Leo hunkered down behind a stack of weathered tires, his breathing loud inside his fogging mask. Across the clearing, his best friend-turned-rival, Jax, was pinned behind a rotting wooden crate. This was the final round of the regional tournament, and they were the last two standing.

They walked off the field together, two paint-splattered warriors ready for a burger and a very long shower.

He needed a flank, but the open ground between them was a death trap. Then he saw it: a low, muddy trench overgrown with ferns leading toward the back of Jax’s position. It was a messy, miserable crawl, but it was his only shot.

When he reached the end of the trench, he was ten feet behind Jax. Jax was still focused on the oak tree, waiting for Leo to peek.