The roar of the crowd was a distant, mocking thunder. The final whistle screamed, a shrill, pathetic sound that signaled the end. Not just of the game, but of a perfect season, of a championship dream, of everything they'd bled for since August. On the scoreboard, the numbers glowed like a funeral dirge: 24-28. Loss.

Tyler Greene stood on the fifty-yard line, his hands on his knees, the world tilting on its axis. The vibrant green turf beneath his cleats felt like quicksand. Each labored breath was a knife, the heavy, humid air thick with the stench of sweat, failure, and freshly cut grass. Around him, the opposing team erupted in a frenzy of joy, a stark, violent contrast to the stunned silence of his own teammates. He could hear Ace Maddox swearing violently, kicking at the turf in a futile burst of rage. He could see Diego Morales on one knee, head bowed, making the sign of the cross. And Khalid... Khalid was just staring blankly at the scoreboard, his expression unreadable, the usually fiery quarterback completely extinguished.

This was his fault. The thought was a cold, sharp spike driven directly into his prefrontal cortex. That missed tackle in the fourth quarter. The blown coverage that allowed their receiver to get wide open for the game-sealing touchdown. He'd read the play, he'd seen it coming like a chess move, but his body, his supposedly perfect, athletic body, had been a half-second too slow. A lifetime of training, of discipline, of being the best, and it came down to one single, catastrophic half-second.

The world began to narrow, the edges of his vision blurring into a tunnel focused on the hated numbers on the scoreboard. The deafening noise of the celebrating opponents and the disappointed groans of their own fans started to warp, morphing into a high-pitched, static hum in his ears. His heart, which had been pounding from exertion, began to hammer against his ribs for a different, more terrifying reason. It was a frantic, caged animal trying to break free from his chest.

Then, he was there. A presence that cast a long, familiar shadow. Tyler didn't need to look up. He knew the stance, the smell of old leather and cheap aftershave, the aura of intense, crushing disappointment.

"Get up, Tyler." His father's voice was low, a gravelly command that cut through the hum in his ears. It was the voice from a thousand practice fields, from a lifetime of critique. "Stand up. You look weak."

Tyler forced his body to obey, straightening up. The movement made his head spin. The stadium lights were suddenly blinding, searing into his brain. His father, a man built from the same linebacker mold but now gone to seed, stood with his arms crossed, his face a mask of cold, hard fury. The retired coach's eyes, the same emerald green as Tyler's but devoid of any warmth, scanned him up and down with pure contempt.

"What in the holy hell was that, son?" he spat, the word 'son' sounding like an insult. "That wasn't a performance. That was an embarrassment. A goddamn charity event for their offense. Did you forget how to tackle? Did you leave your brain in that fancy honors-classroom of yours?"

Each word was a physical blow. Tyler's breath hitched. He could feel the familiar, icy tendrils of panic beginning to snake around his lungs, squeezing. Not here. Not now. Not in front of him.

"I saw it," his father continued, taking a step closer, his voice dropping into a venomous whisper meant only for Tyler. "Everyone saw it. That whiff on the 35-yard line. You looked slow. You looked soft. All that work, all that time in the weight room, for what? To choke when it actually matters? Is this what perfection looks like to you? Because from where I'm standing, it looks a whole lot like failure."

The word failure echoed inside Tyler's skull, amplifying, distorting. The static in his ears grew louder. The lights pulsed. He could feel the weight of every eye in the stadium on him, see the disappointment on his teammates' faces, taste the copper-penny flavor of pure fear on his tongue. His body was betraying him. His lungs refused to expand. A cold sweat broke out across his brow, plastering his platinum blonde hair to his skin.

"I... I can't..." The words were a ragged gasp, barely audible.

"You can't what?" his father snapped, misinterpreting the struggle entirely. "You can't take a little criticism? You think I enjoy watching my son, my legacy, fall apart on national television? You need to toughen up, boy. This world doesn't care about your feelings."

But Tyler was no longer hearing him. The world had shrunk to the frantic, irregular beating of his own heart and the terrifying inability to pull air into his constricted chest. This was it. The big one. The one he'd always feared would happen in public, under the lights, in front of everyone. The perfect facade was shattering, and he was utterly, completely powerless to stop it.

A strong hand clapped onto his shoulder. Khalid. "Hey, man, come on. Let's get to the locker room. Ignore him." Khalid's voice was tense, trying to defuse the situation, to pull his friend and teammate away from the source of the poison.

But the touch, meant to be supportive, was overwhelming. It was too much sensory input on a system that was already crashing. Tyler flinched violently away from it, his eyes wide and unseeing, pupils dilated with pure terror. He stumbled back, his legs like jelly.

"Ty?" Khalid said, his voice now laced with confusion and concern. "Dude, you okay? You're white as a sheet."

Tyler's hands came up to his chest, clawing at the front of his jersey as if he could rip a hole in it to let the air in. A broken, wheezing sound escaped his lips. The panic was a living thing now, a monster sitting on his chest, crushing him. He was going to die. Right here on the fifty-yard line.

And in that absolute, utter freefall of terror, there was only one thought, one anchor, one name his shattered mind could grasp onto.

Her name. He choked it out, the name a desperate, strangled prayer.

Khalid froze. The concern on his face warped into sheer, uncomprehending confusion. "What? What did you just say?"

Tyler couldn't see him anymore. He was drowning. He sank to his knees on the turf, his broad shoulders shaking, his entire massive frame reduced to a trembling, terrified wreck. He was hyperventilating, sharp, useless gasps that did nothing to feed his starving lungs.

Her name again, he begged, his voice cracking with a sob he couldn't control. Tears of frustration and absolute fear mixed with the sweat on his cheeks. "Please... get her."

Khalid stared down at him, his own loss and frustration momentarily eclipsed by this bizarre, shocking demand. "Tyler, what the hell are you talking about? My sister? Why the hell are you asking for my sister right now? Man, get a grip!"

But Tyler was beyond reason, beyond explanation, beyond caring about the secret they'd so carefully kept. The monster was winning. The world was blacking out. There was only the void and the certain knowledge that only one person in the entire universe could pull him back from it.

He wrapped his arms around himself, rocking slightly, his forehead nearly touching the grass. The words were barely a whisper, a broken mantra repeated over and over between ragged, desperate gasps for air.

"Just get her... need her... only she... please..."

The secret was out. In the worst possible way, at the worst possible moment. And there was no going back.