin,” she said.

He carried that like armor into the parking lot.

By lunch, the whole school knew: there was going to be a QB showdown.

“Hey, noodle arm!”

Cody stepped in front of Ethan by the vending machines, blocking his way.

Ethan lifted a brow. “Reeves.”

“You look nervous,” Cody said. “All that summer training just to lose ugly on your home field?”

“You look worried,” Ethan shot back. “That maybe your competition actually did the work.”

“Ohhh,” someone nearby said. A little crowd started to form.

Coach Reeves stepped in, weary but intrigued. “Hey,” he said. “What’s going on here?”

“Friendly competition, Coach,” Cody said. “He thinks he can take my spot. I say we settle it.”

Ethan looked over at EZ in the doorway. EZ shrugged. Your call.

“Fine,” Ethan said. “You, me. Whoever wins is this year’s starting quarterback.”

Murmurs rippled through the hallway. Ridgeview might not have been a big city school, but everybody loved drama when it happened right here at home.

“We’ll see you on the field after school,” Coach Reeves said. “And may the best man win.”

The stands weren’t packed, but a respectable crowd turned up anyway. Teammates, cheerleaders, a few parents who’d heard, teachers pretending not to find it interesting. The bleachers rattled with whispers.

On the sideline, Ethan bounced on his toes. His mom stood near the forty-yard line, clutching her phone like it was a lifeline, Katie beside her. EZ had his arms folded, that same unreadable expression on his face.

“Think he can beat him?” Katie asked quietly.

“I guess we’re about to see,” his mom said, eyes shining.

“All right, boys,” Coach Reeves barked. “First, forty-yard dash. Then distance throw. Then accuracy. My son will go first each time. Got it?”

“Got it,” Cody said.

Ethan nodded.

They lined up, toes on the white line, sun hot on their backs.

“On your mark,” Coach said. “Get ready. Set—go!”

Cody exploded off the line. Ethan pushed, pumping his arms, footfalls drumming.

For most of forty yards, they were neck and neck. At the last second, Ethan leaned, crossing the line a shoulder ahead.

“Pace,” EZ hollered, grinning. “New PR!”

“Got lucky,” Cody muttered, hands on hips.

“Next,” Coach said, jaw tight. “See how far you can throw.”

Cody went first. He loosened his shoulders, took a running start, and launched. The ball sailed in a tight arc, landing with a satisfying thud around fifty yards.

A couple guys whistled. “Still got it, Reeves.”

Ethan picked up his ball. The laces felt familiar against his fingers. He took a breath, set his feet, and threw the way he’d been taught: legs, hips, arm, finish.

The ball cut through the air like a bullet and hit the grass a few yards past Cody’s.

“Okay,” someone said. “Okay, Pace.”

Cody scowled.

“All right,” Coach said, voice clipped. “It all comes down to this. Targets are one point. Trash can is three. Each of you gets ten throws. Highest score wins.”

They’d set up four large net targets and one battered metal trash can in the end zone. The whole world seemed to zero in on those open mouths.

Cody went first, jaw clenched. His first throw hit a target. So did the second. Third one sailed wide. Fourth clanked off the rim of the trash can. Over ten throws, he ended with five points.

“Not bad,” EZ murmured. “Under pressure.”

Ethan stepped up. His heart thudded so hard he could hear it. He thought of the pills in the trash. Of EZ yelling on the track. Of his mom in the stands. Of his dad under stadium lights a lifetime ago.

First throw: target. One point.

Second: target.

Third: trash can. The hollow clang echoed across the field.

A cheer went up.

He settled. Breathed. Trusted the work.

When the last ball hit net, he had eight points.

He didn’t jump. He didn’t pump his fist. He just stood there, chest heaving, waiting.

Coach Reeves stared at the scoreboard like it had betrayed him.

“Well,” EZ said. “Looks like we got ourselves a new QB.”

The crowd murmured agreement.

“No,” Coach said.

Ethan blinked. “What?”

“I said no,” Coach repeated. “Cody is still the quarterback.”

“What?” Katie shouted. “Are you kidding?”

“Hey!” Ethan snapped, stepping forward. “Are you blind? I beat him. In every drill.”

Coach stepped closer until they were nose to nose. “You had one lucky day, Pace. That doesn’t erase years of work. Chemistry with the team. Leadership.”

“You mean years of being your son,” Ethan said before he could stop himself.

Gasps fluttered through the bleachers.

“And besides,” Coach said, lips curling, “who even knows if you can play with a helmet on? You think one summer in the weight room makes you a leader? Sit down.”

“Funny,” EZ said from behind him. “Coming from a guy who’s been leading his players somewhere real special.”

Coach glowered. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sirens wailed faintly at first, then louder. Two police cruisers pulled up by the gate, tires crunching gravel.

“Coach Reeves?” an officer called, walking onto the field.

Cody’s eyes went wide. “Dad?”

Coach straightened. “Yeah? What’s all this about?”

“You’re under arrest,” the officer said calmly, taking out a pair of cuffs.

“What?” Coach barked, stepping back. “For what?”

“Supplying illegal performance-enhancing drugs to minors,” the officer said. “We have statements. Evidence. Including these.”

He held up a clear bag full of familiar white pills and a label with Coach’s handwriting.

A hush fell over the field.

“Daddy, no!” Brielle cried from the sideline.

“You can’t be serious,” Coach sputtered. “This is ridiculous.”

“You can sort it out at the station,” the officer said. “Turn around, please.”

As they led him off the field, the principal adjusted his tie, face pale. “Looks like I’m going to need to hire a new coach,” he said faintly.

“I might know someone,” EZ said, stepping forward. “Someone who believes in hard work, not shortcuts. Someone this school already knows.”

The principal studied him. “We’ll… talk,” he said. “Soon.”

Katie turned to Ethan. “For the record,” she said, “you did really good out there.”

“Yeah,” he said, finally letting himself grin. “I did.”

“So,” she said, eyes bright, “about that ice cream?”

He laughed, the weight of a hundred bad days finally sliding off his shoulders.

“Yeah,” Ethan said. “Let’s go celebrate.”

Under the late-afternoon sun of a small American town, with the stadium lights towering over them and the future wide open, Ethan Pace walked off the field. Not as someone’s son. Not as somebody’s homework machine. Not as a bench ornament.

As a quarterback.

As himself.