Chapter 9: Halftime Lines
Halftime.
Score: 1–1.
The team jogged off the field, breathing hard, jerseys clinging to their backs. The air was heavy with sweat, frustration, and nerves no one wanted to name out loud.
Sheik Jin walked toward the bench, head down, lips pressed tight. His teammates didn't say much. A few claps on the back. A half-hearted "good work." But he could feel it: the expectation building, coiling around his chest like a knot pulled too tight.
Coach Mendoza was talking, but Sheik wasn't really listening.
His eyes were scanning the crowd. And then—there.
Andrea Mei, standing just behind the bleachers now, near the fence. Hood up. Arms crossed.
She gave him a look.
Not pity. Not concern.
It was something else. Something quiet, sharp, and knowing.
He didn't ask Coach.
He just walked.
By the time he reached the fence, Andrea had already opened the gate a crack, stepping back so they could talk without yelling.
"You okay?" she asked, gently but directly.
Sheik let out a breath. "Took a hit. But yeah."
Andrea raised an eyebrow. "You sure? Because from where I'm sitting, you look like you're playing with someone else's head on your shoulders."
Sheik looked past her, to the field. "I keep thinking every move I make is being judged."
"That's because it is," Andrea said plainly. "But that doesn't mean you have to play scared."
"I'm not scared," he said, but even as the words left his mouth, they felt like a lie.
Andrea didn't push. She just waited.
After a pause, Sheik finally said, "I don't know what happens if I blow this. If I'm not good enough."
"You go home. You breathe. You reset," Andrea said. "You're 18, Sheik. Not 30. You don't have to get it all right today."
He smiled weakly. "You make it sound so simple."
"It's not simple," she said. "It's just not the end of the world."
Sheik looked at her then—really looked. The stubborn set of her jaw. The way she held his gaze, steady and unshaken, even when he couldn't hold his own.
And for the first time all morning, something inside him calmed.
"You're kind of annoyingly good at this," he murmured.
"Only because I care," Andrea replied, her voice softer now.
Silence stretched between them, comfortable this time.
Then Andrea added, "One more thing."
"What?"
She stepped forward, tugged his collar gently to fix it, and whispered, "Play your game. Not theirs."
And just like that, she turned and walked back to the bleachers.
Sheik stood there for a beat longer, watching her go.
Then, with the faintest smile curling at the edge of his lips, he turned and jogged back to his team—lighter, steadier.
Halftime was over.
But something had shifted.