Page 160 of Red Zone
I blink at him, unsure how to respond.
“You’ve put in the work,” he goes on, his tone firm but proud. “Every morning. Every lift. Every rep. You’ve earned every yard you’ve got. You’ve earned the right to dream about that next level. And no matter what happens after tonight, you keep going. You hear me? You keep going, because you’ve got what it takes.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, staring down at the jersey in my hands.
Coach claps me on the shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze.
“I’m proud of you, Hayes,” he says quietly. “Whatever comes next, you’ve already made us proud.”
I swallow the tightness in my throat and force a little grin. “Thanks, Coach.”
He pats me once more before heading toward his office, tossing a final glance over his shoulder.
“Now get your head right,” he calls with a faint smile. “We’ve got a championship to win.”
I watch him go, then sit down in front of my locker, the weight of his words settling over me.
He’s right.
I have put in the work.
And no matter what happens after tonight…
I’m not done yet.
Not by a long shot.
The stadium is practically shaking.
Fans on their feet, the student section already losing their minds, the band blaring the fight song so loud it rattles in my chest.
We stand on the sidelines, helmets on, eyes locked on the field where everything we’ve worked for is waiting.
I take a breath, scanning my teammates one by one—faces I’ve bled with, sweated with, won and lost with.
And then I step into the center of the huddle.
They close in, forming a tight circle around me, their eyes all on me now. Waiting.
This is my moment.
Our moment.
I lower my head, clenching my fists, feeling every ounce of energy, every second of work, every doubt and dream bubbling up inside me.
Then I raise my eyes, steady and sure, and speak.
“Let’s give ’em hell, boys,” I say, my voice cutting through the noise, low and confident. “It’s our final time. Let’s make it count.”
There’s a collective murmur of agreement, pads slapping, fists knocking against helmets.
“Storm on three,” I call, raising my fist high above the huddle.
Their hands rise with mine.
“One, two, three?—”
“STORM!”
