IShowSpeed:Never Stop Dreaming!

The rhythmic thud of cleats against damp grass echoed through the air, punctuated by the sharp whistles of Coach Brooks. The faint scent of wet earth lingered as the clouds overhead threatened rain. Dante sprinted across the pitch, each breath burning in his chest as sweat clung to his skin. His muscles strained with every step, but he pushed harder, driven by the memory of Coach's words.

"Speed's your weapon—learn to control it, and you'll be unstoppable."

"Walker! Focus!" Brooks barked from the sideline as Dante chased down a long pass.

Dante gritted his teeth, narrowing his eyes as the ball rolled ahead. He adjusted his stride, slowing just enough to keep the ball close before cutting inside and firing a shot toward the goal. The net rippled as the ball struck the corner, and a surge of adrenaline rushed through his veins.

"Yes!" The shout escaped before he could stop it.

"Finally!" Ethan called from midfield. "See? I told you—you're getting it!"

"Don't celebrate yet," Jack's voice cut through the air. "That was just practice."

Dante ignored him, his pulse still racing with the thrill of the goal. He jogged back toward the center circle, trying to shake off the lingering tension that Jack always seemed to ignite.

"Alright, that's enough for today!" Coach Brooks shouted. "Hit the showers, then head home. And Walker—stay behind. I need a word."

Dante's stomach tightened, but he masked his nerves as he jogged toward the sidelines. The faint squish of grass beneath his cleats seemed louder now that the field was clearing.

After Practice

The locker room was quieter than usual, the hum of fluorescent lights and distant showers the only sounds as most of the team had already left. The faint scent of sweat and soap clung to the air. Dante sat on the bench, absently rolling a soccer ball beneath his foot while waiting for Coach Brooks.

"Walker." The coach's voice broke the silence as he stepped into the room, hands clasped behind his back. His sharp gaze seemed to pierce through Dante's thoughts.

"You're improving," Brooks began. "Your speed's still your biggest asset, but you're learning to control it. Keep this up, and you'll be ready for first-team trials sooner than you think."

Dante's pulse quickened. "Really?"

Brooks nodded, though his expression remained serious. "But you're not there yet. Focus and discipline—that's what separates professionals from amateurs. And that means no distractions."

Dante's shoulders stiffened. "Distractions?"

"You've been spending a lot of time with Emily Carter lately," Brooks said bluntly.

Dante's mouth went dry. "What does that have to do with—"

"Everything." Brooks cut him off. "Relationships can be great. But right now, your priority should be football. I've seen plenty of talented players throw away their careers because they couldn't stay focused. Don't let that happen to you."

Dante clenched his fists, heat rising to his face. "I can handle both."

Brooks held his gaze for a moment longer, then simply said, "Prove it."

With that, he turned and walked out, leaving Dante alone in the silence of the locker room.

That Evening: The Coffee Shop

The warmth of the coffee shop was a welcome contrast to the chilly air outside. The faint hum of conversations and clinking dishes filled the space, mingling with the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Soft jazz music played in the background, adding to the cozy atmosphere.

Dante sat near the window, his hands wrapped around a steaming mug. The faint reflection of city lights shimmered on the glass as the world outside darkened. His mind replayed Brooks' words on a loop, the tension coiling tighter in his chest with each repetition.

"Hey."

Emily's voice pulled him from his thoughts. He looked up as she slid into the seat across from him, her auburn hair catching the warm glow of the overhead lights. Her smile was soft, but her hazel eyes sparkled with curiosity.

"You okay? You look like you're carrying the weight of the world."

Dante forced a smile, though it felt tight. "Just… training stuff. Coach is pushing us hard."

Emily tilted her head slightly, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup. "Well, you're doing great. That goal against Coventry was amazing."

"Yeah, but it's not enough. I need to be better."

"Better?" She raised an eyebrow. "Dante, you're already one of the fastest players out there. You've got talent—just enjoy the game."

Her words were meant to encourage him, but they only added to the pressure tightening in his chest. He wanted to explain—to make her understand that enjoying the game wasn't enough. He had to master it. He had to prove that this dream wasn't a fantasy.

But instead, he forced another smile and changed the subject. "So, how's your uncle? Still complaining about the team's defense?"

Emily laughed, the sound light and infectious. "Always. He swears half the defenders couldn't stop a toddler if their life depended on it."

Despite himself, Dante chuckled, the tension in his chest loosening slightly. They talked for a while, the conversation flowing easily as Emily's laughter and quick wit slowly chased away the weight of the day.

And yet, even as he smiled and laughed with her, Brooks' warning lingered in the back of his mind.

"No distractions."

Two Weeks Later: Match Day

The roar of the crowd was a low hum beneath the steady pounding of Dante's heart as he stood near the sideline, waiting for the substitution call. The faint scent of grass and sweat filled the air, mingling with the distant aroma of hotdogs and popcorn from the concession stands. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the pitch.

"Walker! Get ready!" Coach Brooks shouted from the sideline.

Dante rolled his shoulders, bouncing lightly on his toes as adrenaline buzzed beneath his skin. This was his chance to prove himself. To show Brooks—and everyone else—that he could handle both his dream and his life outside of football.

The substitution was called, and Dante sprinted onto the field, the grass cool beneath his cleats. The game was fast-paced, Coventry pressing hard as Westford fought to hold their lead.

"Walker—on the wing!" Ethan shouted, threading a pass through the defense.

Dante surged forward, the wind biting against his skin as he accelerated down the sideline. The ball rolled smoothly at his feet as he cut past one defender, then another, his pulse racing with the thrill of speed. The goal loomed ahead—the keeper shifting into position—

—but his thoughts faltered.

Emily's smile. Her laugh. Brooks' warning. No distractions.

His hesitation lasted less than a second—but it was enough. His touch slipped too far, and the keeper dove forward, snatching the ball just as Dante lunged for it.

The whistle blew, signaling the end of the play. Dante clutched his hair, frustration burning hot in his chest as the crowd groaned.

Damn it!

"Focus, Walker!" Jack shouted as he jogged past. "This isn't a date!"

Dante's blood boiled, but there was no time to respond as the game pressed on. The minutes ticked down, each second slipping away like sand through his fingers. When the final whistle blew, Westford had won—but Dante's chest felt hollow.

After the Match

The locker room buzzed with the sounds of celebration—laughter, clapping, and the occasional shout of victory. But Dante sat in silence, staring at the floor as sweat cooled against his skin. The faint scent of grass and leather felt heavier than usual, as if the air itself carried the weight of his frustration.

"Walker."

Dante looked up as Coach Brooks approached, his gaze steady but unreadable.

"You've got potential, but potential isn't enough. If you want to make it, you need to decide what matters most."

Without waiting for a reply, Brooks turned and walked away, his words hanging in the air like a challenge.

Later That Night

The city lights flickered against the dark sky as Dante walked home, his breath visible in the chilly air. His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it, his mind too heavy with doubt and frustration.

Emily's smile flashed through his thoughts, but so did the sting of failure—the hesitation that had cost him a goal.

As he stepped onto the empty sidewalk, the distant hum of traffic and the faint rustle of leaves were the only sounds that accompanied him. His fists clenched at his sides as he whispered the words that had become both his mantra and his curse:

"No distractions."

And for the first time, he wasn't sure if he could keep that promise.

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