Friday Night Lights isn't a TV show. In West Texas, in 1987, it was a religion. And we had just walked into the Vatican.
The stadium was deafening. It wasn't the polite applause of Medford; it was a wall of noise. Cowbells clanged. A brass band played a fight song that sounded like an approaching war party. The floodlights were so bright they made the grass look almost radioactive.
I stood at the 50-yard line for the coin toss.
The Odessa captains walked out. There were four of them. They held hands, walking in lockstep, wearing all-black uniforms with silver helmets. They looked like stormtroopers.
The head referee, a man with a sunburned neck and zero patience, held up a coin.
"Heads or tails?"
"Heads," the Odessa captain grunted. He was a linebacker with a neck roll so thick he couldn't turn his head. He looked at me like I was a rounding error.
"It is tails," the ref said. "Medford wins the toss."
"We'll receive," I said instantly.
The Odessa captain leaned in. He smelled like wintergreen and sweat. "Doesn't matter," he whispered. "We're gonna bury you on the kickoff."
I didn't flinch. I just smiled—that annoying, confident smirk I had practiced in the mirror.
"You're standing on my field," I said calmly. "Get off."
The captain blinked. He wasn't used to back-talk from twelve-year-olds. He scoffed and jogged back to his sideline.
I turned to my team. They were huddled near the numbers, bouncing on their toes. The fear from the bus was gone, replaced by a jittery, caffeine-like energy. The speech had worked, but adrenaline only lasts until the first hit.
"Kickoff return team!" Coach Wilkins yelled, his voice cracking slightly. "Hands team! Don't let the ball bounce!"
***
**The Kickoff**
The ball sailed through the air. It was a high, deep kick.
Our returner, a speedy kid named Gonzalez, caught it at the five-yard line. He took two steps and was immediately vaporized.
*CRACK.*
Two Odessa gunners hit him at the same time. The sound echoed through the stadium. Gonzalez went down like he'd been shot.
The crowd erupted.
"Welcome to Odessa!" a fan screamed from the front row.
Gonzalez got up, wobbling. He held onto the ball, but his eyes were glassy.
"First and Ten! Ball on the 18!"
I strapped my chin strap. The "Mahomes Template" hummed in the back of my mind, dampening the noise.
*Precision beats power.*
I jogged onto the field.
The huddle was tight. Tiny was breathing heavy. Miller, the receiver I had promised the touchdown to, looked pale.
"They hit hard," Miller whispered.
"Good," I said. "That means they're overcommitting. Listen to me."
I looked around the circle.
"Play one. 24 Blast. Dave, run it up the gut. Let's see how strong they are."
"On one! Break!"
We lined up. The Odessa defense was crowding the line. They were playing a "4-4 Stack"—eight men in the box. They were daring us to run.
"Hut!"
I handed the ball to Dave.
Dave was a tough kid. He ran straight ahead.
He ran into a brick wall.
The Odessa defensive line didn't budge. Their linebackers filled the gaps instantly. Dave was tackled for a loss of one.
"Second and Eleven!"
The Odessa players stood up, pounding their chests. "Not today! Not today!"
I hurried the team back to the line.
"Play two!" I yelled. "Quick Screen Right! On one!"
Snap.
I caught it, turned, and fired a dart to Miller on the sideline.
Miller caught it. He tried to turn upfield, but the Odessa corner was right there. He grabbed Miller's jersey and threw him out of bounds.
"Gain of three!" the announcer said. "Third and Eight for the Mustangs."
This was it.
Third and long against Odessa. The stadium was rocking. The "Defense!" chant was starting.
I walked into the huddle.
I looked at Miller. He was rubbing his arm where the corner had grabbed him.
"Miller," I said. "You remember the locker room?"
Miller looked at me. His eyes were wide.
"You promised me a touchdown," Miller said.
"I did," I nodded. "And I don't break promises."
I looked at the offensive line.
"Tiny. Center. Right Guard. Listen carefully. They are going to blitz. All of them. They think we're scared."
[System Analysis: Defensive Tendency]
[Situation: 3rd & Long]
[Prediction: Cover 0 (All-Out Blitz)]
[Weakness: No Safety Help]
"Max Protect," I ordered. "Running backs, stay in and block. Miller... run a 'Sluggo'. Slant-and-Go. Give me a hard step inside, make the corner bite, then fly."
"What if he doesn't bite?" Miller asked.
"He will," I said. "Because I'm gonna sell it too."
"Break!"
We walked to the line.
The noise was deafening. I could barely hear my own voice.
I stood in the shotgun. I scanned the defense.
They were showing it. The linebackers were creeping up. The safety had moved down to cover the slot. There was nobody deep. The middle of the field was wide open.
"Blue 80! Blue 80!" I yelled, pointing at the middle linebacker. "Mike is 54!"
The linebacker grinned. He had a gold tooth. "I'm coming for you, little man!" he yelled.
"Come on then!" I shouted back.
"Hut!"
The world exploded.
Odessa brought the house. Six defenders rushed.
Tiny engaged the defensive end, grunting with effort. The running backs stepped up to pick up the blitzers.
The pocket collapsed instantly. It was a cage match of bodies and grunting and plastic hitting plastic.
I took the snap. I took a three-step drop.
I looked directly at Miller. I pump-faked hard to the inside.
*Sell the slant.*
The Odessa cornerback bit. He jumped the route, trying to be a hero and get the interception.
Miller planted his foot and cut upfield. He ran right past the corner.
He was open.
But the pressure was there. The linebacker with the gold tooth had shed his block. He was two steps away from burying me.
I didn't panic. I remembered Sheldon's garage.
*Disengage the hips. Be a trebuchet.*
I stepped up into the crumbling pocket. I twisted my core, generating torque from my stomach, not my shoulder.
The linebacker lunged. His hand clawed at my jersey.
I released the ball a split second before he hit me.
*Thud.*
The linebacker drove me into the ground. My helmet bounced off the turf. The breath left my lungs.
But I rolled over. I looked up.
The ball was a beautiful, tight spiral. It cut through the stadium lights like a missile.
Miller was running. He looked back. The ball was dropping out of the sky, right over his shoulder.
"Run, Miller!" I wheezed.
Miller reached out. The ball hit his hands in stride. He bobbled it for a terrifying microsecond, then secured it.
There was nobody in front of him. Just fifty yards of green grass.
The Odessa safety tried to chase him, but Miller had the angle.
The stadium went silent.
Ten. Five. Touchdown.
I lay on my back, staring at the night sky. The linebacker was getting off me, looking confused.
"Did he catch that?" the linebacker asked.
I grinned, despite the pain in my ribs.
"Check the scoreboard," I gasped.
The referee raised his arms.
**Touchdown, Medford.**
The Medford sideline exploded. Coach Wilkins was jumping up and down like he was on a trampoline. George Sr. was clapping, a rare, wide smile on his face.
I stood up. I brushed the rubber pellets off my jersey.
I looked at the Odessa sideline. They were stunned. They stood with their helmets in their hands, looking at the scoreboard like it was speaking a foreign language.
**Medford: 6 - Odessa: 0**
I found Miller in the end zone. He was screaming, mobbed by his teammates.
I walked over. I didn't jump. I didn't scream.
I just did the walk. Shoulders back. Arms swinging loose. The Billionaire Strut.
Miller ran up to me and head-butted my facemask. "You did it! You're a wizard, Cooper! You're a freakin' wizard!"
"I told you," I shouted over the noise. "Precision beats power!"
We kicked the extra point. 7-0.
***
We jogged back to the sideline.
"Cooper!" Coach Wilkins grabbed my facemask, shaking it with excitement. "That was a collegiate throw! Where did you learn to look off the safety like that?"
"Physics, Coach," I said. "Just physics."
I sat on the bench. My shoulder throbbed, but it was a good throb.
Tiny sat next to me. He was drenched in sweat, his face red.
"You took a hit on that one," Tiny said. "That linebacker got a clean shot."
"He hits like a pillow," I lied.
Tiny chuckled. "You're crazy. But you're good."
I took a sip of water. I looked at the System overlay.
[Quest Update: The Mystic Mac]
[Objective: Score on predicted play]
[Status: COMPLETE]
[Reward: +10 Team Chemistry, +500 XP]
[New Title Unlocked: The Shot Caller]
I felt the surge of XP. My awareness sharpened. The fatigue in my legs vanished.
But then, the kickoff whistle blew.
Odessa received the ball.
Their returner didn't get tackled. He made one guy miss. Then another. He ran it back to the 40-yard line.
Their offense trotted out. They didn't look scared anymore. They looked angry.
Their quarterback, a kid who was already six feet tall, pointed at our sideline.
I stopped smiling.
We had punched the bully in the mouth. But the bully didn't fall down. He just wiped the blood away.
"Defense! Get ready!" Coach Wilkins yelled.
I put my helmet on the bench and watched.
The game had just started. And Odessa was waking up.