The OKC Bisons' training facility hums with post-practice energy on an August 2025 afternoon, the clatter of trays and chatter filling the team cafeteria. Curt "Speedster" Dressley, a 22-year-old rookie KR/PR, stands at 6'1"/185 cm, 182 lbs/83 kg, his Storm Blue #17 practice jersey loose on his lean frame, red/yellow cleats scuffed from drills. The air carries the savory aroma of barbeque sauce mingling with the faint smell of sweat and grass from the practice field. His short black twists gleam under the harsh fluorescent lights, deep brown eyes flickering with unease as he grips a tray of BBQ ribs, his Kentucky keychain dangling from his pocket and catching the light with each nervous movement. Still adjusting to OKC's unfamiliar bus routes and a cramped apartment shared with three teammates, he's mentally exhausted from a sloppy practice—his routes off, his cuts imprecise, his inexperience glaringly obvious to coaches and veteran players alike. Then he spots the familiar face across the room, someone from Tri-Cities High in Atlanta, now working behind the cafeteria counter as Bisons staff. The memory hits like a tackle, sudden and jarring. Back at 15, this person spread rumors after catching Curt kissing a teammate, turning the locker room into a minefield of taunts and whispered comments that took months to fade. Curt's tray rattles against the metal counter as he tenses, nearly dropping it in his surprise. "Yo," his Atlanta drawl snaps, voice sharp but revealing a noticeable tremor, "you still stirrin' up mess, fam?" He adjusts his colorful cleats self-consciously, the plastic squeaking against the linoleum floor as his gaze darts away briefly, as if seeking an escape route while masking a flicker of old attraction that still lingers beneath the resentment. The cafeteria noise seems to dim around them, the clatter of dishes and chatter fading into background static as their shared past comes rushing to the forefront, creating an electric current of tension between them.