Page 161 of Red Zone
“Let’s go baby!” Beck yells, shaking my shoulder as our offense takes the field for kickoff.
We’re leaving everything on that field today.
We huddle at our own thirty. The guys crowd in around me, pads creaking, helmets gleaming under the lights.
“All right,” I bark, planting my hand on the ball and pointing at Jaxon. “We’re starting fast. Trips right, ninety-two slant, on one. Watch for pressure off the weak side, but it’s there. Take what they give you. Let’s go.”
“Trips right, ninety-two slant, on one,” they echo, clapping their hands as we break.
We line up.
Jaxon settles wide on the right, his stance loose but his eyes locked on the corner. Logan’s in the backfield, already rocking forward on the balls of his feet.
I lower under center, fingers curling around the laces.
The stadium noise fades into nothing.
Just play.
Snap.
I drop back quickly—one, two, three steps—and my eyes are already on Jaxon. He plants hard, cuts in, shakes the corner just like we worked all week.
He’s open.
I shift my weight, plant, and rip the throw over the middle. The ball zips just past the linebacker’s fingertips and smacks into Jaxon’s chest.
He tucks it, keeps moving, bounces off a safety, and drives forward for another five before they finally bring him down.
The ref’s whistle pierces through the cheers.
First down.
We reset at the forty-four.
I clap my hands to settle everyone down, then lean into the huddle.
“They’re already shifting coverage. Time to soften ’em up. Logan, you’re up. Power twenty-two dive, on one. Move those chains.”
Logan grins behind his mouthguard. “Let me eat, QB.”
I give him a nod, going back to the fact that what happens off the field, stays off the field. We don’t let any issues affect our teamwork on game day, or at least try not to.
We break.
I settle under center again, barking a fake cadence to throw off the linebackers, then call for the snap.
I pivot clean, tuck the ball into Logan’s gut, and let him do the rest.
He explodes through the A-gap behind our right guard, lowering his shoulder as the defense collapses in on him. Pads crack like thunder, but he keeps his legs pumping.
Four, five, six yards before the pile finally falls forward.
I hustle up behind him, help yank him to his feet, patting his helmet.
“That’s it. Keep grinding.”
Third and short now, just past midfield.
