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The polished concrete floor of Stanford Stadium’s merchandise store gleams under harsh fluorescent lights, reflecting the bustling chaos of cardinal red apparel. Jordi wheels himself through the labyrinth of racks, his fingertips brushing against soft fleece jackets and crisp polo shirts. He’s supposed to be catching up with Leo and Nurse Kenji near the stadium’s main entrance after his "quick detour," but the sheer saturation of possibility pulls him deeper. A wall of jerseys dominates the back section – home whites blazing with cardinal trim, away blacks imposing and sleek. Beside them, a small customization counter hums as industrial embroidery machines stitch.
Jordi leans forward in his wheelchair, elbows resting on his knees. His dark eyes scan the jerseys hung like trophies. Number 10 catches his eye instantly. Leo’s number. He remembers Leo’s offhand comment weeks ago, bitter and sharp: "Stanford wouldn't want a half-player." The memory tightens Jordi’s jaw. He flags down a bored-looking Hispanic attendant.
"¿Puedo...?" He gestures clumsily at the jersey, then pats his own back. "Nombre aquí? 'Roth'?"
The attendant nods, taking the pristine white jersey with its bold red number 10. "Same name on both?"
Jordi shakes his head rapidly, a mischievous grin spreading. "No. One says 'Roth'. The other should say 'Palacios'."
He watches the machine whirr, needle dancing, stitching Leo’s identity onto the fabric. He grabs the second jersey and stitches Jordi's name onto it. The teenager pays with crumpled bills that Nurse Kenji advanced him "for emergencies," stuffing the neatly folded 'Palacios' jersey into the bag draped over the handles of his chair. The thrill of subterfuge buzzes in his veins.
***
Nurse Kenji leans against Leo’s wheelchair near Gate 2, the vast, empty stadium bowl stretching before them like a crimson sea. The scent of freshly cut grass drifts faintly on the cool October breeze. Leo fiddles impatiently with the locking mechanism on his prosthetic leg, its sleek carbon fiber surface dull beside the vibrant Stanford banners overhead. The phantom ache in his missing limb throbs in time with his frustration.
Kenji checks his watch. "Kid's got a compass pointing permanently to 'trouble', huh?"
"Lost in a straight hallway, probably," Leo mutters, his gaze fixed on the turf far below. The ghost sensation of cleats biting into that grass, the roar of a crowd he'd dreamt of hearing for him, not just around him… it twists something sharp in his chest.
"Speak of the wandering devil," Kenji chuckles as Jordi finally wheels into view, slightly breathless, cheeks flushed. He clutches the bulky merchandise bag tightly against his lap.
"¡Lo siento!" Jordi beams, utterly unrepentant. "The signs, they lie! Said 'Restrooms', ended up at... uh... hats!" He gestures vaguely backwards.
Leo finally tears his eyes from the field. "Took you long enough. Thought Stanford security hauled you off for suspicious loitering." His sarcasm is habitual armor.
Then his eyes catch the flash of cardinal red peeking out from beneath Jordi’s worn grey hoodie. Not just red. Stanford red. Specifically, the shoulder and sleeve of a jersey. Jordi follows Leo’s startled stare. His grin widens, transforming into something radiant and utterly defiant. With deliberate slowness, he shrugs off his hoodie, letting it pool around his waist. The pristine white Stanford jersey underneath is blindingly bright. The cardinal red number 10 stands bold on the front. Leo’s breath hitches silently. It’s a punch to the gut, seeing his number, his dream, worn by someone else, here, now.
But Jordi isn’t done. Still grinning, he twists sharply in his chair, leaning far forward. He arches his back, presenting the expanse of white fabric stretched taut across his shoulders. Embroidered in bold, clean cardinal thread right above the number:
**R O T H**
The letters blaze under the stadium lights. Leo stares, frozen. It’s absurd. It’s impossible. It’s a declaration louder than any halftime speech.
"¡Surprise, capitán!" Jordi chirps, wheeling himself flush against Leo’s chair, their knees bumping. The scent of new cotton and Jordi’s familiar herbal shampoo mixes strangely.
"Seriously?" Leo finally finds his voice, thick with disbelief and a tremor he can’t quite suppress. He gestures sharply at the jersey. "That’s… ridiculously expensive. And pointless." He forces a scoff, trying to mask the raw vulnerability bubbling up. "Stanford doesn’t want relics."
Jordi’s smile doesn’t waver. He leans in impossibly closer, invading Leo’s personal space bubble entirely. Before Leo can react or lean away, Jordi plants a firm, audible smack squarely on Leo’s forehead. The sound echoes slightly in the cavernous entryway, loud enough to make Nurse Kenji raise an amused eyebrow. Leo flinches, startled.
"Ahora eres oficial!" Jordi declares, pulling back just enough to lock eyes with Leo. His usual playful spark holds an unfamiliar intensity. "Official Stanford… something." He shrugs, the grin softening into something warmer, more intimate. "Team Roth-Palacios."
He digs into his merchandise bag and pulls out the second jersey. It’s the imposing black away jersey. He unfolds it carefully, turning it around. Embroidered above the stark white number 10 on the black fabric:
**P A L A C I O S**
Jordi thrusts it towards Leo. "Now we belong here too, mi estrella frustrada. Even if you limp." His voice drops, losing its teasing edge, becoming earnest. "Especially because you limp."
Leo stares at the black jersey. His name – Jordi’s name – stitched onto the fabric of the dream he thought was dead. The phantom ache in his leg flares, but it’s momentarily drowned out by the impossible warmth radiating from the boy leaning into his space, the soft weight of the jersey landing in his lap, and the faint, lingering pressure where Jordi’s lips had touched his skin. The future suddenly feels less like an empty stadium and more like a field waiting for its players.