King of the Pitch: Reborn to Conquer

The halls of Lincoln High buzzed with morning chatter, sneakers squeaking against polished floors, lockers slamming shut.

Julian followed silently behind Ms. Camila Rivera, the literature teacher for Class 12.

She walked with a calm grace, professional yet relaxed. Her brown hair was tied in a loose bun, a few strands falling beside her cheek.

Her skin was warm-toned, sun-kissed. Her fitted blouse and flowing black skirt gave her a polished, academic air.

Julian glanced at her and thought, Latina heritage, maybe?

In this world, there were only humans—divided not by species, but by race, culture, and upbringing.

 A world that had long since learned, at least on paper, that prejudice against someone's background was forbidden.

Ms. Rivera's voice pulled him from his thoughts.

"Your guardian told me you've been homeschooled due to medical issues," she said, glancing at him. "And that this is your first time in a traditional school?"

"Yes, Miss," Julian replied, politely.

"Well then," she smiled gently, "I hope this becomes a good chapter in your life."

They reached the door at the end of the hall.

She opened it with a practiced push.

A classroom full of students turned to look.

The hum of conversation dimmed.

Ms. Rivera stepped in first. "Okay, class. We have a new transfer joining us today—"

Transfer? Julian blinked. Not exactly wrong...

She turned and gestured toward him.

Julian stepped forward, calm and composed, voice even.

"My name is Julian Ashford. Nice to meet you all."

He scanned the room casually as he spoke.

Wooden desks. Open notebooks. A stack of poetry texts on the front table.

Then—

A familiar face.

Leonardo Luz.

Leo sat near the back by the window, one leg propped lazily over the other. He raised a hand in greeting and flashed a wide grin, throwing Julian a quick thumbs-up.

Julian's eyebrow twitched slightly. What are the odds?

Ms. Rivera smiled. "Now then—any volunteers to help our new student get up to speed?"

Before the question was even finished, a chair scraped loudly.

"Me!" Leo stood, hand raised.

The class chuckled.

Ms. Rivera shook her head fondly.

"Of course. Leonardo, please take care of him."

"No problem, Miss. I've got him."

Julian let out a soft sigh as he walked toward the empty seat beside Leo.

So this is how school life starts, huh?

…

After class.

The bell rang, echoing through the hallways like a starting gun.

Students filed out, chatting and laughing. Julian packed his things quietly.

"You actually came," Leo said, his tone playful, nudging Julian's arm with a grin.

"You asked me to. Figured it was worth checking out." Julian shrugged, calm as ever.

Leo slung his bag over one shoulder. "Well, I'm glad you did. And hey—your timing's perfect. Today's our first football club meeting since the summer break."

"After school?"

"Yup. Practice starts around four. But before that…" Leo gestured down the hall. "Let me give you the grand tour."

They walked together, blending into the wave of students moving between periods.

Leo pointed out everything as they went:

"That's the cafeteria. The food's mid—but the cookies? Not bad."

"Math class is there. Mr. Dalton—tough but fair."

"Over here's the gym... and that sad little building? That's the locker room."

"And finally—our football club. Home of the underdogs."

They stood outside a modest side building attached to the main field. A few posters flapped weakly on the wall, half-torn, their edges sun-bleached.

"Not exactly famous," Leo admitted with a sheepish grin. "Our team's been... well, let's just say we haven't won much of anything in the last ten years."

Julian raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like a challenge."

Leo's grin sharpened. "Damn right. But this year's different. With Coach Owens leading us—we're not just here to play. We're here to win."

Julian didn't reply right away. He glanced toward the field in the distance, wind brushing the grass gently.

Winning, huh?

He smiled faintly. "I'm in."

They kept walking through the halls, chatting like old friends—Leo goofing around, Julian replying with dry wit. Despite being new, Julian didn't feel out of place. Not here. Not now.

Eventually, the final bell rang. The school day ended.

Julian was already near the exit when Leo caught up.

"You coming?" Leo asked, raising an eyebrow.

Julian looked him in the eye and gave a short nod.

"Yeah. Let's go."

…

They walked together down the side path behind the main school building, passing rustling trees and a faded mural of the school mascot on the gym wall.

Eventually, they stopped in front of a squat, square building with peeling paint—the locker room.

Leo pushed the door open.

Julian stepped inside.

It smelled like sweat, grass, and worn-out leather. Wooden benches lined the center, metal lockers flanked the walls, and inside were a dozen students in athletic gear—some stretching, some chatting, others already lacing up cleats.

But at the front of the room stood a man who immediately caught Julian's attention.

He wasn't bulky, but his frame was carved like a fighter—muscles taut under a navy tracksuit jacket with the school crest on the chest.

 His head was clean-shaven, and his eyes were sharp, fierce—like a hawk eyeing prey. The moment Julian stepped in, the man's gaze locked on him.

A voice barked across the room.

"Hey! Leo! Who the hell did you bring?"

The energy in the room shifted instantly. Every head turned toward the door. A dozen pairs of eyes locked onto Julian.

Julian didn't flinch.

Didn't lower his gaze.

Didn't shrink.

He walked in calmly, each step steady, and stood beside Leo with quiet confidence—as if he already belonged there.

Leo smirked. "Relax, Coach. This is Julian. He's our new striker. We need one, remember? Especially after Noah went down."

Coach Owens narrowed his eyes.

Then, with a grunt, he turned back toward the locker.

"Fine. If you vouch for him, I'll watch. Sit down, rookie."

Julian nodded silently and took a seat on the nearest bench, feeling every gaze still burning into his skin. But he didn't mind. Let them stare.

He'd earn their respect on the field.

Coach Owens clapped his hands once—sharp, like a gunshot.

"Alright, shut it."

Silence fell.

The team sat up straighter. Even the air seemed to go still.

"We're not here to mess around this season," Owens said, pacing slowly in front of the whiteboard. His voice was low, deliberate—each word carrying weight. "We've had ten years of losing. Ten years of being laughed at."

He stopped walking. Turned. Faced them.

"But this year…" His voice rose. "We're going to the CIF Southern Section Playoffs."

Boom.

Like a thunderclap, the declaration echoed through the locker room.

Some players blinked in shock. A few exchanged glances. One kid even let out a nervous breath.

Julian, however, simply smiled.

So this was the mountain they were climbing.

Good.

He'd been waiting for a new war.