Page 36 of Red Zone
Up in the stands, I catch a flash of red curls. Lyla.
She’s not on the sidelines today—probably some media reshuffle or scheduling thing—but she’s here. Sitting next to Madison, arms folded, sunglasses on, lips set in that no-bullshit line I know too well.
I look away before I do something dumb. Like stare too long.
My teammate standing next to me looks like a lovesick puppy, smiling big enough you’d think we’d already won the championship this year.
“Dial in, Montgomery. You can flirt with your girl after you rack up some yards.”
His eyes snap to mine, and he chuckles low.
Focus. Mind clear.
Game time.
The snap is clean. The pocket forms. I’ve got a second and a half, maybe two.
I spot Jaxon breaking right—his defender a step behind.
“Go,” I mutter, already launching.
The ball sails perfectly into his hands. He cuts upfield, dodging a tackle and picking up fifteen yards before stepping out of bounds.
The crowd erupts. The chains are moved farther up the field. I nod, heartbeat syncing with the rhythm of the game.
Next play—fake handoff, roll left, find Montgomery again in the flat. He drags two defenders with him before he’s pulled down.
We’re marching.
A couple more runs, one near-sack I barely escape, and then we’re in the red zone. I call the audible, lock eyes with Jaxon.
He nods once.
Snap.
Three steps. Plant. Throw.
Touchdown.
They come out swinging—more aggressive, tighter coverage. I get hit hard on a third down scramble, helmet bouncing off turf. I bite back a curse and get up before anyone can ask if I’m good.
Because I am.
I always am.
Coach barks into the headset. New plan.
We go no-huddle, pick up the tempo, wear them down. They start making mistakes—missed tackles, blown coverage.
Fourth quarter, two minutes left. We’re up by three, but they’re pushing hard. Defense holds on fourth-and-short. Turnover on downs.
All we have to do is run out the clock.
Ball’s in my hands.
I kneel. Once.
Twice.
