Date: November 9, 1990 (Friday).
Location: Highlander Stadium.
Event: The Target on the Back.
Part 1: The Intelligence Report
November arrived in Texas with a sudden, biting chill. The humid, suffocating heat of the summer was gone, replaced by a sharp wind that stripped the oak trees bare and made the stadium lights seem brighter, colder, and more unforgiving.
In November, the ground gets hard. The football feels like a frozen brick. And every hit echoes just a little bit louder across the field.
It was Friday morning. I was sitting at the kitchen table eating a bowl of oatmeal. The Dallas Morning News was spread out in front of me. For the fourth week in a row, my face was in the sports section. We were 8-0. We were blowing out district opponents by an average of thirty points. The hype train had left the station and was currently breaking the sound barrier.
The media was calling us the kings of Dallas.
But heavy is the head that wears the crown.
The back door of the kitchen swung open, and Eric van der Woodsen walked in. He wasn't wearing his usual crisp polo shirt. He was wearing a heavy Highland Park letterman jacket, rubbing his hands together to fight the morning chill. He carried a yellow legal pad tucked under his arm.
Eric didn't say good morning. He walked straight to the coffee pot, poured himself a mug, and sat down at the table across from my father.
"Coach," Eric said, his voice deadly serious. "I have a credible intelligence report regarding tonight's game against Plano Senior High."
George Sr. looked up from his scrambled eggs. "Intelligence report? Eric, you're the equipment manager, not the CIA. Did they change their defensive signals?"
"Worse," Eric said, flipping open his legal pad. "I have a contact over at Plano. A kid I went to summer camp with who plays backup safety for them. They had a players-only meeting yesterday afternoon after their practice."
Eric paused, looking directly at me.
"They passed a hat around the locker room," Eric said. "Every starter on the Plano defense put in twenty dollars. A few wealthy alumni supposedly matched the pot. There is currently a five hundred dollar cash bounty on Georgie's head. Whoever knocks the National Superstar out of the game gets the envelope."
Mary Cooper dropped her spatula on the counter with a loud clatter. She spun around, her face pale.
"A bounty?" Mary gasped, her voice trembling with sudden, fierce maternal panic. "They are paying children to intentionally injure my son? George, you have to call the police! You have to cancel the game!"
"Mary, calm down," George Sr. said, though a dark, furious red color was creeping up his neck. He looked at Eric. "Are you sure about this, Eric? Bounties happen in the pros, maybe in college, but this is high school."
"I am completely certain, Coach," Eric stated smoothly. "Plano is 4-4. Their season is practically over. They aren't playing to win the district tonight. They are playing to be the team that broke the Highland Park golden boy. It is a matter of pride for them."
George Sr. stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the linoleum. He didn't look like a high school coach anymore. He looked like a father who was ready to commit a felony.
"I'm calling the Plano Head Coach," George growled, marching toward the wall phone. "If he knows about this, I'll have his job by noon."
"Dad, stop," I said quietly.
George froze, his hand hovering over the phone receiver.
I took another bite of my oatmeal. I chewed it slowly. I wasn't panicked. I wasn't even surprised. In the high-stakes, hyper-competitive world of Texas football, when you become the king, you have to expect assassins. It was just basic math.
"If you call their coach, they'll just deny it," I said, setting my spoon down. "They'll hide the money, and they'll play dirty anyway, but they'll be smarter about it. If they want to headhunt, let them. A defense that is trying to injure one guy is a defense that isn't watching the ball."
"Georgie, they are trying to hurt you," Mary pleaded, walking over and grabbing my shoulders.
"I know, Mom," I smiled, reaching up and patting her hand. "But I'm faster than they are. And I have Larry."
Part 2: The Hit Squad
Friday night. Highlander Stadium was packed to absolute capacity. The breath of twenty thousand fans plumed into the freezing night air like smoke.
Plano Senior High ran onto the field. They wore dark maroon uniforms. They didn't look like a high school football team; they looked like a prison riot. They were screaming, headbutting each other, and pointing directly at our sideline. Specifically, they were pointing at me.
I stood near the hash marks, warming up my arm.
Sheldon was standing a few feet away, bundled up in a massive, puffy winter coat that made him look like a brightly colored marshmallow. He had a thermos of hot cocoa and his trusty clipboard.
"I have calculated the kinetic energy required to cause a severe orthopedic injury, Georgie," Sheldon announced, his teeth chattering slightly. "Given the average mass of the Plano defensive line and your current velocity, you must avoid any direct linear collisions. A glancing blow reduces force transfer by up to forty percent."
"Thanks, Shelly," I said, throwing a crisp spiral to Jimmy Smith. "I'll try to keep my geometry perfect."
The game began.
We received the opening kickoff. I strapped my helmet on and jogged onto the field. The cold air burned my lungs, but my mind was perfectly clear. The System was humming quietly in the background, processing the defensive alignments faster than a supercomputer.
I lined up in the shotgun.
Plano didn't disguise their intentions. They crowded the line of scrimmage. They were bringing an eight-man blitz on the very first play. They didn't care if we threw a touchdown. They just wanted to hit me.
"Blue 80! Hike!"
Larry snapped the ball.
The Plano defense surged forward like a maroon tidal wave. Two linebackers completely ignored the running back and sprinted straight up the A-gaps.
I caught the snap. I didn't take a standard three-step drop. I knew the pocket was a death trap.
I instantly spun to my left, completely breaking the traditional footwork mechanics my father had taught me. The two blitzing linebackers collided violently in the exact spot I had been standing a fraction of a second earlier.
I was running full speed toward the left sideline. A Plano defensive end peeled off his block and launched himself at me, leading with his helmet.
I didn't brace for impact. I didn't slide early.
I suddenly stopped my momentum, letting the massive defensive end fly right past my face mask, grasping at empty air. While completely off-balance, standing on one foot, I flicked my wrist and threw a sidearm laser down the sideline.
The ball hit our tight end in perfect stride for a twenty-yard gain.
The crowd erupted. The Plano defenders picked themselves up off the frozen grass, looking incredibly frustrated. They had brought the house, and I hadn't even been touched.
I was the Improviser. I was a ghost.
Part 3: The Breaking Point
For the entire first half, the game followed the exact same pattern.
Plano played incredibly dirty, reckless football. They rushed six, seven, sometimes eight men on every single down. They hit our receivers late. They trash-talked. They were desperate to collect that five hundred dollar bounty.
But they couldn't catch me.
My peripheral vision, enhanced by the System, allowed me to see the hits coming before the defenders even planted their feet. I slid under swinging arms. I stepped up into tiny pockets of space. I threw the ball across my body, underhand, sidearm, completely breaking the geometric rules of the sport.
By the end of the second quarter, we were up 21-0. I had thrown three touchdowns. My white jersey didn't have a single blade of grass on it.
But frustration breeds stupidity.
With thirty seconds left in the half, we were on the Plano forty-yard line.
"Hike!"
I dropped back. Plano sent a delayed blitz from the corner. I saw him coming. I casually sidestepped to my right, buying an extra second, and launched a deep fade route to Jimmy Smith toward the end zone.
The ball was in the air. The play was effectively over for me. I stood near the hash marks, watching the flight of the ball.
Then, out of my blind spot, a Plano middle linebacker came sprinting at full speed. He had completely bypassed the play. He had a clear path.
He didn't aim for my chest. He didn't wrap up for a tackle.
He lowered his helmet and launched himself directly at the side of my right knee.
It was a career-ending shot. It was the exact type of hit that ruins ligaments and shatters bones. It was the hit that had destroyed my old life before the transmigration.
The System flared a massive red warning in my vision a microsecond before impact.
I couldn't jump out of the way in time, but I managed to shift my weight entirely off my right leg, relaxing the joint completely.
The linebacker's helmet crashed into the side of my leg.
Because my foot wasn't planted in the turf, my knee didn't snap. Instead, my entire leg gave way, and I flipped backward violently, crashing hard onto the frozen dirt.
The whistle blew. The crowd screamed in outrage.
I hit the ground hard, my breath leaving my lungs in a sharp rush. I lay there for a second, doing a mental systems check.
My leg throbbed. The side of my calf was bruised. But the knee was intact. There was no pop. There was no tear. The Mahomes durability trait and my split-second weight shift had saved my career.
I sat up, waving off the trainers who were sprinting onto the field.
The Plano linebacker who had hit me was standing over me. He looked down, breathing heavily, a sick, satisfied grin on his face. He thought he had just won five hundred dollars.
"Stay down, pretty boy," the linebacker spat.
Before I could say a word, a massive shadow blocked out the stadium lights above us.
Larry Allen had arrived.
Part 4: The Berserker
Larry didn't yell. He didn't shove the linebacker. He didn't start a brawl that would get him ejected from the game.
Larry just stopped directly in front of the Plano player. Larry stood six-foot-three, three hundred and twenty-five pounds, and he was staring down at a high school senior who suddenly realized he had made a catastrophic error in judgment.
Larry reached down, grabbed the front of my jersey with one hand, and effortlessly hauled me to my feet.
"You okay, Georgie?" Larry rumbled, his voice incredibly deep and terrifyingly calm.
"I'm fine, Larry," I said, dusting the frozen grass off my pants. "He missed the joint."
Larry turned his massive, helmeted head back toward the Plano linebacker. He didn't say a single word. He just stared at him for three full seconds. The linebacker actually took a step backward, his fake bravado evaporating instantly.
The referee ran over, throwing a yellow flag for a late hit, but the damage was already done. The line had been crossed.
The half ended.
In the locker room, George Sr. was absolutely livid. He was kicking trash cans and screaming about calling the state athletic board. He knew what that hit was designed to do.
I sat by my locker, drinking water, completely calm. My leg hurt, but it was a dull ache, not a structural failure.
I looked across the room at Larry Allen.
Larry wasn't eating his usual halftime peanut butter sandwich. He was sitting on a metal bench, staring at the concrete wall. His hands were gripping his knee pads so tightly his knuckles were white.
Zach Thomas walked over to Larry. Zach had a cut above his eye from playing defense.
"They're headhunting our guy, Larry," Zach whispered, a terrifying, psychotic grin spreading across his face.
"I know," Larry said softly.
"What are we going to do about it?" Zach asked.
Larry slowly turned his head. He looked at Zach. Then he looked at me.
"We are going to make them want to go home," Larry stated.
The third quarter began.
Plano received the kickoff, but Zach Thomas and the Highland Park defense were playing like possessed demons. Zach was flying around the field, making tackles so violent you could hear the plastic pads cracking from the bleachers. Plano went three-and-out in less than a minute.
We got the ball back.
In the huddle, I called a standard run play to the right side.
Larry Allen looked at me. "Georgie. Call a pass. A slow one."
I looked at my giant left tackle. I understood exactly what he wanted. He didn't want to run block. He wanted to pass protect. He wanted them to come to him.
"Blue 80. Dropback pass. Jimmy on a post. Hike."
I took the snap. I dropped back three steps and just stood there, holding the ball like a statue. I was the bait.
The Plano linebacker—the same one who had dove at my knee—saw me standing still. He thought he had another free shot. He blitzed through the B-gap, sprinting at me with bad intentions.
He never made it past the line of scrimmage.
Larry Allen didn't just block him. Larry stepped backward, completely ignored the defensive end he was supposed to block, and squared his massive shoulders toward the blitzing linebacker.
When the linebacker arrived, Larry launched his hands forward.
The impact sounded like a car accident. Larry's palms struck the linebacker squarely in the chest plate. The momentum transfer was absolute. The Plano player's feet physically left the ground. He flew backward through the air, completely airborne, and crashed into his own defensive tackle.
Both men went down in a tangled heap of maroon jerseys.
Larry stood over them, completely unbothered, while I casually threw a thirty-yard completion to Jimmy Smith.
The crowd gasped. They had never seen a human being thrown like a ragdoll on a football field.
For the rest of the game, it was a slaughter.
Larry Allen stopped playing football and started playing bouncer. Whenever a Plano defender even looked in my direction, Larry found them. He pancaked defensive ends into the frozen dirt and simply laid on top of them until the whistle blew. He pulled on screen passes and annihilated defensive backs who were half his size.
By the middle of the fourth quarter, the Plano defense had completely quit.
They stopped rushing the passer. They stopped blitzing. They literally stood near the line of scrimmage and backpedaled the second the ball was snapped, absolutely terrified of making contact with the giant wearing number seventy-three.
The bounty was completely forgotten. They just wanted to survive the night.
Part 5: The Message
The final horn sounded.
Highland Park 42, Plano Senior High 0.
I took a knee on the final play to run out the clock. As the referee blew his whistle, signaling the end of the massacre, the tension in the stadium finally broke.
We walked toward midfield for the traditional post-game handshakes.
The Plano players looked miserable. They were bruised, battered, and completely demoralized. The kid who had dove at my knee was limping heavily, having spent the entire second half getting repeatedly pancaked by Larry.
I walked down the line, shaking hands, completely untouched. My white uniform was pristine. My joints felt fine. The Mahomes template had kept me clean, but my offensive line had kept me alive.
I reached the linebacker who had tried to end my season.
He wouldn't look me in the eye. He held his hand out limply, staring at the ground.
I took his hand. I didn't squeeze hard. I didn't say a word about the bounty or the cheap shot. I didn't have to.
Suddenly, Larry Allen stepped up right behind me. His massive shadow fell over the Plano linebacker.
Larry didn't shake the kid's hand. He just leaned down slightly, his facemask inches from the terrified Senior's face.
"Keep your money," Larry rumbled, his voice vibrating in the cold night air.
We walked away, leaving the broken team standing in the frozen grass.
I looked up into the stands. Serena was clapping, her breath pluming in the cold. Meemaw was giving me a thumbs up. And Eric van der Woodsen was furiously writing on his legal pad, likely calculating our new national ranking.
We hadn't just beaten a rival tonight. We had survived an assassination attempt. And we had sent a message to the entire state of Texas.
You can put a bounty on the King. But you have to get past the Mountain first.
[Quest Update: The Bounty]
* Assassination Attempt: Evaded (Mahomes Durability activated).
* Retaliation Status: Absolute.
* Recruit Synergy: Maximum. Larry Allen has assumed the Enforcer role.
* Season Status: 9-0.
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