Chapter Text
Chapter 1 — The Match That Shouldn’t Exist
Mike Smith had never planned on dying, much less waking up in a world where Exy was real.
When the whistle shrieked over Cade High’s court, the shock of the noise grounded him in the moment—sweat on his palms, the sting of resin on his fingers, the steady hum of the crowd pressing close against the Plexiglas walls. He’d told himself a dozen times it wasn’t possible, that he couldn’t actually have fallen asleep in front of his laptop and woken up inside a sports novel he’d barely finished. But Neil Josten was on the opposite side of the court, red uniform of Milport flashing like a warning sign, and that left no room for denial.
The scoreboard read Cade 74 – Milport 74, fourth quarter, one minute remaining.
Mike adjusted his helmet and forced his mind to settle. If this was a hallucination, it had bite: his heartbeat pounded hard enough to bruise his ribs. His teammates were shouting—real voices, real desperation. He felt the stick in his hands, light and perfectly balanced, the way only hours of training could make it feel. Except he hadn’t trained here. He shouldn’t know how to play this well.
“Smith, mark Josten!” his coach yelled.
Mike didn’t answer. He couldn’t afford to. Neil was already moving, that fox-quick glide that looked more like a knife’s edge than a run. Cade’s defenders closed ranks; Neil slipped between them, ball secure, head low. Mike met him head-on.
For one breath, everything stilled—the roar of the stands, the clatter of feet, even the grinding inside his skull trying to make sense of the impossible. Then instinct took over.
He pivoted left, baiting Neil to follow. The instant Neil lunged, Mike reversed, stick flashing down to knock the ball clean out of Neil’s cradle. The rebound bounced once—twice—before Mike scooped it and sprinted downcourt.
The crowd exploded.
He could feel the disbelief around him. Cade’s bench was on its feet, their coach barking plays that Mike didn’t entirely hear. His entire focus narrowed to the goal. One Milport defender barred the lane. Mike feinted, cut inside, drove the ball into the net with a satisfying crack.
Cade 76 – Milport 74.
Thirty seconds left.
Neil’s eyes burned holes in his back as the clock bled out. When the final buzzer screamed, Mike stood in the middle of the court, chest heaving, half-expecting the world to fold in on itself. Instead, the noise rose—a chorus of disbelief, celebration, fury. Cade’s players mobbed him, slapping his helmet, shouting his name.
Mike smiled, but it was a brittle thing. He knew enough of this story to understand what he’d just done. He’d beaten Neil Josten. That shouldn’t have happened. Not in the book, not in reality.
Across the court, Neil tore off his helmet and hurled it into the bench. The sight was surreal. He was smaller than Mike had imagined, but every line of him was sharp with anger and pride.
And just beyond Neil stood another figure—taller, broader, his back hair damp with sweat, expression unreadable. Kevin Day.
Mike’s stomach twisted.
Kevin was talking to Coach Wymack, who’d come to scout the game. The same Wymack who, in the story, recruited Neil after this very match. Only now Kevin’s gaze wasn’t on Neil. It was locked on Mike.
The locker room smelled like disinfectant and victory. Cade’s team was loud, boys thumping lockers, replaying the last seconds with manic glee. Mike sat on the bench in front of his locker, trying to breathe through the flood of adrenaline. His muscles trembled from overuse.
“Holy shit, Smith,” one of his teammates—Tanner—said, yanking off his helmet. “Where the hell did that come from? You’ve been solid all season, but tonight you were possessed.”
“Guess I got lucky,” Mike muttered.
Tanner snorted. “Lucky my ass. You shut down Josten like it was nothing. Scouts are gonna be drooling.”
The word scouts made Mike’s pulse jump. If this world followed the book, Wymack and Kevin were already talking about recruitment. But they were supposed to want Neil.
He shoved his gear into his duffel just to have something to do. The clang of the metal sticks drowned out the chatter around him.
The door creaked open, letting in a burst of cooler air and the unmistakable sound of authority. “Smith,” a voice said.
Mike froze.
Every head turned.
Coach Wymack stood in the doorway, his black jacket half unzipped, a cup of coffee in one hand even though it was past ten at night. Kevin Day loomed just behind him gaze cutting through the room like a blade.
The noise died fast.
“Coach?” Mike said carefully. “Grab your bag. We need a word.” Tanner elbowed him. “Dude, this is your shot.” Mike’s stomach felt like it was full of broken glass.
He slung his duffel over his shoulder and followed them out into the hallway.
The concrete floor was slick with condensation from the overworked air system; fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Wymack didn’t speak until they reached an empty office. He gestured toward the chair opposite the desk. “Sit.” Mike obeyed.
Kevin leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching him with an expression that was half curiosity, half suspicion. Wymack set his coffee on the desk and dropped into his chair. “That was one hell of a match, Smith. Cade hasn’t beaten Milport in five years.”
“Yeah,” Mike said. “I guess we got lucky.”
Kevin scoffed quietly.
Wymack shot him a look but didn’t comment. “Luck doesn’t make plays like the one you pulled on Josten,” Wymack said. “I’ve seen players choke under that kind of pressure. You didn’t even flinch.”Mike shrugged, trying not to show how badly his heart was racing. “Just did what needed to be done.”Wymack leaned back, studying him.
“You’re graduating this year?”
“Yeah.”
“Got college offers?” Mike hesitated. None that exist in this world, he thought bitterly. Out loud he said, “A few local schools. Nothing solid.” Kevin finally spoke. “You’re wasted at Cade.” The words hit harder than they should have.
Kevin’s tone wasn’t flattering—it was flat, matter-of-fact, the way he might discuss statistics. “You play like someone who’s been drilled in strategy,” Kevin continued. “Your spacing, your read of Josten’s patterns—it wasn’t improvisation. You’ve studied him.” “I watch tape,” Mike said.
Kevin shook his head. “Tape doesn’t teach you to anticipate that cleanly. Either you’re psychic, or you’ve been trained by someone who knows how to read opponents like code.” Wymack’s brow furrowed. “Kevin.” Kevin ignored him. “Where’d you learn to play like that, Smith?” Mike could feel the question pressing too close to the truth—that he didn’t belong here at all. “Guess I just picked it up.” Wymack sighed. “He’s not under oath, Day. Knock it off.” Kevin’s jaw tightened, but he fell silent.
Wymack rummaged through his bag and pulled out a folder. He slid it across the desk. Inside was a sheaf of papers stamped with the orange fox logo Mike recognized immediately. For a second he forgot how to breathe. “That’s a contract,” Wymack said. “Palmetto State’s rebuilding this year. I’m looking for players who can handle pressure, think on their feet, and still have something to prove. Kevin thinks you fit the bill.” Mike’s fingers brushed the folder’s edge. It felt too real. “You’re offering me a spot on the Foxes.” “Full scholarship,” Wymack said. “Housing, training, travel. We’ll sort the rest later if you’re interested.” Mike looked between them.
Kevin’s expression hadn’t changed, but his eyes were sharper now, intent. “I thought you were here to recruit Josten,” Mike said.
Silence. They were speechless, none should have known that they were recruiting, how did Mike know that?
Wymack, ignoring that he already thought of Mike as a fox, gave a humorless laugh. “So did I. But Kevin won’t shut up about your defense, and frankly I need bodies more than I need miracles. Josten’s got baggage; you look like you’ve at least got a brain.” Kevin’s lips twitched, almost a smile.
But it wasn’t, because Kevin still was an asshole with trauma.
Mike forced himself to glance down at the contract.
His mind buzzed.
In the original story, this was where Neil got his second chance.
Joining the Foxes had changed everything for him—the team, the friendships, the blood and chaos that followed.
If Mike took this path, he was stepping straight into the fire that would eventually burn the world open. He should refuse. He should find some way to survive quietly until he figured out how to get home—or if he even could.
But when he lifted his gaze and met Kevin Day’s, something in that steady, demanding look rooted him to the chair. Kevin wasn’t offering kindness or safety. He was offering challenge, purpose. A reason to exist here.
Mike heard himself say, “When do you need an answer?” Wymack smiled thinly. “Soon. I don’t hold spots for ghosts.” They left him in the office to think.
Through the narrow window he could see the empty court, slick with sweat and confetti scraps. Maintenance staff were already cleaning up. Neil Josten lingered near the exit, talking to Coach Hernandez, expression tight with frustration. When he turned, his gaze met Mike’s for an instant—sharp, assessing, a promise that this wasn’t over. Mike will see Neil again but when that time comes, they will be on the same side of the court. Mike looked away first. He ran a hand through his hair, the exhaustion settling into his bones now that adrenaline had drained out.
The idea of joining Palmetto State felt like stepping into someone else’s shoes—no, someone else’s fate. But maybe that was what he’d been given this body for.
He signed. He was a fan after.
Kevin was waiting in the hall when Mike came out, a contract folder tucked under his arm. “You decided fast,” Kevin said.
“Not much to think about,” Mike lied.
Kevin started walking; Mike fell into step beside him.
The corridor was quiet except for the echo of their sneakers. “You understand what you’re agreeing to,” Kevin said. “Wymack doesn’t recruit for convenience. He recruits for survival. The Foxes aren’t sunshine and rainbows. They’re held together with tape and spite.”
“I read the stats,” Mike said before he could stop himself.
Kevin’s head tilted slightly. “You read them..?”
Mike cursed under his breath. “I mean—I know the reputation.”
Kevin’s mouth curved into something between amusement and suspicion. “You’re strange.”
“Thanks.”
"It wasn't a compliment."
"I know." asshole
They reached the exit doors. Outside, night air cut through the lingering heat. The parking lot lights cast long white stripes across the asphalt. Kevin stopped beside a black sedan. “Training camp starts in June. Wymack will send the paperwork for the transfer. Don’t be late.” He opened the door, then paused. “That move you pulled on Josten. I want you to show me how you read him.” Mike blinked.
“You want me to teach you?”
Kevin gave him a look that would have frozen lava. “I want to understand it. There’s a difference.”
Mike smiled despite himself. “Guess I’ll see what I can do, Day.”
Kevin looked at him “if you can, come early.” Kevin’s eyes flicked over him once more, a subtle appraisal, before he slid into the car. “See what you do to teach me, Smith. I want to practise early to see if you have some real worth in you.”
The engine started, and he was gone.
Back in the locker room, Cade’s coach cornered him, demanded to know what Wymack had wanted, but Mike deflected. He showered quickly, the water too hot, scrubbing until his skin burned. When he finally dressed and stepped outside, the parking lot was mostly empty. He sat on the curb beside his duffel and looked up at the stars. Somewhere out there—wherever there was—his real life waited, unfinished.
But right now all he had was this body, this game, this impossible chance.
He thought about Neil’s expression when he’d lost. About Kevin’s calculating stare. About Wymack’s blunt offer: I don’t hold spots for ghosts. Maybe he was a ghost, but ghosts could still play.
Mike stood, slung the duffel over his shoulder, and started walking toward the future that didn’t belong to him but might, somehow, become his.
He really needs to understand where his home was in this universe.