The air still smelled faintly of sweat and grass, like it always did after a Seabrook football game. But the noise—the cheers, the music, the electric buzz that usually lit up the stadium—had long faded into the late afternoon quiet. Now, the only sound was the occasional creak of the bleachers and the low murmur of voices.

Zed sat on the third row, leg outstretched, encased in a pristine white cast that covered everything from mid-shin to ankle. His crutches rested beside him, awkward and clunky. He was trying to pretend he didn't hate them. The swelling had gone down, but the pain was still sharp when he moved the wrong way.

Worse than the pain, though, was the frustration.

He had worked all year—every practice, every extra drill—to get Seabrook into championship shape. He was supposed to be the guy who led the team to victory. Instead? He was benched, injured, and sitting in silence while the season rolled on without him.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "This sucks."

"I know," said a voice beside him—soft, warm, steady.

Addison plopped down beside him with her usual brightness, though her eyes held a shimmer of concern. She had her cheer jacket tied around her waist and a backpack slung over one shoulder. She reached inside it and pulled out a handful of colorful gel pens.

"I come bearing gifts," she said with a grin.

Zed raised a brow. "Art supplies?"

"Cast canvas," she corrected, clicking a pink pen. "You didn't think I'd let you keep that thing all boring and blank, did you?"

He laughed softly. "You're gonna draw on me?"

"Absolutely." She tapped the side of the cast. "This is the most important part of the healing process—emotional support doodles."

With one knee tucked under her and a tongue peeking slightly out of the corner of her mouth in concentration, Addison began sketching. First came big block letters spelling "ZED"—bold, dramatic, and surrounded by sparkles. Then a cartoon football with little hearts for laces.

She glanced up at him. "Tell me if you want me to stop."

"No way," Zed said. "This is already the highlight of my day."

She smiled softly. "Good."

Before either of them could say more, the thump of boots on bleachers echoed closer.

"Eliza!" Zed called, already grinning.

Eliza climbed up with purpose, her combat boots scuffing the aluminum. "Figured you'd be brooding. Luckily for you, I come with reinforcements."

Bonzo trailed behind her, juggling three snack bags and a large thermos. He dropped his things in front of Zed like it was a care package.

"Pick your poison," Eliza said, sitting cross-legged and handing him a bag of hot chips. "Also, we brought the good zombie soda. The one that fizzes like a science experiment."

Zed's eyes widened. "The cherry-lime-zombie-blast one?"

Bonzo grinned. "The one and only."

"Guys…" Zed blinked, overwhelmed but touched. "You didn't have to do all this."

"We wanted to," Addison said, still doodling. "You're part of the team, Zed. Cast or not."

Eliza popped open the thermos and poured some soda into a cup for him. "And you're not allowed to feel sorry for yourself alone. That's a group activity."

Bonzo nodded seriously. "Emotional bonding. Zombie code."

They launched into an impromptu card game using a half-torn deck Bonzo had in his backpack. Every time Zed lost a round, Addison would add another doodle to the cast—stars, stick figures, even a little zombie unicorn eating popcorn.

Eliza dealt the next hand. "So, Coach says you'll be out for six weeks?"

"Minimum," Zed muttered, poking at the edge of his cast. "I don't even know if I'll be back for playoffs."

Addison leaned into him. "You'll still be part of it. We need you—maybe not on the field, but on the sidelines, cheering and leading."

Zed frowned. "It's not the same."

"No," she agreed, "but it doesn't mean it's not important."

He was quiet a long moment, watching as Bonzo made a dramatic move in the card game and Eliza called him a cheater in three languages. Slowly, Zed smiled again.

"You guys are seriously the best," he said. "I thought this week was gonna be the worst, but... now it kind of feels like I'm winning in a different way."

"Good," Eliza said, handing him another card. "Now shut up and play."

Just as the sun started to dip below the bleachers, painting everything gold and pink, Bucky appeared at the edge of the field, arms crossed and strutting toward them like he was walking a fashion runway instead of a football field.

"What is that monstrosity?" he said, pointing at the cast.

Zed lifted it proudly. "It's called 'team spirit.' Want your face on it?"

Bucky's eyes narrowed as he spotted the cartoon version of himself mid-cheer. "Is that me? With jazz hands?!"

Addison gave him an innocent look. "Oh, totally not. It's, um... your evil twin."

Bonzo added helpfully, "His name is Ducky."

Bucky rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn't fall out. "Ugh. Whatever. Just don't get glitter on my cleats."

As he stomped off, the others burst into laughter.

Addison leaned her head on Zed's shoulder, soft and easy. "This may not be how you pictured your season, but maybe... this is where you're supposed to be right now."

Zed wrapped an arm around her, cast and all. "Yeah. Maybe it is."

And as the sky turned violet and the stars blinked above Seabrook, Zed felt something stronger than frustration. Stronger than pain.

He felt peace.