The Bleachers Dream

(somewhere between memory and myth)

The stadium is empty. The floodlights hum but cast no light. The field is a suggestion—chalk lines barely visible in the mist.

Dex sits on the lowest bleacher. His hooves dangle off the edge. He’s still in his uniform—#20 on his back, shoulder pads loosened, helmet on the bench beside him. He looks… unfinished. Like a sketch not inked in.

Behind him, the bleachers creak. Once. Then again.

He doesn’t turn.

Dex (softly):

“I know you’re there.”

There’s no reply. Just a shift of weight. A sigh. The sound of metal as a clipboard settles beside him.

Then a low voice, gravel-coated and unsure:

Lupa:

“Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Dex shakes his head.

Dex:

“You didn’t. This one’s mine. You’re just… in it.”

A pause. The mist pulses, like breath.

Lupa doesn’t sit. He just leans against the railing, arms crossed. His headset crackles, though there’s no game, no signal.

Dex runs a hand over his face. There's turf paint smeared under his eyes, but it doesn’t look like war paint anymore. It looks like tears he forgot to wipe off.

Dex:

“I used to be scared to say your name. Even here. In the dreams.”

Lupa (without flinching):

“You thought I’d vanish?”

Dex (finally looking up):

“No. I thought I’d call you back… broken.”

That hits. Lupa’s jaw tightens. His ears twitch.