Ten seconds left on the clock. Fourth down. Championship on the line. The last game before graduation - everything we've worked for comes down to this moment.

      A year ago, this pressure would have crushed me. The weight of perfection, of expectations, of everything riding on one play would have sent me spiralling. Back then, I was still learning how to breathe under the weight of being perfect.

      But now?

      Now I hear Riley's camera clicking from the side-lines, the sound as familiar as my own heartbeat. See Lucy jumping up and down in the stands, her glitter-covered sign probably visible from space. Feel the team's energy not as pressure, but as support. They're not just teammates anymore - they're family.

      "Carter!" Mike grins despite the tension, sweat dripping down his face. "Let's make this one for the photo album!"

      The ball snaps. Everything slows down like one of Riley's photographs, capturing this single heartbeat of time. Not thinking about perfect spirals or scout reports or my father's legacy. Just playing the game I learned to love again.

      Jackson breaks right, exactly like we've practiced a thousand times. The defence shifts, leaving a gap. Just like that night against State Tech, when everything fell apart in my hands.

      But I'm not that boy anymore. Not the one drowning in expectations, not the one who couldn't breathe under the weight of perfection.

      The ball leaves my hand. Not a perfect spiral - Coach would probably point out three things wrong with my form - but it's real. True. Mine. The kind of pass that comes from loving the game instead of fearing it.

      Jackson leaps. The crowd holds its breath. Riley's camera clicks rapid-fire - she never misses these moments, says they tell the real stories.

      Touchdown.

      The stadium explodes. Our last game, our last play, our last chance - and we did it. The team storms the field, a wave of jerseys and joy and pure relief. Through the chaos, everything becomes snapshots, moments frozen in time:

      Riley running toward me, her camera bouncing wild around her neck, that smile that saved my life spreading across her face.

      Coach Reynolds actually crying - though he'll deny it later - clutching his clipboard like it might ground him.

      And my father... smiling? Not his courtroom smile or his public appearance smile, but something real. Something new.

      "You did it!" Riley crashes into me, nearly dropping her camera in her excitement. Her eyes are bright, alive with that fire that makes everything around her feel more real. "You actually did it!"

      "We did it," I correct, catching her before she falls. There's paint in her hair again - probably from the pre-game signs she and Lucy made. "All of us."

      Because this victory isn't just mine. It belongs to everyone who helped me find my way back.

      The team that showed me it was okay to not be perfect. Coach, who learned to see past statistics to the person drowning underneath. Riley, who taught me that some things are worth more than perfection.

      "Ethan."

      My father's voice cuts through the celebration. He stands at the edge of our group, and something about him looks different. The usual weight of expectations is gone from his shoulders.

      "Dad, I—"

      He pulls me into a hug. Not the quick pat on the back after a good game. A real hug, tight and desperate and full of everything we've never said.

      "I'm proud of you, son." His voice catches. "Not because you won. Because of how you played. How you led. How you..."

      "How I lived?" The words come quiet, just for us.

      He pulls back, eyes wet. "Yes. Exactly that."

      Riley appears at my side again, camera already up. "Mr. Carter, could you say that again? I want to capture—"

      "Riley Quinn, if you take a picture of me crying, we're going to have words."

      But he's smiling as he says it. Actually smiling at the girl who changed everything - not just for me, but for our whole family. The girl who taught us all how to be real instead of perfect.

      "Too late." She turns the display toward him, grinning. "But look."

      And he does look. Really looks, the way he's learned to do this past year. The way therapy and family dinners and late-night conversations have taught him.

      "You have quite an eye," he says finally. "For finding beauty in real moments."

      "She does," I agree, pulling her close. "Taught me how to see it too."

      The celebration moves to Lou's - our last team dinner before graduation sends us all different ways. The whole team piles in, plus families, plus what seems like half the school. The waitresses gave up on maintaining order an hour ago, just keeping milkshakes flowing as stories and laughter fill the air.

      "Remember Carter's first practice this season?" Trevor calls out, sprawled across a booth. "When he actually smiled instead of just grinding his teeth?"

      "All thanks to my expert side-line support," Riley adds, making everyone laugh. Her camera hasn't stopped clicking - documenting our last night as a team, our last celebration before everything changes.

      "Remember when Riley first showed up at practice?" Mike says. "Coach didn't know what to do with her and those ridiculous signs."

      "Hey, those signs were works of art!" Riley protests, but she's laughing too.

      "Remember when she became official team photographer?" Jackson adds. "And made us all do those 'emotional portrait sessions'?"

      "Which got us that spread in the local paper," Sarah points out. "The one about athletes and mental health."

      The stories flow easily - memories of our last year together. Not just the big moments, but the small ones too. Morning practices where we actually enjoyed playing. Team therapy sessions. All the times we chose to be real instead of perfect.

      "Speech!" Someone calls from the back. "Captain's last speech!"

      I stand, but pull Riley up with me. "Only if our photographer joins in. She's as much part of this team as anyone."

      Riley tries to duck away, but Lucy starts chanting her name. Soon the whole diner joins in - even my father, who's sitting with Coach Reynolds sharing stories about their own glory days.

      "Fine!" Riley surrenders, laughing. "But I'm keeping my camera ready."

      "Wouldn't have it any other way." I take a deep breath, looking around at all these faces. These people who became more than just teammates or classmates. "A year ago, I was standing on a bridge, thinking my life was over because I couldn't be perfect."

      The room quiets. They all know the story now - how close we came to losing everything, how we chose to stay instead. How one girl with ice cream and too many star facts changed everything.

      "But someone very special taught me that perfect isn't the goal." I look at Riley, who's somehow still taking photos even as she stands beside me. "That real moments, real connections - that's what makes life worth something."

      Riley's hand finds mine, her camera finally lowered.

      "This team taught me that too. Every single one of you. That it's okay to mess up sometimes. To need help. To be human instead of just a collection of stats and plays." I look around at my teammates - at Trevor who now talks openly about his anxiety, at Mike who started his own peer support group. "We're all heading different places after graduation, but what we built here? That's real. That stays."

      Everyone around the room nods. 

      "So this championship? It's not about the trophy or the record books. It's about all of us choosing to stay. To fight. To live. To be real instead of perfect."

      "To actually enjoy the game again," Mike adds, raising his milkshake.

      "To family," Lucy pipes up from where she's perched on the counter, still covered in glitter.

      "To family," everyone echoes.

      The celebration stretches late into the night. This is our last night as a team. But it doesn't feel like an ending.

      My father's teaching Lucy about his old glory days, using salt shakers as players. Mom's swapping recipes with the waitresses, learning how to actually cook instead of just ordering in. 

      "Hey." Riley slides into the booth beside me, finally setting her camera down. "Got everything you need?"

      "Yeah," I say softly, pulling her closer. "Got everything I need right here."

      Looking around at our mismatched family - the team that became more than teammates, the friends who became family, the hearts that learned to heal together - I mean it more than ever.

      We've got everything we need. Everything we chose. Everything we stayed alive for.

      Tomorrow we'll deal with graduation. With moving to our new lives and all the terrifying, wonderful parts of growing up. But tonight?

      Tonight we're just here. Together. Real.

      And that's better than perfect.