Page 97 of Red Zone
First quarter. Second drive. Ball on the thirty-five.
“Trips right, forty-six counter,” I call, voice low and sharp. “On one. You know the drill. Clean and fast.”
The guys nod, breaking the huddle, and I can already feel it—the rhythm coming alive in my blood. The field feels smaller when you’re in the zone like this. Like every yard belongs to you, but only if you’re hungry enough to take it.
I drop into position behind center, fingers flexing as I scan the defense. Linebacker shading left.
Safety creeping up. Man coverage outside.
How predictable– exactly what I was hoping for.
“Set—”
The snap hits my hands clean, and I take a quick three-step drop, eyes already downfield as I sell the fake. Their end bites, crashing in hard, and I tuck the ball, cutting back inside.
The pocket collapses fast, but I feel it before it happens. My feet shift instinctively, and I roll out left, keep my eyes up, keep moving.
There he is, right on time. Jaxon streaking right up the seam.
I plant. Release.
The ball sails clean and tight through the air, a perfect spiral before dropping right into his hands as he crosses midfield before being taken down at their forty-yard line.
The crowd explodes.
I jog up to reset, clapping the back of his helmet on the way.
We drive. Play after play, eating up yards, the rhythm building with every snap. A slant here, a quick draw there. Hard count to draw them offsides. Then another shot downfield to Jaxon on a fade route—perfect placement, just inside the pylon.
Touchdown.
The stadium erupts.
I jog off to the sideline, my chest heaving, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth despite myself. I can already feel the sweat running down my spine, my lungs burning with that good kind of ache.
Coach claps my shoulder as I grab some water, and I take a second to scan the sideline out of habit—just in time to catch sight of her.
Her gaze finds me for just a second before she looks away.
That’s all I get. But it’s enough to make the corner of my mouth curve even higher.
For a while, that’s enough to keep me locked in, but by halftime, something feels…off.
I don’t see her.
Not in her usual spot with the media team. Not anywhere.
I shake it off at first. But when we come off the field and head into the locker room at the half, it’s still gnawing at me.
I snag Jaxon as we’re grabbing water.
“Hey,” I say, voice low, glancing around. “Did you see Lyla?”
He gives me a weird look. “What do you mean? She was with the media team, wasn’t she?”
“She’s not there now.”
Jaxon shrugs, wiping sweat off his face. “Didn’t notice. Maybe she went to grab something or has to be up in the box?”
