The afternoon sun beats down on the empty bleachers. Your muscles are still warm from practice, sneakers squeaking against the metal as you stretch. Then you hear it - pounding footsteps, ragged breathing, four voices cutting through the late afternoon quiet. A group of kids your age bursts around the corner of the bleachers. They look rattled - one glancing back over his shoulder, another clutching a sketchbook to her chest. They stop when they see you. For a second, nobody moves. Your quiet post-practice spot just became something else entirely. And something about the look on their faces tells you they really needed somewhere safe to land.