I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter 69: Friday Lights
Jon's Perspective
The second quarter opened with the same unrelenting, breath-stealing ferocity that had defined the first. Every snap of the ball came with a crack of pads, a grunt of effort, and the constant threat of chaos. There was no easing into the rhythm of the game—this was a fight, raw and immediate. Every single play felt like it could tilt the balance, like a fistfight in slow motion beneath helmets and cleats.
Neither side relented. The West Valley team played with the cold, methodical aggression of a unit that refused to lose ground. Their team matched them blow for blow, responding with grit and fury. It was like watching two massive freight trains on the same track, barreling toward each other with no intention of stopping. The collision felt inevitable, but no one blinked. No one dared to flinch.
Jon stuck to his role. He ran his routes with precision, each cut sharp enough to slice the turf. He scanned the defense mid-stride, reading the coverage, looking for that narrow window where he could break free. But the ball never came his way. Not once.
They had him locked up—tight, merciless coverage that blanketed him at every turn. A press at the line that slowed his release, a shadow over the top that tracked his every move. It was suffocating. A vise that clamped down and didn't let up. They knew he was dangerous, and they were determined to silence him.
But Jon wasn't the kind of player who disappeared when the spotlight shifted.
He became a phantom and a wrecking ball. Silent when he needed to be, sudden when it counted. He watched the quarterback with laser focus, studying his eyes, his stance, the way his shoulders twitched before a throw. Twice, Jon timed it perfectly—leaping to swat down short passes before they could gain ground. Another time, he burst past a stumbling blocker, cornering the running back and driving him out of bounds well behind the line of scrimmage.
Each play hit like a thunderclap, sending electricity through his team. Each defensive stand wasn't just a stop—it was a statement. A disruption. A crack in the rhythm of the West Valley's offense. And slowly, imperceptibly at first, things began to shift.
Momentum is strange that way—quiet when it starts, like a tide turning under the surface, felt more than seen. But it was there, building.
With just over three minutes remaining in the half, it happened. Jon's defense struck hard—a hit that jarred the ball loose near midfield. One of his teammates pounced on it, clutching it to his chest as the crowd erupted around them. Cheers thundered across the field. And just like that, the offense had another chance.
This time, they made it count.
They didn't storm down the field, but they held steady. A few short gains. A critical third-down conversion. Enough movement to put them within striking distance. Then, the kicker stepped up and drilled a field goal through the uprights.
On paper, it was a modest lead. A mere three points. But in a game this tight, this bruising and unforgiving, it felt monumental. Like they'd finally carved out a foothold in the rock face of this battle.
As the final seconds of the second quarter ticked away, Jon stood with his hands braced on his hips, chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. Sweat streamed down his temples, soaking into his jersey, dripping from his fingertips. The whistle blew, shrill and final—halftime.
They jogged off the field, battered but upright, bruised but unbroken. And Jon could feel it in the air around him: something had shifted. The team was alive now. Awake. They had drawn first blood. However small, the lead was theirs. The West Valley team hadn't found a way through. Not yet.
Jon hadn't caught a single pass.
But he wasn't angry.
He wasn't defeated.
Not yet.
The locker room buzzed with sweat and adrenaline. Helmets clanked against benches. Breaths came hard and fast. But the team—every one of them—was locked in. Eyes sharp. Jaws set.
Coach stood in front of them like a general before battle, pacing slowly.
"You're doing damn good out there," he said, voice low but powerful. "You're not giving them an inch. You're reading plays. Hitting hard. Making stops. You're playing like a team."
A few guys clapped. Someone let out a whoop. Coach didn't smile—he wasn't done.
"But we all see it. They've studied us. They're not letting our offense breathe. That three-point lead? It's not gonna hold. We've got to swing harder. Take risks."
He turned to the quarterback, a senior named Drew who had a strong arm and the nerves of a poker player.
"You haven't thrown to Jon once. Why?"
Drew didn't hesitate. "He's covered, Coach. Double every time. No clean lanes."
Coach nodded once. "Yeah. I know. But playing it safe doesn't win games. We didn't come here for close."
He took a step forward. "We're changing it up. We're gonna draw the defense away and open Jon up. Even if it's just a sliver of a window—I want that ball in his hands."
Drew nodded, slow and serious.
Coach then turned to Jon. "We're taking a huge risk for you, kid. If this doesn't work, it might cost us the game."
Jon stood tall, heart steady despite the storm in his chest. He didn't blink. He didn't flinch.
"I can handle it," he said simply.
Coach studied him for half a second longer. Then nodded. "Good."
The halftime buzzer rang in the distance. Cleats stomped. Shoulder pads locked.
The team marched back toward the tunnel, back toward the field, lit by stadium lights and buzzing with Friday night war cries.
Jon exhaled through his nose.
Showtime.