Ninety yards.
In a car, ninety yards is nothing. You sneeze, and you've traveled ninety yards. But on a football field, backed up against your own end zone, with eleven angry giants wanting to turn your bones into powder... ninety yards is a marathon through a minefield.
I stood in the end zone. The grass here was pristine because we hadn't been down here all game.
"Huddle up," I said. My voice echoed in my helmet.
The offensive line looked nervous. If they missed a block here, I would get sacked for a safety. Two points for Odessa. Momentum flipped. Game over.
"Tiny," I looked at my Left Tackle. He was breathing hard, steam rising from his shoulders in the cool night air. "You got the defensive end. He's fast, but he jumps the snap. Ride him past the pocket."
"Got him," Tiny grunted.
"Dave," I looked at my running back. "I need three yards. Just get us some breathing room. Do not fumble."
"I hold it like a baby," Dave said, tapping the ball.
"A baby you don't want to drop," I corrected. "Play: 34 Dive. On one. Break!"
We walked to the line.
The Odessa defense was frothing at the mouth. The linebacker with the gold tooth—I saw his jersey number now, **54**—was inching up to the line.
"Safety's gonna eat you, Cooper!" Number 54 yelled. "We're coming!"
I ignored him. I scanned the defense.
[System Analysis]
[Defense: 4-4 Stack]
[Gap Integrity: Aggressive]
[Safety Depth: Shallow]
They were trying to suffocate us.
"Down! Set! Hut!"
I handed the ball to Dave. He hit the hole hard.
*Smack.*
The collision was instant. Odessa's linebackers filled the gap like water. But Dave kept his legs churning. He spun, lowered his shoulder, and fell forward.
"Gain of four!" the announcer said.
I let out a breath. We were out of the shadow of the goalposts.
"Hurry up!" I yelled, waving my hands. "Same play! Same play!"
Odessa wasn't expecting tempo. They were big, and big guys hate running between plays.
"Set! Hut!"
I handed it to Dave again. This time, Tiny sealed the edge. Dave bounced outside for six yards.
**First Down.**
We were rolling.
***
**The Mid-Field Grind**
The next ten minutes were a blur of violence and math.
We didn't throw deep. We didn't try to be fancy. We just executed.
Run left for three yards.
Quick slant to Miller for five yards.
Run right for four yards.
We were methodically picking them apart. It wasn't flashy; it was surgery.
I checked the scoreboard clock. **2:15 left in the half.**
We had crossed into Odessa territory. The 40-yard line.
But the Odessa defense was adjusting. Number 54 started cheating up. He realized we were running the ball to kill the clock.
"I see you!" 54 pointed at me. "You're scared to throw!"
I wiped sweat from my eyes. My "Mahomes Template" was giving me a heatmap of the field.
The middle was clogged. The safeties were creeping down. They were disrespecting the deep ball because they didn't think a 12-year-old arm could beat them over the top.
*Perfect.*
I called a timeout.
I jogged to the sideline. Coach Wilkins looked stressed but happy.
"Great drive, Cooper," Wilkins said. "Run the clock down. Let's go into halftime 7-0."
"No," I said, grabbing a water bottle.
Wilkins blinked. "Excuse me?"
"They're cheating up," I said. "Look at the safeties. They're basically linebackers right now. If we run it again, they'll stuff us."
"So what do you want?"
"The dagger," I said. "Play Action fake. 'Fake 34 Dive, Y-Pop Pass'."
Wilkins chewed his gum. It was risky. If I got sacked, we lost field goal range.
"The Tight End hasn't caught a pass all season," Wilkins argued.
"That's why he's open," I countered.
Wilkins looked at me. He looked for fear in my eyes, but he didn't find any. He just saw certainty.
"Do it," Wilkins said. "But sell the fake. Make them believe it."
***
I ran back onto the field.
The crowd was loud, but it was a nervous loud. They sensed something was happening.
"Huddle!"
I looked at Timmy, our Tight End. He was a big kid, clumsy, mostly used for blocking.
"Timmy," I said.
"Yeah?"
"You're gonna score a touchdown."
Timmy's eyes went wide. "Me?"
"Yes. Fake the block on the linebacker. Count to two. Then release straight up the seam. Nobody will be covering you."
"Okay," Timmy nodded, swallowing hard.
"Dave," I said. "This is on you. You have to sell the run. Crouch over the ball. Get tackled if you have to."
"Got it."
"Break!"
We lined up on the 35-yard line.
Number 54 was grinning. He was right in the 'A-Gap' (between the Center and Guard). He was blitzing. I knew it.
"Blue 80! Blue 80!"
I saw the safety step down. He took the bait.
"Hut!"
I took the snap.
I turned and shoved the ball into Dave's stomach.
Number 54 came crashing through the line. He tackled Dave. He hit him so hard that Dave's helmet flew off.
"FUMBLE!" the Odessa crowd screamed. "I GOT HIM!" 54 yelled.
But Dave didn't have the ball.
I had pulled it out at the last microsecond. A "Sleight of Hand" trick I had perfected in the garage.
I hid the ball behind my hip. I stood perfectly still for one heartbeat.
The entire defense had collapsed on Dave. The safeties were running forward.
And then, from the pile of bodies, Timmy the Tight End emerged.
He looked around, realized nobody was watching him, and took off running down the middle of the field.
I waited.
One... Two...
I stepped up. I didn't need to throw a bullet. I needed touch.
I tapped into the physics. *Torque. Release angle: 45 degrees.*
I lobbed the ball.
It floated over the head of the frantic safety. It hung in the air like a balloon.
Timmy looked up. He slowed down.
"Don't drop it," I prayed. "Please don't drop it."
The ball fell into Timmy's breadbasket. He hugged it against his chest.
He stumbled, regained his balance, and lumbered into the end zone.
The stadium went dead silent.
Number 54, who was still laying on top of Dave, looked up. He saw the referee raising his arms.
**Touchdown.**
I walked over to 54. I didn't say anything mean. I didn't trash talk.
I just pointed at the scoreboard.
**Medford: 13 - Odessa: 0**
We kicked the extra point. It sailed through the uprights.
**14-0.**
"Physics," I whispered to myself.
***
**Halftime**
The locker room was buzzing.
"Did you see that fake?!" Tiny was yelling. "I didn't even know you had the ball!"
"I thought Dave had it!" Miller laughed.
I sat on the bench, sucking down an orange slice.
Coach Wilkins stood in the center of the room. He looked at us. He looked proud.
"14 to nothing," Wilkins said. "We punched them in the mouth. We stuck 'em. And we tricked 'em."
The team cheered.
"But," Wilkins raised a hand. "They are going to come out angry. The second half is gonna be a war. Cooper?"
"Yes, Coach?"
"How's the arm?"
"Fresh," I lied. (It was a little sore).
"Good. Because they're gonna blitz every play now. Be ready."
I nodded.
I looked at the System overlay in the corner of my vision.
[Quest Update: The Long March]
[Status: COMPLETE]
[Reward: New Skill Unlocked - "Play Action Specialist"]
[Halftime Analysis: Opponent Rage Mode Activated]
I chewed my orange slice.
Let them rage. Rage makes you stupid. And stupid is easy to beat.