School Pov
The hum of the old ceiling fan buzzed faintly above them, blending with the low murmur of students flipping through their textbooks. The classroom smelled faintly of old paper and dry-erase markers, a scent Samuel had quickly associated with this new chapter of his life.
The excitement from his birthday had settled, leaving behind a quiet but persistent happiness. Samuel was still smiling inwardly about this year's gacha gift—finally, an actual item he could use. Not in public, sure, but it was something, and the possibilities had kept his thoughts spinning all morning.
While Dylan whispered beside him, Samuel's mind drifted between imagined scenarios and random song lyrics that had popped into his head when he first unboxed it. He sat in the back row, chair tilted just enough to lean on two legs without falling over, only half-listening to the teacher drone on about similes and metaphors.
"Dude, you saw her, right?" Dylan whispered, his voice low but animated. "The redhead from homeroom? Amy? She was totally smiling at me when I made that joke about the vending machine eating my dollar." He nudged Samuel with his elbow, trying to force some kind of reaction, eyes scanning Samuel's face for approval.
Samuel glanced sideways at Dylan, lips twitching into a half-smirk. "You sure she wasn't just laughing at the fact you nearly punched the glass to get a Snickers?" he murmured. Still, the name Amy and the red hair sparked a flicker of recognition. For a split second, he thought Doctor Who—the girl who waited. But nah, didn't fit. No Scottish accent, no wild energy. Just a girl with red curls and a quiet vibe.
The bell rang with a sharp buzz that cut through the low hum of classroom chatter, snapping a few students out of their daydreams. Samuel shifted upright, letting all four legs of his chair hit the ground with a soft thunk. Around them, backpacks zipped open and chairs scraped across the floor like a chaotic chorus. Dylan was still mid-sentence, clearly not ready to let go of the Amy topic.
"Great! Don't forget to do the homework for next week!" the teacher called out over the noise, holding up a stapled packet like it was a prize. "Chapters three and four. Don't come crying Monday if you 'forgot.'" Her words were swallowed in the rush of feet and voices, but Samuel caught the gist. Homework. Right. As if he didn't already have enough to process.
As they stepped into the hallway, Dylan nudged Samuel with his elbow again. "Yo, you got P.E. now too?" he asked, weaving past a group of kids clogging the doorway.
Samuel gave a small nod, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. "Yeah, but I think more people have P.E. right now than just our class. Judging by the crowd, it looks like half the school's heading there too.
"Awesome. I get to share P.E. with the walking ad for peak performance. Amy's gonna be watching you sprint across the field while I'm in the back trying not to pass out tying my shoes.
Samuel gave a half-smile. "Trust me, you'll probably end up pretty happy with your genetics," he said. He didn't mention that Dylan had actually grown up pretty well in his previous world too—taller than expected, filled out nicely, and eventually grew into his own charm. It just took him a little longer to see it back then. Here, though, maybe he'd get there sooner.
PE
When they arrived at the football field, Samuel blinked in surprise—there were way more students than he expected. The stands, normally empty during gym class, were packed. And not just with athletes or coaches—everyone was there. Jocks, nerds, theater kids, art students, even a few kids who seemed to be singing in some kind of impromptu a cappella group near the top row.
It was like someone put out a school-wide alert: Come watch the freshmen run for their lives. The whole place buzzed with a weird mix of curiosity and excitement, like they were all here to scout, judge, or just enjoy the chaos. It didn't feel like a regular class—it felt like a show.
Samuel glanced around, eyebrows slightly raised. Is it normal that the whole school comes out for P.E. classes? Because where he came from, people did everything they could to avoid them.
Dylan muttered something about regretting not faking a cough, but before either of them could say more, a sharp voice cut through the noise.
"Alright, freshmen!" the teacher barked, clipboard in hand and whistle already swinging around his neck. "P.E. is separated by the athletics of the individual. All the freshmen in the school are here today because we're holding a series of tests to determine which class you're scheduled into." A few kids shifted nervously. The teacher continued, trying to sound encouraging, "It doesn't matter if you don't make the top group. This is about knowing your pace, your starting point." But Samuel had already spotted a handful of kids—pale, glasses slipping down their noses—shrinking back like they'd just been called into a gladiator pit.
Samuel crossed his arms and took a slow look around the gym. The buzz of nervous energy was everywhere—some kids looked excited, others already defeated—and for a second, he just stood there, soaking it in.
This wasn't just gym class—it was a low-key proving ground. A chance to measure himself against kids who didn't even realize what they were capable of yet.
His eyes caught familiar faces. A kid he was sure had been in a karate-focused show, sharp-eyed and already stretching like he was about to enter a tournament. A few bulky guys from football dramas—big, broad, and clearly used to weight rooms. And then there were the future pros, the ones who would eventually light up NBA or NFL screens. Right now, they were just freshmen with something to prove.
And Samuel? He didn't need to prove anything to anyone. But he wanted to see how he matched up. Just out of curiosity. Maybe a little pride. This was the perfect excuse.
The teacher raised his whistle and shouted over the crowd, "First, we start with rounds around the field! We'll see who can keep running the longest."
Almost immediately, Samuel heard a wave of whispers ripple through the group. Kids groaned, some already looking like they regretted ever showing up. A few tried to laugh it off, but the nervous energy was impossible to ignore.
The teacher must've noticed the growing nerves, because he added, "Don't worry! We've got one more test after this to help balance things out. But just so you know—if you land in the top five percent during this run, you're automatically placed in the highest-level class. No exceptions.
It helped… a little. But Samuel could still feel the tension in the air.
Samuel raised an eyebrow, barely holding back a grin. Running? That was the test? He could run for hours if they let him. Honestly, if it meant skipping the rest of the school day, he'd do laps until the sun went down.
There was something peaceful about it—the rhythm, the focus, the silence that came with motion. If he had the choice, he'd run through every period, every class. Just him and the track, no awkward small talk, no pretending to care about worksheets. This was more his speed.
Then it began. The whistle blew, and the wave of freshmen surged forward across the field. At first, it was chaotic—kids jockeying for position, some sprinting like it was a 100-meter dash, others pacing themselves. Samuel found his rhythm easily, breathing steady, legs moving like they had been waiting for this.
By the end of the first lap, a few students were already falling behind. By the second, several had peeled off completely, hands on knees, sucking air like they'd just run a marathon. He spotted Dylan among them, still going but barely. The guy was huffing and puffing, weaving through the slow group like he was surviving a natural disaster.
Samuel smirked. Yeah… you definitely impressed Amy, he thought with mild amusement.
By the third lap, Dylan was done. Samuel glanced back just in time to see him stumble off to the side, hands on his knees, face pale and sweaty. A second later, Dylan doubled over and looked like he was about to lose his breakfast right there on the grass.
Samuel winced. Oof. That's one way to make an impression, he thought, shaking his head. Poor guy. At least he gave it a shot—but puking in front of half the freshman class wasn't exactly the heroic underdog story Dylan probably had in mind.
After that, Samuel zoned in. He found his rhythm and slipped into it like second nature, jogging at a pace he could hold for hours. He stopped counting how many people he'd passed—there were too many. Out of the original crowd, he guessed maybe eighty kids were still going after 20 rounds around the fields, but most were flagging, slowing down with each lap.
The only reason he started remembering faces was because, after a while, he got tired of silently weaving through the same kids. So he started calling out, "On your left," each time he passed someone. It was a Captain America line, and yeah, maybe it was a little dramatic—but it fit. With how easy the run felt, he couldn't help but feel a little like Cap himself, effortlessly cruising past everyone else on the field.
SIDELINE POV
From the side of the field, a small group of P.E. teachers stood with clipboards in hand, sunglasses on, scanning the students like coaches at a tryout. Most were chatting quietly, marking notes as kids started dropping out of the run one by one. They weren't expecting much—this was mostly to filter out the extremes. Find the naturals. Sort the ones who needed the most structure.
But one of them, a taller coach with a buzzcut and a no-nonsense attitude, nudged the teacher next to him and nodded toward the far curve of the track. "That one," he said, scribbling something on his sheet. "Green shirt. He's not even winded." The others followed his gaze. Samuel moved like he was on autopilot, weaving through clusters of students, calling out "On your left" like it was a joke—but he was consistent. Effortless. And that didn't go unnoticed.
On the other end of the sideline, the basketball team's coach leaned closer to the football coach, his arms crossed and eyes squinting behind his sunglasses. "Hey," he muttered, nodding subtly toward Samuel. "Did that kid apply for your team?"
The football coach scanned the field when the basketball coach nodded toward the tall, steady runner weaving through the pack. He narrowed his eyes. "Nah, never saw him at tryouts," he said, more to himself than anyone else. Strange. The kid looked like a machine—relaxed pace, barely breaking a sweat.
These tests were technically for P.E. placement, but everyone on staff knew better. It was a quiet scouting session. Coaches watched, looking for standouts. If a kid showed promise, they'd get a second look—an invitation, maybe even a fast track onto one of the teams. And this one? He had the kind of effortless stamina that made you want to see if he could take a hit… or throw one.
Meanwhile, up in the viewing stands, a mix of upper-year students leaned against the railings, eyes scanning the field below. Some were there on purpose—scouting, unofficially. Captains and starters from the school's top teams watching to see if any of the new kids had it. That spark. That drive. Maybe even a little raw talent they could mold.
Others sat with arms crossed and quieter expressions. They'd done this test before. Knew how much weight it carried—how it could quietly shape your high school path. A few of them had failed it. Not publicly, but enough to be placed into lower classes, out of sight, out of reach of the more serious teams. And now they watched, silent and sharp-eyed, waiting to see if anyone else would crumble the same way they had.
Haley Dunphy pov
I came here to watch Alex flail and faceplant. That was the whole point. She made such a big deal about how physical fitness was just another "mental challenge"—whatever that means—and I figured, sure, let's see how that goes once she actually has to move.
Instead? She pulled out a book and sat down like she was above it all. No chaos. No drama. Just… boring.
So, obviously, I turned back to my friends.
My friends and I had already moved on to talking about way more important things—like whether Maddy's new nails were too much or just enough—when the noise around us shifted.
People started talking. Like, really talking.
It was all about some freshman who was apparently out there embarrassing every so-called sport prodigy like it was nothing. I didn't even catch it at first, but then I heard someone say, "He's just casually running—like, for fun—and he's not even tired?"
So yeah, we all snapped out of our little group chat at that point.
The buzz was spreading. Some freshman kid who wasn't on any team, wasn't hyped up, wasn't even trying to show off… was just out there cruising. Every time someone tried to pass him, he'd end up passing them again five minutes later. And occasionally? He'd just say, "On your left," like it was some inside joke.
Casssy and Maddy immediately jumped into gossip mode, their heads practically touching as they whispered and pointed. "Who is that? He's kinda hot in that low-effort, probably-doesn't-even-own-hair-gel way," Maddy said, squinting through her oversized sunglasses. "He's definitely new. Why do the cute ones never last year to year?"
"I think his name is Samuel," I said, not really thinking much about it until they both turned on me like I'd just dropped a celebrity sighting.
"Samuel what?""Do you know him?""Wait, like... do you talk to him?"
I blinked. "Samuel Shore. I think he lives on my street? He doesn't do any sports, at least I've never seen him at practice or anything." And suddenly it was like I'd said I lived next door to a prince or something.
They started bombarding me with questions like I had his entire life story hidden in my purse.
But like… it's not like I actually knew that much.What was I supposed to say? "Oh yeah, he just does archery or something"? Yeah, that'd go over real well.
Thad's Pov
From a few rows up in the bleachers, Thad Castle leaned forward, arms crossed over his letterman jacket, eyes locked on Samuel like he'd just spotted a unicorn bench-pressing a car.
"He looks perfect to replace me as linebacker after next year," he muttered, nodding to himself. "Kid's got that built-in rage-to-weight ratio."
Then he smirked, clearly proud. "Not that it matters—I already committed to Blue Mountain State next season. Coach Marty? Absolute legend. The man once ran a practice from a hot tub. That's leadership."
Jacks Pov
From the edge of the track, Jack stood with his arms crossed, watching the freshman glide through lap after lap like it was nothing. The kid didn't just run—he moved with control, like every step had a purpose. "Could be a good addition to the dojo," Jack muttered.
"Who?" Milton asked, not even looking up from his tablet.
Jack nodded toward the field. "Green shirt. The one weaving through people like he's in a kung fu movie."
Jerry squinted. "Oh great. Another freak athlete. Please tell me I don't have to spar with him. I just got over my fear of nunchucks."
Milton suddenly perked up, fingers tapping across his screen. "Okay, so get this—Cobra Kai's back. They registered for the All-Valley prelims again. Just one fighter so far, a freshman nobody really knows yet, but the coach? Johnny Lawrence. Took second place in the 1984 tournament. Apparently, he's trying to 'revive the legacy.'"
Jerry blinked. "Wait, that Johnny Lawrence? Didn't he get crane-kicked into a midlife crisis?"
Jack cracked a grin. "Yeah, well… legacy or not, if Cobra Kai's back on the board, we've got competition. And if that kid joins them, we're screwed."
Milton nodded slowly, eyes still on the field. "Then you better talk to him before someone else does. I've seen at least three other people watching him like he's a draft pick."
Jack's jaw tightened slightly, gaze narrowing on the track. "Yeah… I noticed. Looks like we're not the only ones scouting today."
Samuel Pov
Location by Khalid was still playing in my head from this morning, looping like background music to a movie I didn't know I was starring in. I couldn't help it—the vibe just stuck. Chill, steady, easy to move to. And now that I had access to music again? Real music? It felt like a small kind of magic. I could hum through a dozen songs and not even scratch the surface of what I'd missed.
I was mid-chorus in my head—send me your location, let's…—when the sharp blast of a whistle broke the rhythm.
"Jeez, kid!" the PE teacher shouted from across the field, hands cupped around his mouth. "You know you're the only one still running, right? The last kid dropped out five minutes ago!"
I blinked, surprised more by the fact that I hadn't noticed than by his tone. Guess I really had zoned out. The teacher raised an eyebrow. "You can keep going if you want, but it won't matter for placement."
I shrugged and called back, "Nah, I don't wanna hold anyone up."
With that, I slowed to a walk and made my way back across the grass toward the rest of the freshman group. Most of them were still catching their breath, red-faced and drenched in sweat, while a few were straight-up puking into the grass or lying flat on their backs like they'd just survived a war. It looked like a battlefield after cardio. A few, like Alex Dunphy and some others who tapped out after the first lap, were sitting off to the side looking perfectly fine—barely winded, not a drop of sweat. Smart, honestly.
Meanwhile, I just strolled over like I'd been out for a light jog on a cool morning. By the time I rejoined the group, everyone was staring—some with awe, others with a weird mix of fear and admiration. For a second, it genuinely felt like they thought I'd just won the Olympics.
Dylan stumbled over, still pale and wheezing, his hair plastered to his forehead. "Dude," he gasped, looking me up and down. "You're absolutely amazing. You have the stamina of some… supernatural beast. Are you a werewolf or something?"
I just laughed, shaking my head. "Nah. Just had a good breakfast."
That didn't seem to help.
Around me, a few kids chuckled awkwardly, but I could already hear whispers kicking up behind the group. Some of the jocks—guys who clearly weren't used to being outperformed—were throwing looks my way like I'd stolen something from them. A few muttered under their breath, trying to play it cool, but the way they kept glancing at me said enough.
One guy with linebacker shoulders scoffed loud enough for me to hear. "Bet he's one of those prep kids who trains for this stuff just to show off."
Another leaned toward his friend and said, "Probably got asthma meds laced with rocket fuel."
Cool. So I was that guy now.
Then it happened.
The football coach. The basketball coach. Track and field. Even the swim team captain. One by one—no, scratch that—all at once, they swarmed me like I was the cutest girl in school who just transferred in from some model academy. It was a blur of polos, whistles, and hopeful grins.
"So… ever played basketball before?""You've got amazing potential for swimming.""You know, you could be a great baseball player—we've been looking for a power runner."
Even the captains of those teams jumped in—guys a few years older, all muscle and confidence. One of them clapped me on the back and said, "You ever think about football? Thad Castle saw you run and actually nodded. That never happens." Another added, "If Castle thinks you're worth watching, you've got something, man."
I just stood there, caught somewhere between flattered and panicked, not even hearing half of what they were saying. It was like the world narrowed down to bright lights, noise, and my brain short-circuiting on loop.
Then I noticed them—off to the side, Haley Dunphy and her little clique, casually strolling over like they weren't paying attention, but their eyes said otherwise. Right behind her, a group of girls that looked like they walked straight off the set of Euphoria filtered in, lip gloss shimmering, glitter around their eyes, all suddenly very interested in school spirit.
Cassie, twirling her hair like she'd practiced it, leaned in with a smile and said, "We're the cheerleaders for the football team. So, y'know… if you join, we technically come with it."
I didn't respond.
Mostly because I wasn't listening.
My eyes had accidentally locked onto the bouncing machines swaying up and down with every step they took—Cassie and Maddy moving like they were in slow motion, straight out of a shampoo commercial crossed with a music video. The noise around me faded. Coaches, captains, all of it—gone. Just vibes and… gravity.
I barely noticed the coaches still talking at me. All I could focus on was the light catching on Cassie's lip gloss like it was part of a slow-mo music video…
Fuck. I think I have to join something. I can't just tell all of them no. "No, I don't want to join your weird sports." That wasn't gonna cut it—not with the way they were looking at me like I was a once-in-a-generation draft pick who just landed on their field by accident.
Honestly, I was ready to tell everyone no. No teams, no practices, no weird locker room bonding. I didn't need any of it.
But then I glanced at them again—laughing, bouncing, throwing glances like they weren't obvious about it…
Hmm… maybe football wouldn't be such a bad choice after all.