Texas football games don't start at kickoff. They start when the lights hum to life.
Even for a Junior High game, the stands were packed. This was Medford. There was nothing else to do on a Friday night except watch kids give each other concussions.
I stood on the sideline, my helmet under my arm. My stomach wasn't doing butterflies; it was doing backflips.
Up in the stands, I could see my family. Mom was holding a seat cushion like a shield. Meemaw was wearing a hat with sequins on it, probably taking bets from the parents around her. Dad wasn't sitting with them. He was standing by the fence near the end zone, arms crossed, watching.
"Captains! Center field!" the referee shouted.
I walked out. Henderson's captains were giants. Their linebacker, number 52, looked like he drove a truck to the game. He had a full beard. I checked the System.
[Target: Henderson LB #52]
[Name: "Bubba" Davis]
[Strength: A]
[Speed: D]
[Trait: Headhunter]
We lost the coin toss. Henderson deferred. We were receiving.
"Alright, offense!" Coach Wilkins yelled. "Cooper! You're up! Don't wet your pants!"
I strapped my helmet on. The chin strap felt like a noose.
"Let's go," I muttered.
I ran onto the field. The applause was polite, but quiet. The crowd was used to Kyle Benson. They didn't know who this skinny Cooper kid was.
The huddle was silent. Tiny, my left tackle, was staring at the ground.
"Spread formation," I said. "Zone right. On one."
"Whatever," Tiny grumbled.
We lined up. The Henderson defense crowded the line. They saw a small Quarterback; they smelled blood.
"Green 80! Green 80! Hut!"
I took the snap.
I dropped back three steps.
Usually, a Left Tackle steps back to create a pocket. Tiny didn't. He barely moved. He let "Bubba" Davis run right past him.
I didn't even have time to look downfield.
*WHAM.*
It felt like a refrigerator had fallen on me. Bubba hit me from the blind side, driving my shoulder into the hard turf. The air left my lungs in a violent *whoosh*.
My helmet slammed against the ground. Stars danced in my vision.
[System Alert]
[Impact Detected: 12G]
[Health: 88%]
[Status: Winded]
I lay there for a second, gasping for air. The crowd groaned.
"Sack!" the announcer boomed. "Loss of eight on the play!"
I rolled over. Tiny was standing over me. He didn't offer a hand. He just turned and walked back to the huddle.
"Told you," Tiny muttered. "Henderson hits hard."
It wasn't a missed block. It was a message.
I scrambled to my feet, spitting out a piece of rubber from my mouthguard. My ribs ached.
"Second and eighteen!" the ref signaled.
I walked back to the huddle. My teammates were watching me, waiting for me to yell. Waiting for me to cry to the coach.
If I complained, I was dead. If I snitched, I was 'Daddy's Boy.'
I looked at Tiny. I looked him right in the eye.
"Nice try," I wheezed, forcing a smile. "But you gotta let him hit me harder than that if you want me to quit."
Tiny blinked. He expected anger. He didn't expect sass.
"Next play," I said, leaning in. "Bubba is slow. Tiny, I know you hate me. Fine. But don't let that fat tub of lard beat you again. It makes *you* look bad, not me."
Tiny narrowed his eyes. "Shut up, Cooper."
"Shotgun," I called. "Quick Slant. On one. Break!"
We lined up. Second and long.
I stood in the shotgun. Bubba was grinning, lining up over Tiny again.
"Hut!"
Snap.
This time, Tiny actually engaged. He didn't block perfectly, but he slowed Bubba down for half a second.
That was all I needed.
[System Activation: Quick Release]
I didn't look for the deep ball. I saw my slot receiver, Timmy, getting jammed at the line.
I pumped faked left. The linebacker bit.
I fired right. A quick, low dart to the outside shoulder.
Timmy caught it, spun, and dove.
"Reception! Gain of twelve!"
Third and six. Manageable.
I hurried the team to the line. No huddle.
"Same play! Same play!" I yelled.
The Henderson defense was confused. They were big, but they were slow. They were still trying to catch their breath.
"Hut!"
Snap.
The pocket collapsed instantly. The right guard got bull-rushed. Two defenders were in my face.
In my old life, I would have curled up and taken the sack.
But the Template hummed.
*Spin.*
I hit the B-button in real life. I spun to the left, ducking under a grabbing arm. I scrambled out of the pocket.
I was running toward the sideline. Bubba was chasing me, looking like a runaway train.
"Throw it away!" Coach Wilkins screamed.
I didn't throw it away. I saw Tiny downfield, looking lost.
"Tiny!" I pointed. "Block!"
Tiny saw Bubba coming. Instinct took over. Tiny lowered his shoulder and blindsided Bubba.
*CRACK.*
Bubba went down.
I turned the corner. I had five yards of open grass. I lowered my shoulder—bad idea for a QB, but great for morale—and smashed into the cornerback at the first down marker.
We both went down.
The referee ran over. He spotted the ball.
"First Down, Medford!"
The crowd actually cheered.
I stood up, shaking the dizziness away. My arm hurt. My ribs hurt. But the chains were moving.
Tiny walked past me. He looked at Bubba, who was still on the ground trying to find his helmet. Then he looked at me.
"You're crazy," Tiny grunted.
"Maybe," I said, adjusting my pads. "But we got a first down."
Tiny didn't smile. He didn't high-five me. But he reached out and slapped my helmet. A hard, "good job" smack.
"Don't do it again," Tiny said. "I ain't chasing you around all night."
"Deal," I said.
[System Update]
[Team Morale: Stabilizing]
[Tiny's Respect: +5 (Neutral)]
I looked at the sideline. Kyle Benson was standing there, arms crossed, looking furious.
I looked up at the stands. Dad was nodding. Just a slight, single nod.
I grinned, tasting blood and rubber.
"Let's go!" I yelled at the huddle. "Tempo! They can't breathe! Tempo!"
We were just getting started.