Thursday afternoon. The Dress Rehearsal.
In professional football, Thursdays are usually light days. Walk-throughs. Mental reps.
In Texas Junior High football, Thursday is Judgment Day.
The air was electric. Not the good kind—the kind right before a tornado touches down. The entire team knew what was at stake. Coach Wilkins had split the reps 50/50 all week.
Kyle Benson had thrown harder.
I had thrown smarter.
"Last period!" Coach Wilkins yelled, checking his watch. "Red Zone drill! Ball on the twenty. You get four downs to put it in the end zone. Loser runs gassers until the sun goes down."
Kyle was up first.
He trotted into the huddle, smacking his helmet. "Let's go, boys! Power formation! Let's run it down their throats!"
I watched from the sideline. Kyle was predictable. He was angry, and when quarterbacks get angry, they get tunnel vision.
"Hut!"
Kyle took the snap. He faked a handoff—poorly—and dropped back. The defense didn't bite. The linebackers stayed home.
Kyle panicked. He saw his favorite receiver, a tall kid named Miller, running a post route. The safety was sitting right on top of it.
*Don't throw it,* I thought. *Check it down.*
Kyle planted his feet and fired. The ball was a rocket.
It was also right into the chest of the safety.
*Interception.*
Coach Wilkins blew the whistle. "That's a turnover! Defense wins that rep! Benson, get out of there! Cooper, you're up!"
Kyle ripped his chin strap off, his face purple. He stomped past me. "Good luck with that line," he spat. "They look tired."
I ignored him. I ran into the huddle.
The offensive line looked at me. They weren't friendly. They were Kyle's friends. Tiny, the left tackle, spat on the grass and didn't make eye contact.
[System Alert]
[Team Chemistry: Low]
[O-Line Morale: Hostile]
"Okay," I said, keeping my voice calm. "Spread formation. Trips right."
"We never run Spread," Tiny grumbled. "We don't know the blocking assignments."
"Yes, you do," I said. "Zone left. Just slide left and hit anything that isn't wearing our jersey. I'll handle the rest."
I broke the huddle before they could argue.
We lined up. Three receivers to the right. One to the left. The defense looked confused. They were used to the I-Formation. They didn't know how to align.
I saw the linebacker signaling to his teammates. He was confused.
[System Analysis]
[Defensive Confusion: High]
[Weakness: Middle of the Field]
"Green 19! Green 19!" I barked.
I caught the snap.
I took a three-step drop. I looked hard to the right—staring down the three receivers.
The safety drifted that way, following my eyes.
*Gotcha.*
I didn't turn my body. I just flipped my wrist back to the left. The "No-Look" pass. Not the flashy NFL version, but a subtle manipulation of the safety's eyes.
The tight end was wide open down the seam.
The ball fluttered slightly—my arm was tired—but the spiral held. It dropped perfectly over the linebacker's head and into the tight end's hands.
Touchdown.
The whistle blew.
"That's a wrap!" Coach Wilkins yelled. "Bring it in! Take a knee!"
The team gathered around the coach. The silence was heavy.
Coach Wilkins looked at his clipboard. He looked at Kyle, who was chewing his fingernails. He looked at me, standing quietly with my helmet under my arm.
"We play Henderson tomorrow," Wilkins started. "They're big. They're physical. We need a leader on that field."
He paused.
"Cooper. You're starting."
The words hung in the humid air.
I didn't celebrate. I didn't smile. I just nodded. "Yes, sir."
"Benson," Wilkins continued. "You're backup. Stay ready. If Cooper falters, you're back in."
"This is bull—" Kyle started to shout, standing up.
"Sit down!" Wilkins roared. "This is not a democracy, Benson! This is a football team! You want the job? Earn it back! Dismissed!"
The huddle broke.
Usually, the starting quarterback gets high-fives. Usually, the team rallies around him.
Not today.
Kyle stormed off toward the locker room, kicking a water cooler on his way out.
I bent down to pick up my towel.
"Hey," I said to Tiny, the left tackle. "Good block on that last play."
Tiny looked down at me. He was a foot taller and probably fifty pounds heavier.
"Watch your back, rookie," Tiny muttered. "Henderson hits hard. And sometimes... blocks get missed."
He turned and walked away.
[System Warning]
[Team Loyalty: Critical Failure]
[Risk of Sabotage: High]
I stood alone on the practice field.
George Sr. had warned me. *Lead men who don't like you.*
I gripped my helmet.
"Fine," I whispered to the empty field. "If they won't block for me, I'll just have to get rid of the ball faster."
***
That night, the house was quiet.
I was in the living room, polishing my cleats. It was a ritual. Look good, play good.
Sheldon walked in. He was wearing his pajamas and holding a comic book.
"You are making a repetitive scraping noise," Sheldon observed. "It is interfering with my reading of *The X-Men*."
"Sorry, Shelly," I said, putting the brush down. "Big game tomorrow."
"The game where you usurp the established hierarchy?" Sheldon asked.
I looked at him. "How do you know about that?"
"Tam heard it from a boy in band, who heard it from a cheerleader," Sheldon explained. "Apparently, the eighth graders are planning a 'cold shoulder.' Statistically, a team with low cohesion has a 68% higher chance of losing."
"Thanks for the confidence boost," I sighed.
Sheldon sat on the sofa. He looked at my cleats.
"Why do you do it?" he asked.
"Do what?"
"Play a game where the objective is to suffer blunt force trauma. You are not physically imposing. Your teammates dislike you. The probability of injury is high."
I picked up the cleat. I traced the Nike swoosh with my thumb.
"Because, Shelly," I said. "When it works... when everyone does their job and the ball flies exactly where you want it... it's like math."
Sheldon perked up. "Math?"
"Yeah. It's geometry. Angles. Velocity. Time. It's a perfect equation. And when you solve it... and the crowd screams..." I looked at my little brother. "It's the only time I feel like a genius."
Sheldon stared at me for a long moment. He blinked.
"I suppose I can understand the appeal of applied geometry," he conceded.
He stood up.
"Good luck with your equation tomorrow," Sheldon said. "I will not be attending. The band is too loud."
"Thanks, Shelly."
I watched him walk away.
I looked at the System clock in my vision.
[Time to Kickoff: 18 Hours]
I turned off the lamp.
Tomorrow, I wasn't just playing Henderson. I was playing my own team.