Page 163 of Red Zone
I straighten up, voice steady as hell, even though my insides feel like they’re on fire.
“We march down this fucking field,” I tell them, low and sharp. “No second chances. No mistakes. We finish it. Right here. Right now.”
A ripple of nods, a few fists hitting pads, and that silent current of understanding passes through all of us.
This is our game.
And I’m not leaving this field without a damn fight.
We break.
We line up at the twenty-five. The defense crowds the box, daring us to run, but I’ve already decided—we’re not playing it safe. Not tonight.
The snap is clean.
I drop back, eyes scanning quick, pressure closing in fast. I see Beck shake free over the middle and fire it to him. He hauls it in, turns, fights forward another eight yards before getting shoved out of bounds.
Clock stops.
1:20.
We hurry up, the guys hustling back into position.
The next snap comes fast—Jaxon fakes outside, cuts hard back in, just like we drew it up. I step up into the pocket, take the hit, and rifle it to him over the middle.
He catches it, tucks it, and keeps driving, dragging some poor bastard on his back for another five.
First down.
The chains move.
Fifty seconds.
We hustle again.
The next play’s a scramble—pocket collapses, and I barely escape a sack, dumping it off to
Logan at the last second. He dives out of bounds at the fifteen to stop the clock.
Thirty-eight seconds.
We’re here.
We huddle one more time, breathless, buzzing, everything on the line.
The call comes in. I hear it, and my stomach flips.
It’s his route.
I glance at Jaxon, and he meets my eyes like he already knows what I’m about to say.
“Go get it,” I tell him, voice low.
He nods once.
We line up.
I watch him take his spot out wide, see the corner lean on him, trying to get in his head. But Jaxon doesn’t flinch.
