Saturday morning arrived with unexpected sunshine, a welcome break from February's usual gray skies. Tristain stood outside the North Bridgeton Rec Center, clutching a basketball and wearing borrowed sneakers from Mr. Sayana. He'd arrived fifteen minutes early, partly from nervousness, partly from habit—Coach Milton had drilled being punctual into the team as fiercely as he could.
The rec center was a brick building with high windows and a large "Community Pride" banner stretched across its entrance. Inside, the hardwood courts gleamed under fluorescent lights, the smell of floor polish and sweat creating that universal gym atmosphere Tristain recognized from a thousand practices.
"Texas! You actually showed up!" Jamal's voice echoed across the empty court as he pushed through the double doors, Deshawn and two other guys from the football team trailing behind him.
"Said I would, didn't I?" Tristain dribbled the ball experimentally, getting a feel for the bounce
"Yeah, but we figured you'd be watching game film with Marcus or throwing routes or something." Deshawn dropped his gym bag on a bench. "Football robot mode and all that."
Tristain smiled, comfortable enough with these new friends to take the teasing. "Even robots need software updates."
As more players arrived—a mix of football teammates and other North Bridgeton students—Tristain found himself relaxing into the familiar rhythm of pickup basketball. They split into teams, Jamal appointing himself captain of one and naming Tristain captain of the other.
"Let's see what Texas is made of," he announced with a grin.
The first few possessions were awkward as Tristain adjusted to the different team movement, and was just settling in. But then, something clicked.
He drove toward the basket, a defender cutting off his path. Without conscious thought, Tristain executed a perfect between the leg cross to the right before spinning to the left and sealing the defender with his left hand, creating space where none had existed, then floating a pass to Davis for an easy layup.
"Damn, TD got handles!" someone shouted from the sideline.
[SLOT 1: JOHNNY MANZIEL - SCRAMBLING ABILITY - 42% ASSIMILATED]
The text flashed momentarily across his vision. one percent increase just from the cross-sport application. Interesting.
As the games continued, Tristain found himself enjoying the pure physical exertion, the focus on something other than football, the easy camaraderie of competition without the weight of expectations. Here, he wasn't North Bridgeton's quarterback savior—he was just another guy playing ball on a Saturday morning.
During a water break, Tristain checked his phone—a text from Coach Torres:
"Wednesday, 3:30. Track preseason. Bring running shoes and a good mindset. Milton says you're in."
Tristain hadn't formally agreed yet, but apparently the decision had been made for him. He thought about protesting, then reconsidered. The QB System's response to basketball suggested that different athletic challenges might accelerate the assimilation process. Plus, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't curious about the track team—specifically, about certain members of the track team.
"You good with that?" Davis asked, having read the text over Tristain's shoulder.
"I guess I am now," Tristain replied, pocketing his phone.
"Torres is intense, but fair," Davis said. "And he's not wrong about dual-sport athletes getting more scout attention."
The mention of scouts reminded Tristain of his ultimate goal—playing at the next level, proving he belonged among the elite. Perhaps the track wasn't too bad after all.
"Time to wrap it up, gentlemen," called the rec center supervisor. "Youth league needs the court at eleven."
As they gathered their things, Deshawn nudged Tristain. "You heading to that study group thing later?"
"Thinking about it," Tristain admitted.
"Smart man," Deshawn said with exaggerated wisdom. "Athletics, Academics. Plus, you know, girls."
Tristain rolled his eyes but couldn't suppress a smile. "It's just homework."
"Sure it is, Texas. Sure it is." Deshawn said while patting his shoulder looking resigned
---
Westbridge Coffee occupied a corner storefront in North Bridgeton's small downtown district. Large windows let in the afternoon light, illuminating mismatched furniture and local artwork that gave the place its character. The smell of espresso and freshly baked scones filled the air as Tristain pushed through the door, backpack slung over his shoulder.
He spotted the study group immediately—four students clustered around a large table in the back corner, textbooks and laptops spread across the surface. Scarlett and Ayana were there, along with a boy and girl Tristain didn't recognize.
"He actually came," Ayana said as he approached, her tone suggesting a lost bet.
"I said he might," Scarlett replied without looking up from her notes.
Tristain hesitated, suddenly feeling like an intruder. "Is there room for one more?"
"Pull up a chair," said the boy, whom Tristain now recognized as Nathan Chen, editor of the school newspaper. "We could use a Football perspective on Macbeth's downfall."
"Because those things are obviously related," Ayana muttered, but she shifted her books to make space.
Tristain sat between Nathan and the other girl, who introduced herself as Zoe Miller, vice president of the debate team. The table represented a different cross-section of North Bridgeton High than he was used to..
"How was basketball?" Scarlett asked, surprising Tristain with the knowledge of his morning activities.
"You mentioned it last time, remember?," she explained, reading his confusion. "Plus Jamal mentioned it ,we have AP Physics together."
"It was good," Tristain said. "Different muscles than football. I'll be feeling it tomorrow."
"Just wait until Torres gets hold of you on Tuesday," Ayana said, finally engaging directly. "Track conditioning is its own special form of torture."
"You're on the team?" Tristain asked, though he already knew the answer from Marcus.
"Four years now. 400 and 4x400 relay." A hint of pride crept into her voice. "Scarlett too, though she's more of a hurdle specialist."
"Sprints and long jump," Scarlett clarified. "Nothing as technically annoying as hurdles."
The conversation flowed more easily after that, shifting between academic subjects and school activities. Tristain contributed to the Macbeth discussion, drawing some parallels between the play's themes of ambition and the pressures of athletic competition. The others seemed surprised by him, which both pleased and irritated him. Why was it so shocking that a football player could understand Shakespeare?
As the afternoon progressed, Tristain found himself observing the dynamics between Scarlett and Ayana—the easy shorthand of long friendship, the occasional competitive edge, the obvious respect underlying their interactions. They were so different from the girls at Southfield, who had either ignored him entirely or shown interest only after learning he was on the football team (albeit riding the bench).
"We should probably wrap up," Nathan eventually said, checking his watch. "I've got dinner with my grandparents at five."
As they packed up their materials, Ayana turned to Tristain. "Mom asked me to remind you about dinner tonight. She's making something special for Emma's birthday."
Tristain nodded, touched that Mrs. Sayana had remembered his sister's birthday. "I'll be there. Just need to stop and get something first."
"A gift?" Ayana asked.
"Sort of. Just something small to send to her."
Something flickered in Ayana's expression—curiosity, perhaps, or surprise at this glimpse of Tristain's family connections. "The gift shop on Main closes at four, but the bookstore's open until six if that helps."
"Thanks," Tristain said, genuinely appreciating the information.
As they left the coffee shop, Scarlett fell into step beside him. "You did well today," she said. "With the Macbeth analysis. Your connection between his fatal flaw and athletic overconfidence was... unexpected."
"Because football players can't read literature?" Tristain couldn't keep the edge from his voice.
Scarlett gave him a measured look. "Because most people—athlete or not—don't make those kinds of connections. It was insightful, that's all." She adjusted her bag on her shoulder. "You coming to Torres's practice Tuesday?"
"Apparently I am."
"Good." A small smile touched her lips. "It'll be interesting to see what you can do on a straightaway instead of a zigzag course."
Before Tristain could respond, she quickened her pace and caught up with Nathan, leaving him to puzzle over whether that had been a compliment, a challenge, or simply an observation.
The Sayana house smelled of rich spices and cooking oil when Tristain returned that evening. He'd stopped at the bookstore and found a small journal with a watercolor cover that reminded him of the paintings Emma liked to create.
"There you are," Mrs. Sayana called from the kitchen. "Dinner's almost ready. How was your study group?"
"Productive," Tristain answered, setting his backpack by the stairs. "Thanks for remembering about my sister's birthday."
"Of course. Family celebrations are important, especially when you're far from home." She gestured toward an ingredient-laden counter. "I hope you don't mind, but I asked Ayana about Haitian food, and she mentioned you might be homesick for certain dishes. I tried to make diri ak pwa—though I'm not sure I got it right."
Tristain stared at the rice and beans dish in surprise. It wasn't exactly like his mother's recipe, but the attempt itself touched something deep within him. "It looks great," he said, voice thick with unexpected emotion.
"We thought Emma might like to see her brother celebrating her birthday even from far away," Mr. Sayana added, entering the kitchen. "Ayana suggested we take pictures to send her."
"That was Ayana's idea?" Tristain glanced toward the stairs.
"She understands about siblings," Mrs. Sayana said simply. "Now go wash up, dinner in five minutes."
When Tristain came back downstairs, the dining table had been decorated with a small "Happy Birthday Emma" sign and a cupcake with a single candle. Ayana was setting out plates, avoiding his gaze.
"This is really thoughtful," Tristain said quietly as he approached. "Thank you."
Ayana shrugged, but her expression softened. "My brother did the same for me when he first left for college. It helped."
"Still. You didn't have to."
"We're not heartless, Tristain," she said, finally meeting his eyes. "Just because I'm not impressed by your football status doesn't mean I don't recognize that you're a person with a family and feelings."
Before he could formulate a response to that unexpectedly direct statement, Mrs. Sayana called them to dinner.
The meal was a curious fusion of Haitian and American traditions, the diri ak pwa served alongside a lasagna that Mrs. Sayana explained was her own mother's recipe. As they ate, Tristain found himself sharing stories about Emma—her art competitions, her fierce defense of him whenever anyone suggested he should give up on football, her determination to attend art school despite their parents' practical concerns.
"She sounds like someone who knows her own mind," Mr. Sayana observed.
"Stubborn is more like it," Tristain said with a fond smile. "Runs in the family, my dad says."
"I can't imagine where you got that impression," Ayana remarked dryly, but there was humor in her eyes rather than a guard raised to the sky
After dinner, they video-called Emma, the Sayanas singing "Happy Birthday" along with Tristain while Emma laughed in delight from the screen. Seeing his sister's face, her familiar bedroom in the background, gave Tristain a momentary pang of homesickness, but it was tempered by the warmth of his current surroundings.
"Are those my birthday people?" His mother appeared beside Emma on the video call, her face lighting up as Tristain introduced the Sayanas. "Mèsi anpil!" she exclaimed when Mrs. Sayana described the dinner. "Such kindness to my son."
"He's a pleasure to have," Mrs. Sayana replied, and to Tristain's surprise, she seemed to mean it.
Later, as he prepared for bed, Tristain found a folded note had been slipped under his door. Inside, in neat handwriting he recognized as Ayana's, was a simple message:
"For tracking your QB progress. Figured you could use a better system than scraps of paper. -A"
Beneath it lay a small leather-bound notebook—precisely the type of journal he'd been wanting for recording the System's development, his dreams, his strategies for the future.
How had she known? Had she seen his scattered notes, or was it simply a logical gift for someone navigating a new life?
As Tristain began transferring his QB System observations to the new journal, the text flashed across his vision:
[SLOT 1: JOHNNY MANZIEL - SCRAMBLING ABILITY - 44% ASSIMILATED]
Another percentage point, just from the cross-training of basketball and the relaxed mental state of the day's varied activities. Perhaps the path to full assimilation wasn't through singular focus but through becoming more complete, more balanced.
Tristain wrote this observation in his new journal, adding Ayana's track practice on Tuesday and the potential for further cross-sport development. Nearly halfway to full Manziel integration, with spring football still months away. And what then? Would there be a new template, a new dimension to the QB System?
For the first time since the System had activated, Tristain felt not just acceptance of its presence, but anticipation for its evolution.
The expanded horizons of today had shown him possibilities beyond the field, connections beyond the playbook