Rage is a powerful fuel. It burns hot, and it burns fast.
When Odessa came out for the second half, they didn't look like a football team. They looked like a riot.
They received the kickoff. Their returner didn't dance this time. He just lowered his head and sprinted. He smashed into our coverage team, fighting for every inch.
They started their drive at the 35-yard line.
"Watch the run!" Coach Wilkins screamed.
But they didn't run up the middle.
Their Quarterback, the one who had been bored in the first half, wasn't bored anymore. He looked furious.
He took the snap, rolled out to the right, and fired a laser down the sideline.
Their receiver caught it in stride.
"Touchdown, Odessa."
It took them eighteen seconds.
The stadium erupted. The silence was gone. The cowbells were back, louder than before.
**Medford: 14 - Odessa: 7**
I put my helmet on. I felt a knot of anxiety in my stomach. The cushion was gone.
"Offense! Let's go!"
I trotted onto the field.
The Odessa defense was different now. In the first half, they were disciplined. Now, they were twitching. They were crowding the line of scrimmage.
Number 54, the linebacker, wasn't looking at the ball. He was staring directly at my knees.
[System Warning]
[Opponent Strategy: Headhunter]
[Blitz Probability: 100%]
"They're coming," I muttered.
"Huddle up!"
I looked at my offensive line. They looked spooked.
"Tiny," I said. "They are going to bring everyone. Do not let them touch me."
Tiny nodded, but he looked pale.
"Play: Quick Slant Left. On one."
We lined up.
I didn't even have time to count the defenders. There were too many. Seven, maybe eight guys on the line.
"Hut!"
The world collapsed.
It wasn't a blitz; it was a jailbreak.
Tiny got bull-rushed backward. The center got pancaked.
I took the snap and tried to throw, but a black jersey was already in my face.
*CRUNCH.*
I didn't see who hit me. I just felt the ground slam into my back. My helmet bounced off the turf. The air left my lungs in a painful *whoosh*.
"Sack!" the announcer yelled. "Loss of eight!"
I rolled over, gasping for air. Number 54 was standing over me.
"Welcome to the game, little man," he spat.
I grabbed Tiny's hand and pulled myself up. My ribs screamed.
*I hate this body,* I thought bitterly. *In my old life, I was a grown man. I had mass. Right now, I'm just a bag of antlers. No muscle armor. No weight to absorb the shock. I'm a Ferrari engine inside a go-kart.*
"Second and Eighteen," the ref called.
"My bad, Georgie," Tiny stammered. "He was too fast."
"Forget it," I wheezed. "Huddle."
We had to adjust. We couldn't run standard plays. I didn't have time for a three-step drop, let alone a five-step drop.
I needed the West Coast Offense. I needed quick, rhythm throws.
"Shotgun formation," I ordered. "Five wide. Empty backfield."
The team looked confused. We never ran empty backfield.
"Trust me," I said. "Spread them out. If they blitz, someone is open."
We lined up. Five receivers spread across the field.
The Odessa defense was confused for a split second. They had to widen out to cover everyone.
But Number 54 didn't care. He stayed in the middle. He was coming for me.
"Hut!"
The snap was low. I scooped it off the grass.
54 was coming like a freight train.
I didn't look at the receivers. I looked at the spot where 54 had vacated.
*Hot route.*
Miller had read it too. He broke off his route and cut into the empty space.
I flicked my wrist. A quick, ugly sidearm throw.
The ball spiraled over 54's fingertips and hit Miller in the chest.
Miller turned upfield.
"First down!"
I didn't celebrate. I didn't have time.
"Hurry up!" I yelled, limping to the line. "Same formation! Go! Go!"
We were playing fast now. If we slowed down, they would kill us.
Snap. Throw. Catch. Five yards.
Snap. Throw. Catch. Six yards.
We were marching down the field, dinking and dunking. The "Blitzkrieg" was met with a machine gun.
But the hits were adding up. Even when I got the ball out, they were knocking me down late. My elbow was bleeding. My jersey was grass-stained.
We reached the 20-yard line.
"Timeout, Medford!" Coach Wilkins signaled.
I walked to the sideline. I felt like I had been in a car wreck.
Coach Wilkins handed me water. He looked concerned.
"You're taking too many hits, Cooper," he said. "You're too small for this kind of pounding. We can't keep this up."
"We have to," I spat, wiping blood from my lip. "I'll heal. But right now, if we stop, they'll eat us alive."
I looked at the scoreboard. **Third Quarter. 1:00 remaining.**
"One more score," I said. "We put them away right here."
Wilkins nodded. "Okay. What's the call?"
I looked at the System.
[Quest: The Dagger]
[Recommendation: The Statue of Liberty]
[Risk Level: Extreme]
I smiled. A bloody, tired smile.
"You ever see a magic trick, Coach?"