Page 164 of Red Zone

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He just crouches low, ready to explode.

I slide my hands under center.

The snap comes.

I drop back, scanning left—then right—then locking on him.

He burns his man, cutting left and then sharp back to the right, shaking him clean.

I see it open up.

And I let it rip.

The ball spins through the air, perfect spiral, hanging there for what feels like forever.

I watch him run under it—legs pumping like hell, hands reaching.

And he’s got it.

Both feet in. Ball secure.

Touch—

The hit comes out of nowhere.

I see it happen but I can’t stop it—can’t even yell before the safety comes flying in from his blindside, helmet-to-helmet.

The crack echoes, and my stomach drops.

I watch him fold, his body snapping back and crumpling to the turf.

The ball rolls loose.

And he doesn’t get up.

Doesn’t move.

Everything around me goes quiet—crowd, teammates, everything.

I just stand there, staring, my heart in my throat as trainers come running and the refs blow their whistles.

My legs are moving before my mind even catches up.

The whistle’s still blowing, the crowd’s still roaring—or maybe they’re gasping now, I can’t even tell—but all I see is him.

Jaxon.

Flat on his back.

Not moving.

I sprint toward him, my cleats barely catching the turf as I close the distance. My chest feels like it’s about to crack open.

“Jax—”

I drop to my knees hard, the impact jolting up my shins, but I don’t care.

“Jaxon! Hey—hey, man, c’mon!”

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