Page 20 of Red Zone

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Jaxon cuts right. Beck’s on the fade.

Three-one-thousand.

I launch it deep.

The ball slices through the night sky like it belongs there—tight spiral, perfect arc. Beck hauls it

in at the forty, toe-taps the sideline, and we move the chains.

The crowd goes wild.

Coach pumps a fist.

But my eyes track to the sideline before I even realize I’m doing it.

Lyla’s there. Just off the hash. Tablet in hand, lips pursed like she’s trying very hard not to care.

She doesn’t cheer. Doesn’t even smile.

But she saw it.

Next drive, we’re in the red zone. Second and goal. Coach wants the safe play—a pitch to our RB to eat the clock.

I audible.

“Blue eighty! Kill, kill!”

We line up. I glance at Jaxon.

He nods.

Snap.

Play action. Defense bites. I roll right. Jaxon’s already two steps ahead of his man.

I hit him in the numbers. Touchdown.

The student section explodes.

I jog back to the sideline, helmet swinging from my hand, adrenaline flooding my veins.

Coach gives me the look—half-proud, half-don’t push it.

Third quarter starts choppy. Our center jumps early, and I get nailed by a blitz I didn’t see coming.

Shoulder-first into the turf.

I pop up and shake it off. But it rattled me.

Coach pulls me for a play to lecture me about awareness. I nod through it, pacing like a caged animal with my jaw tight.

Back in, next drive.

We’re tied now. Two minutes on the clock.

I’ve been here before.

High pressure. Stadium breathing down your neck. The weight of the team on your shoulders.

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