The Captain's Dirty Little Secret

Chapter 166: Chapter 166 - One Breathe

Zac read the front.

Six near the line.

Linebacker crowding the gap.

Safety leaning left.

Dylan one on one.

Too clean.

Zac’s fingers tightened under Mason.

Shit.

They wanted Dylan.

The corner was playing loose on purpose. His hips were open, his eyes too calm, his hands hanging low like he was ready to get beat. The safety leaned left, but his feet told the truth. He was light on his toes. Waiting. Ready to cut back the second Zac looked at the corner.

They were showing him a touchdown.

They wanted him greedy.

Dylan saw the same open space and tapped two fingers against his thigh.

Give me the ball.

Zac stared at him through the facemask for half a second.

Dylan’s eyes sharpened.

He thought Zac was going to take it.

The Titans thought Zac was going to take it.

The crowd thought Zac was going to take it.

Zac pulled his hands away from Mason and stepped back.

”Kill! Kill!”

Mason turned his head slightly. ”What?”

”Kill it.”

Dylan’s head snapped toward him.

The corner across from Dylan shifted one step forward.

There.

The trap moved when Zac moved.

He clapped once.

”Blue eighty!”

The ball snapped.

The blitz came fast.

Mason caught the first rusher with both hands and drove low. The right guard caught the second, but the Titans linebacker slipped around the edge with his shoulder dipped and his hands already reaching.

Zac took one step back.

The safety broke toward Dylan.

The corner jumped inside.

Both of them moved before Zac even lifted the ball.

Zac almost smiled.

Got you.

He turned his shoulders left and fired to Reed.

Reed had slipped underneath the coverage with nobody in front of him.

The ball hit his hands at the five.

Reed turned upfield.

A linebacker lunged from the side and caught his waist, but Reed lowered his shoulder and dragged him two more yards before going down.

The whistle blew.

The Briarwick sideline erupted.

First and goal at the three.

Dylan jogged back toward the huddle, jaw tight. ”You saw it?”

Zac looked at him. ”They were begging for it.”

Dylan glanced toward the corner, who was shouting at the safety now. ”I was open.”

”For half a second.”

”That counts.”

”That gets you killed if I throw it late.”

Dylan spat his mouthguard into his palm, then shoved it back in. ”Then throw it early.”

Mason got into the huddle, breathing hard. ”You see thirty-five? He’s a fucking monster.”

Zac nodded.

Number thirty-five was reading his fakes too fast. If Zac kept staring him down, the Titans would eat the middle before the play opened.

He grabbed the front of Mason’s shoulder pad and pulled him closer.

”Forget him,” Zac said. ”We’re going behind you.”

Mason’s grin disappeared.

He nodded once. ”Behind me.”

The play came in from Hayes.

Power right.

Simple.

Ugly.

The kind of play where nobody got to pretend football was smart.

Three yards.

Three yards against last year’s champions.

Zac looked at the line.

The boys in front of him were already bent forward, hands on thighs, breathing through their mouths. The Titans had shoved them backward twice on that drive. Mason’s tape was already dark with grass and dirt.

Zac stepped behind him.

Mason crouched over the ball.

Across from them, Woodstock packed the line.

Their linebacker slapped both hands against his chest.

Their defensive tackle pointed at Mason and barked something Zac could barely hear over the crowd.

Mason answered without looking up.

”Come find out.”

Zac set his hands.

The ball snapped.

The line slammed together.

Zac took the handoff fake, kept the ball tight against his ribs, and followed Mason’s back.

The Titans hit them hard.

A shoulder crashed into Zac’s side. Pain flashed hot through his ribs. Someone grabbed his jersey from the right. Mason kept driving, legs pumping, helmet low, pushing through the first body in front of him.

The right guard shoved in behind him.

The running back crashed into the pile.

Zac lowered his head and drove.

One yard.

Two.

His knee almost hit.

Mason growled through his facemask and shoved again.

The pile moved.

Zac stretched the ball forward as his body folded under blue jerseys.

The whistle blew.

For one second, he heard only his own breathing.

Then the referee’s arms went up.

Touchdown.

The Briarwick side detonated.

Zac stayed under the pile, crushed against the grass with Mason half on top of him and a Titan defender’s knee digging into his thigh.

Mason grabbed his arm and hauled him up.

Zac dragged air into his lungs.

Mason hit his chest once. ”Behind me.”

Zac nodded.

He looked toward the Woodstock sideline.

Their calm was gone at the edges.

The corner who had tried to bait him stood with both hands on his helmet. The safety was shouting toward the linebacker. Their quarterback watched from the sideline, face blank.

They could bleed.

The extra point went through.

Ravens 7.

Titans 0.

Zac ran back to the sideline with his heart pounding and his ribs burning.

He watched the Titans quarterback clap his hands once and call the huddle together.

Woodstock had tried to trick him.

Fine.

Now he had to see what their quarterback could do when Briarwick hit back.

The answer came fast.

Their quarterback walked onto the field calm, then cut through the defense in pieces. Short throw. Run up the middle. Pass to the flat. Another short throw before the rush got there.

He never looked rushed.

He never looked surprised.

That irritated Zac more than trash talk.

Kyle nearly broke the drive open for Briarwick.

The Titans ran a screen to the slot receiver he had been watching since warmups. A blocker got both hands into Kyle’s chest, trying to keep him away from the ball.

Kyle fought through it.

He shoved one arm free, ripped past the block, and hit the runner low.

The tackle snapped the play down before it could turn big.

The Briarwick sideline barked his name.

Kyle got up and stared at the slot receiver who had tried to block him.

The slot said something.

Kyle smiled.

That smile looked worse than anger.

Two plays later, the Titans scored anyway.

Their running back slipped through a gap and dragged two Ravens across the goal line.

Touchdown.

Ravens 7.

Titans 7.

Zac put his helmet back on.

So that was the game.

Score.

Answer.

Score again.

Bleed until somebody blinked.

Briarwick’s next drive started with trouble.

Woodstock sent pressure from both sides. The line pushed back, shoulders locked and cleats tearing at the grass, but the Titans were strong. Their defensive end got under the tackle’s hands and shoved him backward, step by step, closing the pocket in Zac’s face.

Mason snapped his head right. ”Inside!”

Zac saw it.

Too late.

A linebacker shot through the gap before Zac could raise the ball.

The hit came before the throw.

A helmet drove into his ribs. A second body wrapped around his waist. Zac went down with the ball trapped against his chest and the air knocked out of him.

The whistle blew.

Sack.

The Titans defender rolled off and stood over him, chest heaving.

”You’re out of time tonight.”

Zac dragged air into his lungs.

Mason got there fast and shoved the defender back with both hands. ”Back up.”

The Titan laughed, palms lifted like he had done nothing.

A referee stepped in.

Mason turned to Zac and grabbed his jersey. ”You good?”

Zac took his hand and stood. ”He looped inside.”

”My bad.”

”So did I.”

Mason’s jaw worked. ”I’ll get him.”

Zac looked across the line as the Titans celebrated the sack. Their linebacker slapped the rusher’s helmet. Their safety pointed at Zac and shouted something toward the sideline.

They thought they had found it.

Pressure fast enough to hit him before the throw.

Make him hear footsteps.

Make him rush.

Make him stupid.

Zac flexed his fingers around the ball.

Fine.

Counter.

Next play, Zac changed the call at the line.

The Titans crowded forward, hungry for another hit.

Zac let them come.

The snap hit his hands.

He took one step back and threw immediately to the running back slipping out to the right.

The Titans rushed past him.

The running back caught the ball with open grass in front of him.

He cut once and lowered his shoulder.

Seven yards.

Then nine more before two defenders dragged him down.

The Briarwick sideline came alive again.

Zac jogged to the huddle, ribs burning.

There.

Make them pay for chasing.

Make them tackle in space.

Make them prove they could stay disciplined after getting angry.

Briarwick kept the drive alive.

The next throw went to Reed for eight.

Then Mason and the line shoved forward on a run that should have died at the line but dragged out four yards instead.

First down.

Woodstock crowded the middle again.

Zac saw the pressure coming before Mason even snapped the ball.

”Quick left,” Zac called.

Reed shifted outside.

Dylan stayed wide on the other side, pulling the safety with him even on one bad ankle.

The snap came.

The pocket bent fast.

Zac took one step back and fired.

The tight end caught it over the middle.

A Titan defender hit him so hard his legs came out from under him, but he kept the ball pinned against his chest as he landed in the end zone.

The referee’s arms went up.

Touchdown.

The Briarwick side roared.

Zac jogged over and grabbed his hand, pulling him up.

The tight end coughed once, then lifted the ball like his ribs had gone numb.

Mason slapped the back of his helmet. ”You got murdered.”

He sucked in a breath and grinned. ”Still scored.”

The extra point went through.

Ravens 14.

Titans 7.

Woodstock answered before the first quarter ended.

Their quarterback found the slot on a crossing route. Kyle hit him hard enough to knock him sideways, but the slot held on. Then their running back broke through the right side for nineteen. Their line pushed forward while Briarwick fought for every inch.

On third and goal, the Titans quarterback faked the handoff and threw to the back of the end zone.

Caught.

Touchdown.

Ravens 14.

Titans 14.

By the end of the first quarter, Zac had already thrown over one hundred yards.

He hated that he cared.

Numbers had a way of getting into his head. Records. Rankings. Passing yards. Completion percentage. All of it sounded clean until it became another scale for his father to hold in his hand.

He grabbed water and looked at the scoreboard instead.

Ravens 14.

Titans 14.

Woodstock had looked angry for the first time after that second Briarwick touchdown. Their linebacker shoved his own teammate back into position. Their safety yelled toward the sideline. The calm was cracking, but only at the edges.

Then came the mistake.

Briarwick’s defense forced a punt early in the second quarter.

The crowd rose, smelling a chance to take control.

The snap on Briarwick’s return bounced low.

Their returner fell on it, but the ball slipped loose under him.

A Titan dove in.

Bodies crashed over the ball.

The referee pointed.

Woodstock ball.

Zac stood on the sideline with his helmet in both hands.

His stomach went cold.

The Titans scored three plays later.

Their quarterback threw a short pass to the flat. The receiver cut inside, slipped one tackle, and got dragged down at the two.

The next play was all line.

Woodstock shoved forward, blue jerseys packed tight, legs driving, helmets buried into Briarwick’s front.

Their running back crossed the goal line with three Ravens hanging on him.

Touchdown.

Ravens 14.

Titans 21.

Briarwick tried to answer.

Zac threw to Reed for twelve.

Then to Dylan for nine.

The Titans hit Dylan late enough for the Briarwick sideline to scream, but the flag stayed in the referee’s pocket.

Dylan got up slow.

Zac’s fingers tightened around the ball.

Dylan saw him and slapped his own chest once.

Keep playing.

Zac forced his hands loose.

On the next snap, Zac looked deep.

Dylan faked outside, planted on the taped ankle, and cut inside so hard the corner stumbled.

There.

Zac threw long.

The ball went high, cutting through the cold air toward the sideline.

Dylan had a step.

Then the corner grabbed his jersey.

Zac saw the pull.

Dylan reached anyway, but the hand hooked in his jersey dragged him half a step back.

The ball dropped past his fingers.

The Briarwick sideline screamed.

Dylan spun toward the referee with both arms out. ”Flag!”

The yellow flag flew late.

Pass interference.

The Briarwick crowd roared.

Across the field, the Titans corner ripped at his own chin strap before a coach shouted him down. His eyes stayed on Dylan, sharp and furious.

The penalty moved them forward.

Woodstock hated it.

Their hits changed after that.

The next run became a fight in the middle. Mason and the line drove forward, legs churning, shoulders buried into blue jerseys. The Titans shoved back just as hard. Helmets knocked together. Hands grabbed cloth. The whole front bent and moved half a yard, then another.

The running back disappeared behind them.

Zac stood behind the pile with his fists clenched, watching Mason keep pushing even after the first hit stopped.

The whistle blew.

First down.

Mason came up breathing like an animal. His facemask was smeared with grass. He pointed at the Titans defensive tackle.

”Keep lining up there.”

The tackle shoved him once.

Mason shoved back harder.

The referee moved in.

Zac grabbed Mason’s shoulder pad. ”Save it.”

Mason’s eyes stayed on the tackle. ”I am saving it.”

Late in the second quarter, the Titans finally got the big play they wanted.

Zac took the snap and looked for Dylan on the inside break.

The safety jumped it.

Zac saw him flash across the route and tried to pull the throw down, but a defender hit his arm as it came forward.

The ball floated wrong.

A Titans linebacker caught it.

Interception.

The Woodstock side exploded.

The linebacker turned and ran.

For a second, Zac could only see the back of the blue jersey moving away from him.

Then Dylan came from the right side.

Bad ankle and all.

He sprinted across the field and launched himself at the linebacker from behind. His shoulder hit the runner’s hip. His arms wrapped around the legs. Both of them crashed hard into the turf near midfield.

The interception stood.

But Dylan had saved the touchdown.

Zac ran over with his chest tight.

Dylan rolled onto his back, breathing hard, grass stuck to his helmet and shoulder.

The linebacker shoved himself up and stared down at him.

Dylan looked up through his facemask. ”You run slow for a thief.”

The linebacker moved toward him.

Zac stepped in first.

Mason came in a second later and planted himself beside Zac.

The referee pushed between everyone before it broke open.

Dylan got up slowly.

His ankle was worse now. There was no hiding it. He limped twice before he forced his steps even.

Zac stared at him.

Dylan snapped, ”Say thank you and shut up.”

Zac swallowed whatever he wanted to say. ”Thank you.”

”Good boy.”

Mason made a disgusted sound. ”You two are weird as hell.”

Then Woodstock turned the interception into a field goal.

Their quarterback moved them close enough with two short throws and one hard run up the middle. Briarwick’s defense held at the edge of the red zone, but the damage had already been done.

The kick went through.

Titans 24.

Ravens 14.

Zac stood on the sideline and watched the scoreboard change.

Down ten.

Second quarter.

State championship.

His ribs burned from the sack. His shoulder pulsed from the hit on the interception. Dylan stood near the bench with one trainer looking at his ankle and anger all over his face. Mason paced in front of the offense, hands on his hips, jaw locked like he wanted the Titans line back in front of him right now.

Woodstock was good.

Fast enough to punish a mistake.

Strong enough to push Mason back.

Smart enough to bait a throw.

But they were bleeding now too.

Zac had seen it.

The corner grabbed when he was scared.

The safety jumped when he got greedy.

The linebacker bit when the fake sold hard enough.

They could win.

It would take everything.

Every throw.

Every block.

Every ugly yard.

Every hit they could still stand after.

Coach Hayes looked at Zac from a few feet away.

Zac put his helmet back on.

”Call it,” he said.