The New Guy Shoved Our Mascot To Look Tough. He Didn’t See The 80 Varsity Jackets Rising Behind Him.
Chapter 1
The cafeteria at Jackson High isn’t just a room where teenagers eat soggy pizza and trade gossip. It’s a geopolitical map. It’s a kingdom with invisible borders, active landmines, and a very specific hierarchy that keeps the chaos from boiling over.
Most people think the guys at the center table—my table—are the dictators. We’re the Varsity Football team. The State Champions. In a town like ours, where the Friday night lights shine brighter than the streetlamps, wearing that navy blue and gold jersey makes you something close to royalty.
I’m the middle linebacker. The Captain. To the outside world, I’m 6’3”, 240 pounds of collision waiting to happen. People think we rule through fear. They think we steal lunch money and stuff freshmen into lockers like some bad 80s movie cliché.
They’re wrong. We don’t rule through fear. We rule through order. We are the ecosystem’s apex predators, yeah, but our job isn’t to hunt the weak. Our job is to protect the herd.
It was a Tuesday. Taco Tuesday, specifically, which meant the air was thick with the smell of cumin, floor wax, and teenage desperation. The noise level was at its usual roar—a headache-inducing thrum of a thousand conversations bouncing off cinderblock walls.
I was sitting at “The Slab,” the long oak table in the direct center of the room. To my right was Miller, our nose tackle. Miller is a human eclipse. He eats three lunches and still looks at the vending machine with longing in his eyes. To my left were the safeties, wiring-thin guys who hit like freight trains.
Behind us, occupying the three surrounding tables, were the rest of the squad. The Juniors, the Sophomores, the Freshmen. We move as a unit. We breathe as a unit. We eat as a unit.
That’s when I saw him. The disruption in the force.
His name was Brock. Or at least, that’s what the rumor mill said. He’d transferred in two weeks ago from some private academy upstate. He was big—I’ll give him that. He looked like he was built in a lab funded by monthly supplement subscriptions.
He had that “gym-sculpted” look. The kind of muscles you get for aesthetics, not for function. He didn’t have the calluses or the scars. He was pristine.
He walked through the cafeteria like he was doing the floor tiles a favor by stepping on them. He wasn’t wearing school colors. He was wearing a tight, heather-gray t-shirt that was two sizes too small, specifically chosen to scream, “Look at my biceps.”
“Check six,” Miller grunted, pausing with a taco halfway to his mouth. “New guy. Again.”
I didn’t turn my head fully, just shifted my gaze. “I see him.”
Brock had been testing boundaries all week. Little things. bumping shoulders in the hallway, talking over teachers, parking his convertible across two spots in the student lot. He was marking territory. He was trying to figure out who the alpha was so he could challenge them.
But today, he wasn’t looking for a challenge. He was looking for a victim.
He was bypassing the weave of the lunch line. Usually, the line snakes back toward the vending machines, a chaotic mix of anxious freshmen and bored seniors. But Brock didn’t have time for lines.
He cut through the gap between the salad bar and the trash cans, stepping directly in front of a group of sophomore choir girls. They flinched, pulling their feet back.
He didn’t look at them. He didn’t acknowledge their existence. He had his eyes locked on the serving station where Mrs. Higgins was dishing out the beef.
“He’s cutting,” one of the safeties whispered, a dangerous edge in his voice. “Is he serious right now?”
“Hold,” I said quietly. My voice was low, but the table went silent immediately. “Let’s see what he does.”
We don’t intervene immediately. You have to let people show you who they truly are. Maybe he had a pass? Maybe he was diabetic and crashing? I like to give people the benefit of the doubt before I decide they need a lesson in civility.
But then I saw where he was heading. He wasn’t just cutting to the front of the empty space. He was cutting in front of Leo.
Let me tell you about Leo.
Leo is a junior. He stands about five-foot-four on his tiptoes. He weighs maybe a hundred and ten pounds if he’s wearing a backpack full of textbooks and wet boots. He has severe asthma, thick glasses that constantly slide down his nose, and a stutter when he gets nervous.
To the average observer, Leo is the bottom of the food chain. The easiest target in the room.
But to us? Leo is the Lion.
Literally. Since his freshman year, Leo has been the guy inside the mascot suit.
You have no idea what it’s like inside that suit. It’s forty pounds of synthetic fur, foam, and PVC piping. On Friday nights in September, the temperature inside that headgear hits a hundred and twenty degrees. It smells like old sweat, stale popcorn, and claustrophobia.
But Leo? Leo never complains. Not once.
When we’re down by two touchdowns in the fourth quarter and the crowd is dead, Leo is the one doing backflips in the endzone until his lungs burn. When we’re exhausted, bleeding, and cramping on the sidelines, Leo is the one dancing in front of the student section, whipping them into a frenzy until the noise fuels us back up.
Leo is the heart of the team. He takes the heat so we can take the glory. We treat the mascot better than we treat the quarterback. Leo eats free. Leo walks the halls untouched. That is the unwritten Constitution of Jackson High.
Brock didn’t know the Constitution.
I watched, my knuckles turning white as I gripped the edge of the composite table. Brock stepped up right behind Leo.
Leo was reaching for a tray, his movements slow and unassuming. He was probably thinking about his AP History exam or the choreography for the halftime show this Friday. He was in his own world.
Brock didn’t ask him to move. He didn’t say “Excuse me.” He didn’t tap him on the shoulder.
He just extended a massive, tanned arm and shoved.
It wasn’t a playful nudge between friends. It was a hard, dismissive thrust to the shoulder blade. A power move.
Leo, caught completely off guard and lacking any center of gravity, stumbled sideways. He tripped over his own feet, his sneakers squeaking against the linoleum. He flailed, trying to catch himself, but he collided hard with the metal railing of the tray return.
The plastic tray he was holding flew out of his hands.
CLANG-CLATTER-BANG.
The sound was violent. It sounded like a gunshot in a library.
The noise cut through the cafeteria chatter instantly. Heads turned. The dull roar of the room evaporated in a millisecond, replaced by a vacuum of suffocating silence.
Leo lay on the floor for a second, looking confused, his glasses skew centered on his face.
“Move it, shrimp,” Brock sneered, his voice loud enough to carry to the back of the room. “You’re blocking the fuel.”
He stepped into the spot Leo had occupied, grabbing a fresh tray and looking at Mrs. Higgins with an expectant, charming grin. “Heavy on the beef, sweetheart. I need the protein.”
Mrs. Higgins stood there, her ladle frozen in mid-air, dripping grease back into the pan. Her eyes went wide, darting from Brock to Leo, who was picking himself up off the floor, adjusting his glasses, looking terrified and humiliated.
Brock chuckled, looking around as if expecting an audience to applaud his dominance. “What? Kid was in the way. Survival of the fittest, right?”
He didn’t know. He truly, honestly didn’t know what he had just done.
I felt the temperature in my chest drop to absolute zero. It wasn’t the hot, red flash of anger. It was the cold, blue steel of tactical resolve.
I didn’t have to shout. I didn’t have to signal. I just stood up.
The screech of my chair pushing back against the linoleum was the only sound in the cavernous room.
SCREECH.
Then, the sound multiplied.
SCREECH. SCRAPE. THUD.
To my right, Miller stood up, wiping taco crumbs from his hands. To my left, the safeties rose.
Behind us, the scraping sound rippled outward like a wave. The JV linebackers. The freshman quarterbacks. The special teams benchwarmers. The equipment managers.
Eighty chairs pushed back within three seconds of each other. Eighty bodies rose in unison. It looked like a military drill rehearsed for a thousand hours.
We didn’t look at each other. We didn’t need to communicate. The hive mind had been activated. The brotherhood had been breached.
Brock froze. He had a scoop of taco meat halfway to his plate. He sensed the shift in atmospheric pressure. The hair on the back of his neck must have stood up.
He turned around slowly, that arrogant, pearly-white smirk faltering just a fraction.
He saw me first. Standing at the head of the formation.
Then, his eyes widened as he saw the wall behind me. A sea of eighty varsity jackets. Navy blue wool. Gold leather sleeves. Standing silent. Shoulders squared. Staring right at him.
I stepped out from the table, moving into the open aisle.
“Not hungry anymore, boys?” I asked, my voice calm, flat, but projecting to every corner of the room.
“Nope,” Miller said, his voice a deep rumble, cracking his knuckles. “Suddenly lost my appetite.”
“Seems like there’s a pest problem at the salad bar,” one of the seniors added.
I looked at Brock. He looked confused, his eyes darting around the room, trying to find an ally. Trying to find someone who would laugh with him. He found none. Even the non-athletes—the band kids, the skaters, the debate team—were watching, holding their breath. They knew what this meant.
I started walking toward the line.
The eighty guys behind me fell into step.
We didn’t run. We marched. A slow, rhythmic tide of aggression rolling toward the salad bar. Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound of our boots and sneakers hitting the floor was heavy.
Brock swallowed hard. I saw his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. He took a half-step back, bumping into the sneeze guard glass.
“What’s… what’s going on?” Brock stammered, his bravado leaking out of him like air from a punctured tire. He tried to laugh, but it came out as a nervous choke. “Is this a flash mob?”
I didn’t answer him. I walked right past him. I was close enough to smell his expensive cologne—something musky that tried too hard. I didn’t even make eye contact.
I walked straight to Leo.
Leo was brushing dust off his jeans, looking ready to bolt for the exit. He was trembling.
I put a hand on his shoulder. My grip was firm, reassuring.
“You okay, Leo?” I asked softly, ignoring the hulking presence of Brock three feet away.
Leo looked up, eyes wide behind his smudge-covered glasses. “I… I’m fine, Jackson. Really. It’s okay. I tripped. It was my fault.”
He was trying to de-escalate. He was trying to protect the team from getting in trouble. That’s just who Leo is.
“No,” I said, my voice hardening. I turned slowly, pivoting on my heel to face Brock. “It wasn’t your fault.”
The eighty guys fanned out behind me, blocking every exit, forming a semi-circle of judgment around the serving station. Brock was trapped between the sneeze guard and the defensive line of the State Champions.
I looked Brock up and down. I saw the fear starting to crack his mask.
“You must be new,” I said, crossing my massive arms over my chest.
“Yeah,” Brock said, trying to puff his chest out, trying to regain some ground. “I’m Brock. I’m going out for QB next week.”
Miller snorted behind me. A cruel, dismissive sound.
“QB?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow. “That’s a leadership position, Brock. Leaders don’t shove the smallest guy in the room to get a taco.”
Brock rolled his eyes, a fatal error. “Oh, come on. It was a joke. The kid is fine. Don’t be so sensitive.”
I took a step closer. I invaded his personal space. I towered over him by an inch, but my presence made it feel like a foot.
“That ‘kid’,” I whispered, leaning in so only he and Leo could hear, “is the only reason we won the semi-finals last year. That ‘kid’ has more heart in his little finger than you have in that entire steroid-pumped body.”
I pointed at the tray on the floor. The beef was splattered across the white tiles.
“Pick it up,” I said.
Brock blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Pick. It. Up,” I enunciated, my voice rising just enough for the room to hear.
“I’m not the janitor,” Brock scoffed. “And I’m not your pledge, bro.”
I smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile.
“I didn’t ask you to be a janitor,” I said. “I asked you to apologize. And in this house, you apologize by fixing the mess you made.”
I looked back at the team. “Miller, is Brock here leaving?”
Miller stepped forward, blocking the gap between the tables. He looked like a boulder with legs.
“I don’t think so, Cap,” Miller rumbled. “I think he’s just getting ready to clean.”
Brock looked at Miller. Then he looked at the eighty other guys. He looked at the teachers who were conspicuously pretending to grade papers in the corner, letting this play out.
He realized then that he wasn’t fighting a person. He was fighting a culture.
“You guys are insane,” Brock muttered, his face flushing red. “This is a cult.”
“It’s a family,” I corrected him. “And you just assaulted our little brother.”
I checked my watch. “Lunch period ends in twelve minutes, Brock. You can either pick up the tray and apologize to Leo, or we can stand here all day. But I promise you, you aren’t walking out of that gap until one of those things happens.”
Brock clenched his jaw. His fists balled up at his sides. He looked at me, calculating the odds. He was wondering if he could swing on me. He was wondering if he could take me.
I saw the violence flare in his eyes.
“Don’t,” I warned him softly. “You might get one hit in. Maybe. But then you have to deal with the other seventy-nine.”
The silence stretched. It was agonizing. The entire school was watching the standoff.
Brock looked at the tray. He looked at Leo. He looked at me.
Then, slowly, agonizingly, he bent his knees.
Chapter 2
The cafeteria was so quiet you could hear the hum of the vending machines in the hallway. Eighty pairs of eyes were drilled into the back of Brock’s neck. He was squatting there, hovering over the mess he’d made, his expensive sneakers creaking under the strain.
For a second, I thought he was going to snap. I saw the muscles in his neck corded tight like steel cables. I saw his right hand twitch, hovering near his hip. In a different school, in a different town, maybe he swings. Maybe he throws a punch and we all end up in the principal’s office.
But Jackson High is a different beast. He knew the math. One against eighty isn’t a fight; it’s a massacre.
Brock let out a breath that sounded like steam escaping a valve. He reached down.
He grabbed the plastic tray with two fingers, like it was radioactive waste. He scooped up the soggy taco shell, the scattered lettuce, the smeared beef. He didn’t do a good job—he left a grease stain on the tiles—but he did it.
He stood up, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred. His cheeks were burning a humiliated crimson, clashing with his gray shirt. He walked over to the trash can and slammed the tray into the opening with enough force to rattle the metal lid.
BANG.
He turned back to us. He didn’t look at me. He looked at Leo.
“Sorry,” he muttered. It was the least sincere apology I have ever heard in my seventeen years of life. It sounded more like a curse word. “Sorry I tripped you, Leo.”
He said Leo’s name like it was a disease he was afraid of catching.
Leo, bless his heart, just nodded frantically. “It’s fine. It’s totally fine. Don’t worry about it.”
Brock sneered. He hiked his backpack higher onto his shoulder, scanned the wall of varsity jackets one last time, and locked eyes with me.
“Are we done here, Captain?” he spat the rank like an insult.
I didn’t blink. I kept my arms crossed, my stance wide. “We’re done when you walk away.”
Brock scoffed, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”
He shouldered his way past Miller, deliberately bumping his arm against Miller’s chest. It was like a bicycle running into a brick wall. Miller didn’t budge an inch. Brock stumbled slightly from the impact of his own aggression, regained his balance, and stormed out of the cafeteria.
Only when the double doors swung shut did the room exhale.
The tension broke like a fever. The chatter exploded back into life, louder than before. Every table was whispering, pointing, looking at us.
“All clear,” I said, my voice dropping back to its normal register.
The wall of eighty guys dissolved. Shoulders slumped, tension released. The guys went back to their tables, high-fiving each other, cracking jokes to hide the adrenaline that was still pumping through their veins.
I turned to Leo. He was shaking. Not from fear, I realized, but from the sheer overwhelming nature of the moment.
“You good?” I asked, putting a hand on his back.
Leo looked up at me, adjusting his glasses. “Jackson, you didn’t have to do that. Seriously. He’s… he’s really big. He could have hurt you.”
I laughed, a dry sound. “Leo, look around. He would have had to go through the entire offensive line before he got to me. You’re family. Family doesn’t get shoved.”
“He’s going to come for you,” Leo whispered, his voice dark. “I saw his eyes, Jackson. He’s not done. He’s a predator.”
“Let him come,” Miller said, biting into his third taco as if nothing had happened. “We got practice in two hours. The field doesn’t lie. If he wants to act tough, let’s see if he can take a hit.”
Miller was right. The cafeteria is one thing. It’s social politics. But the gridiron? The gridiron is the truth.
But as I walked to my next class, I had a pit in my stomach. Leo was right too. Brock wasn’t just a bully. He was a transfer from St. Jude’s Prep. That’s a football factory. They don’t breed nice kids there; they breed champions.
If Brock was actually trying out for Quarterback, and if he was actually good… this wasn’t just a lunchroom spat. This was a civil war waiting to happen.
The locker room at 3:00 PM smells like potential and Tiger Balm. It’s a sanctuary of concrete and metal lockers, a place where the hierarchy is stripped down to who can run the fastest and hit the hardest.
I was taping my wrists, wrapping the white athletic tape tight until my hands turned slightly purple, then loosening it just enough to get blood flow. It’s a ritual. It focuses me.
The door banged open.
Usually, the locker room is loud. Music blasting, guys snapping towels, roasting each other. But when the door opened this time, the room went quiet.
Brock walked in.
He wasn’t wearing the tight gray t-shirt anymore. He was wearing team-issued practice gear. Mesh shorts, a gray cutoff with the Jackson High logo. And he was carrying a helmet.
Not just any helmet. A Riddell SpeedFlex. Custom visor. The kind of gear you buy yourself because the school budget can’t afford it.
He walked to the visitor lockers—the row assigned to new players before they earn their stripes. He didn’t look at anyone. He opened his locker, threw his bag in, and started undressing.
He was ripped. I hate to admit it, but the guy was carved out of granite. He had the obliques of a fitness model and the traps of a linebacker. He wasn’t all show muscles; the guy was built for contact.
“So,” a voice echoed from the corner. It was Davis, our current starting Quarterback.
Davis is a good guy. He’s smart, reliable, and manages the game well. But he’s not an athlete. He has a noodle arm and runs a 5.2 forty. He wins games with his brain, not his body.
“You must be the transfer,” Davis said, extending a hand. “I’m Davis. QB1.”
Brock paused, shirtless, holding his shoulder pads. He looked at Davis’s hand. He didn’t shake it.
“QB1?” Brock repeated, a smirk playing on his lips. “For now.”
He slid his shoulder pads over his head. “Don’t get too comfortable, Dave. I didn’t transfer here to hold a clipboard.”
Davis pulled his hand back, his face hardening. “We’ll see about that.”
“Yeah,” Brock said, snapping the buckles of his pads. “We will.”
He turned and looked at me across the room. I was sitting on my bench, staring him down.
“Hey, Captain,” Brock called out, his voice echoing off the tiles. “Hope your defense is ready. I heard you guys gave up twenty points a game last season. That’s embarrassing.”
The room bristled. A few defensive linemen stood up.
“Sit down,” I commanded, not breaking eye contact with Brock. “Save it for the grass.”
Brock winked. “Can’t wait.”
The heat on the practice field was oppressive. It was ninety degrees with ninety percent humidity. The air felt like hot soup.
Coach Reynolds blew the whistle. “Alright, listen up! We got a new face today. Brock Sterling. Transfer from St. Jude’s. He’s trying out for the QB spot. I want you to welcome him the Jackson way.”
“The Jackson way” usually meant making them puke during sprints.
“Let’s go! Seven-on-seven drill! First team offense, first team defense! Davis, you take the first series. Brock, you’re on deck!”
We lined up. I stood at middle linebacker, surveying the field. Davis stepped under center.
The first series was standard. Davis threw a short slant. Completed. He threw a screen pass. Completed. He tried to go deep to our star receiver, Chase, but my safety read it and batted it down.
“Good coverage!” I yelled. “Way to be there, Mike!”
Davis looked frustrated, but it was typical. Our defense usually dominates our offense in practice.
“Alright, switch!” Coach Reynolds yelled. “Sterling! You’re up! Let’s see what you got!”
Brock trotted onto the field. He didn’t look nervous. He looked bored. He slapped the center on the butt, hard.
“Let’s wake up, ladies!” Brock shouted in the huddle. “I don’t want any weak routes. If you’re open, I’ll hit you. If you’re covered, get open.”
He broke the huddle. He walked to the line of scrimmage with a swagger that Davis never had. He scanned my defense.
He pointed at me. “Mike fifty-four! Mike fifty-four is the blitzer!”
I wasn’t blitzing. He was trying to confuse his line. Or maybe he was just mocking me.
“Hut!”
The ball snapped.
Brock dropped back. His footwork was flawless. Three steps, fluid, balanced. He looked like a dancer.
My defensive end, Miller, broke through the line. In a real game, he would have sacked Davis. Davis would have curled up and taken the loss.
Brock didn’t curl up. He sensed the pressure without looking. He stepped up into the pocket, slid to the right to avoid Miller’s grasp, and kept his eyes downfield.
He planted his back foot.
I saw his arm cock back. It was fast. Too fast.
He launched the ball. It didn’t float. It didn’t wobble. It spiraled so tight it cut through the humid air like a missile.
It flew forty yards on a rope.
Our cornerback, Ricky, was in perfect position. He had the receiver blanketed. He turned his head to intercept the ball.
But the ball wasn’t where it was supposed to be. It wasn’t high, allowing Ricky to jump for it. It was placed on the back shoulder of the receiver, in the one square inch where only the receiver could get it.
Thwack.
The sound of the ball hitting the receiver’s gloves echoed across the field. A perfect catch. Touchdown.
Silence.
Even the coaches were quiet. That was an NFL throw. That was a throw Davis couldn’t make in his wildest dreams.
Brock jogged down the field, not celebrating. He just pointed at Ricky.
“Too slow, corner,” Brock shouted. “You gotta turn your hips faster if you want to play with the big boys.”
Ricky’s face went red. He looked at me, looking for help.
I gritted my teeth. The guy was a jerk. He was a bully. He was everything I hated.
But God help us, he was a quarterback.
“Again!” Coach Reynolds yelled, and I could hear the excitement in his voice. Coaches don’t care about morality. They care about winning. And Brock just showed them a ticket to the State Championship.
“Reset!” I yelled to my defense. “Shake it off! Don’t let him get in your head!”
The next play, Brock threw a laser over the middle. Completed. The play after that, he pumped faked, froze my safety, and threw a deep post. Touchdown.
He was dissecting us. He was making my defense—the defense that carried us to the semi-finals—look like a JV squad.
And he knew it.
After the third touchdown, Brock walked back to the line of scrimmage, smirking. He looked directly at me.
“Is this the ‘Wall’?” Brock asked loudly. “Is this the famous Jackson High defense? Because it feels like Swiss cheese to me, Captain.”
My blood was boiling. I could feel the pulse in my temples.
“Run the ball,” I challenged him. “Stop hiding behind your receivers. Run the ball and see what happens.”
Brock laughed. “You want me to run? Alright.”
He turned to the coach. “Coach! Audible! QB Draw! Let’s see if the linebacker can tackle.”
Coach Reynolds hesitated. QB Draw is a full-contact play. We usually don’t run full contact on the first day of pads. We don’t want to hurt the QB.
“Let ’em play, Coach!” I yelled. “He called it!”
Coach Reynolds looked at me, then at Brock. He blew the whistle. “Live! The play is live!”
The atmosphere changed instantly. This wasn’t a drill anymore. This was a street fight.
Brock lined up in the shotgun. I lined up five yards off the ball. My eyes locked on his hips.
“Ready… Set… Hut!”
Brock caught the snap. He didn’t look for a pass. He tucked the ball and took off.
He was fast. Deceptively fast. He shot through the gap in the offensive line before my tackles could react.
He was in the open field.
It was just him and me.
I lowered my center of gravity. I scraped down the line, mirroring his movement. I was going to hit him. I was going to hit him so hard he would forget his own name. I was going to make him pay for Leo. I was going to make him pay for the disrespect.
Brock saw me coming. Most QBs slide. Most QBs run out of bounds.
Brock didn’t slide.
He lowered his shoulder. He accelerated.
He was coming right at me.
“Come on!” I roared, planting my feet, preparing for the collision.
We were two freight trains on a single track. The distance closed. Five yards. Three yards. One yard.
I exploded upward, driving my facemask into his chest, wrapping my arms for the tackle.
CRACK.
The sound of pads hitting pads was thunderous. It was the loudest hit I had heard in four years of high school football.
The impact lifted both of us off the ground.
I felt the air rush out of my lungs. I felt his helmet dig into my sternum.
But I didn’t fall backward. I drove through. I twisted my hips and slammed him into the turf.
We hit the ground hard, a tangle of limbs and plastic. I landed on top of him, driving his back into the dirt.
“Stay down!” I growled, my face inches from his visor.
But as the dust settled, I heard a sound I didn’t expect.
Brock was laughing.
He was lying on his back, pinned under 240 pounds of linebacker, and he was wheezing out a laugh.
“Is that all you got?” Brock gasped, struggling for air but still smiling that devilish smile. “My grandma hits harder than that.”
I pushed myself off him, my chest heaving. I stood up and looked down.
Brock kipped up to his feet like a ninja. He dusted off his jersey. He didn’t look hurt. He looked energized.
He leaned in close to me, his voice a low whisper that the coaches couldn’t hear.
“You hit hard, Jackson. I’ll give you that,” Brock said, tapping my helmet with his finger. “But here’s the problem. While you were busy trying to kill me… you didn’t see the flag.”
“What?”
I spun around.
A yellow penalty flag lay on the grass right where we had collided.
Coach Reynolds was walking over, looking grim.
“Personal Foul,” the Coach shouted. “Defense, number fifty-four. Leading with the crown of the helmet. Unnecessary roughness.”
“What?” I screamed, tearing off my helmet. “He lowered his shoulder! He initiated contact!”
“It’s the rule, Jackson!” Reynolds yelled back. “You can’t spear the quarterback! That’s fifteen yards! Automatic first down!”
Brock walked past me, spinning the ball on his finger.
“Like I said, Captain,” Brock whispered as he passed. “You play with your heart. I play with my head. That’s why I’m going to take your team. And that’s why I’m going to take your spot as the King of this school.”
He jogged back to the huddle, high-fiving the offensive linemen who were suddenly looking at him with respect. They liked the yards. They liked the swagger.
I stood there, alone in the middle of the field, holding my helmet. My chest hurt. My pride hurt worse.
I looked at the sideline. Leo was standing there, holding the water bottles. He looked terrified.
He knew what I just realized.
Brock wasn’t just a bully we could ostracize. He was a virus. And he had just infected the host.
Coach Reynolds blew the whistle. “Next play! Jackson, take a lap! Cool off!”
I started jogging, my blood boiling. I ran to the far end of the field, near the bleachers.
As I turned the corner, I saw something in the parking lot.
A black sedan was parked near the fence. The window was rolled down.
A man was watching practice. He was wearing a suit, sunglasses, and smoking a cigar. He wasn’t a parent. He wasn’t a scout.
He was watching Brock.
And then I saw Brock look over at the car. For a split second, the arrogance vanished from Brock’s face.
He looked… scared.
Brock gave a subtle nod to the car, then quickly looked away, snapping his helmet back on as if he was afraid of being seen.
I stopped running. I hid behind the goalpost padding.
Who was the guy in the car? And why was the toughest, most arrogant kid I’d ever met terrified of him?
I was about to step closer to get a look at the license plate when I heard a voice behind me.
“You shouldn’t be snooping, Captain.”
I spun around.
It was Brock. He had sprinted over while the coaches were resetting the drill. He was standing five feet away, and this time, he wasn’t smiling.
His eyes were cold. Dead cold.
“Focus on the game,” Brock said, his voice dropping an octave. “Because if you look into my business, a shoved mascot will be the least of your problems.”
He took a step closer, and for the first time, I felt a chill that had nothing to do with football.
“Do we understand each other?” he asked.
I looked at him, then at the mysterious car in the distance, then back at him.
“No,” I said. “We don’t.”
Brock stared at me for a long, agonizing second. Then he looked at the car again. The car engine roared to life. The black sedan peeled out of the parking lot, tires screeching.
Brock flinched at the sound.
He turned back to me, and the mask slipped back on. The smirk returned, but it was shaky.
“Game on, Jackson,” he said.
He turned and jogged back to the huddle.
I stood there, watching him go. The mystery of Brock Sterling just got a lot deeper than a cafeteria tray. And I had a feeling I just stepped into something way more dangerous than a high school rivalry.
Chapter 3
In a small town like ours, loyalty is usually currency. But I learned that night that actual currency—cold, hard cash—works a lot faster.
After the disastrous practice, the team tradition is to hit “Big T’s,” a burger joint that hasn’t changed its fry oil since the Reagan administration. Usually, it’s a dutch-treat situation. We scrape together loose change for milkshakes and split baskets of onion rings.
Not tonight.
Tonight, Brock walked in. He had showered and changed into fresh clothes—designer jeans, a crisp white tee, and a gold chain that looked heavy enough to anchor a boat.
He didn’t wait for a table. He walked right to the center booth where the offensive line was sitting. These are big guys, simple guys. They like blocking and they like eating.
“Gentlemen,” Brock said, flashing that movie-star smile. “I feel like we got off on the wrong foot today.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of cash. It wasn’t a few twenties. It was a knot of hundreds, wrapped in a rubber band.
The diner went silent. You don’t see that kind of money in our town unless you’re a drug dealer or you just robbed the credit union.
“Dinner is on QB1,” Brock announced, tossing the roll to the waitress, old Mrs. Gable, who looked like she was about to have a heart attack. “Open tab. Whatever the boys want. Steaks, triple-burgers, the works. Keep the change, sweetheart.”
The cheer that went up from the team was deafening.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” yelled Johnson, our starting tackle. He had forgotten all about me. He had forgotten about the “family.” He was looking at Brock like he was Santa Claus.
I sat in a booth in the corner with Leo and Miller. Miller was the only starter who didn’t rush over to Brock’s table. He was staring at his menu, looking conflicted.
“Go ahead,” I told Miller quietly. “Free food is free food.”
Miller shook his head. “Nah, Cap. Something smells worse than the grease trap in here.”
I watched them. Brock was holding court. He was telling stories about parties in Miami, about cars he’d crashed, about girls he’d dated. The guys were eating it up. He was buying their affection, one burger at a time.
He was isolating me. It was a tactical masterclass. By tomorrow, if I went against Brock, I wouldn’t be the Captain protecting the team; I’d be the jealous old guy ruining the party.
“He’s lying,” Leo whispered.
I looked at Leo. He had his laptop open on the table, tethered to his phone’s hotspot. He was furiously typing.
“What do you mean?” I asked, dipping a fry into my shake.
“He said he transferred from St. Jude’s Prep, right?” Leo asked, his eyes glued to the screen.
“Yeah. Upstate.”
“St. Jude’s doesn’t have a football team,” Leo said.
I froze. “What?”
“I’m on their website,” Leo said, turning the laptop toward me. “It’s a Jesuit seminary prep. They have a debate team and a chess club. No stadium. No mascot. No football.”
I stared at the screen. “Maybe he meant St. Jude’s Academy? Or St. Jude’s Technical?”
“Checked them all,” Leo said, his voice trembling with excitement. “I checked the MaxPreps database for the entire state. I checked the hudl profiles. Jackson… there is no record of a ‘Brock Sterling’ playing high school football anywhere in this state. Or the neighboring three states.”
I looked over at the center booth. Brock was laughing, mimicking a throwing motion. He looked like a pro. He played like a pro.
“You can’t be that good and have zero footprint,” I muttered. “Scouts track kids like him since middle school.”
“Exactly,” Leo said. “He’s a ghost. It’s like he just materialized out of thin air two weeks ago.”
I watched Brock. He was relaxed, charming, generous. But I remembered the look on his face in the parking lot. The fear when he saw the black sedan.
“He’s hiding,” I realized. “He’s not here to play football. He’s here to lay low.”
“From who?” Miller asked, finally looking up.
“From the guy in the black car,” I said.
Just then, Brock looked up. His eyes scanned the room and locked onto our booth. The smile didn’t drop, but his eyes narrowed. He said something to the guys, patted Johnson on the back, and slid out of the booth.
He walked over to us.
“Captain,” Brock said, resting his hands on our table. “You guys aren’t ordering? My treat. Even for the mascot.”
He looked at Leo with a fake kindness that was more terrifying than his anger.
“We’re good,” I said, sliding Leo’s laptop shut. “We aren’t hungry.”
Brock looked at the closed laptop. Then he looked at me. He knew. somehow, he knew we were digging.
“You know,” Brock said, leaning down, his voice dropping to that dangerous whisper again. “Curiosity is a dangerous thing, Jackson. It killed the cat.”
“Good thing Leo is a Lion,” I shot back.
Brock chuckled. It was a cold, dry sound.
“Enjoy your fries,” he said. “I’d hate for this to be your last meal as Captain.”
He walked away, high-fiving people as he left the diner.
“He’s threatening us,” Leo said, hyperventilating slightly.
“No,” I said, watching Brock get into his convertible outside. “He’s scared. And people who are scared make mistakes.”
“What do we do?” Miller asked.
I stood up and grabbed my keys.
“We find out who he really is,” I said. “Leo, can you get into the school admin files?”
Leo looked nervous. Hacking school files was an expulsion-level offense.
“I… I have the admin password from when I fixed the Principal’s Wi-Fi,” Leo admitted.
“Tonight,” I said. “We meet at my place. We’re going to see where Brock Sterling really came from.”
I hit the text limit, so the story continues in the comments below. Please switch your filter to ‘All comments’ to find the link if it’s hidden.
Chapter 4
My bedroom looked less like a teenager’s room and more like a war room.
It was 2:00 AM. Miller was asleep on my beanbag chair, snoring softly. Leo was hunched over his laptop at my desk, the blue light reflecting off his glasses. I was pacing, throwing a foam football against the wall. Thump. Catch. Thump. Catch.
“Got it,” Leo whispered.
I stopped pacing. “You’re in?”
“I’m in the registrar’s digital filing cabinet,” Leo said, his fingers flying across the keys. “Okay, searching for Sterling… Sterling… here we go.”
He clicked a file. I leaned over his shoulder.
“It’s empty,” I said.
The file for Sterling, Brock contained the basics: Date of birth, emergency contact, immunization records. But the “Previous School” field was blank. The “Transcripts” section was a PDF that looked… off.
“Look at the font,” Leo pointed out, zooming in. “The header says ‘St. Jude’s Preparatory,’ but the font on the grades is different from the font on the school crest. And look at the pixels around the signature.”
“It’s photoshopped,” I said. “It’s a fake transcript.”
“A bad one, too,” Leo added. “If the guidance counselor actually looked at this, she’d know. But she probably just saw ‘Quarterback’ and ‘4.0 GPA’ and rubber-stamped it.”
“Scroll down to emergency contact,” I ordered.
Leo scrolled.
Name: Marcus Sterling. Relationship: Uncle. Phone number: 555-0199.
“Uncle?” I frowned. “He drives a sixty-thousand-dollar car and throws hundreds around, but he lives with an uncle?”
“I’m running the phone number,” Leo said. He opened a reverse lookup tool.
A few seconds later, the result popped up.
Number Type: VOIP / Burner. Carrier: Untraceable.
“Dead end,” Leo sighed.
“Not necessarily,” I said, pointing at the address listed. 424 Oakwood Drive.
Miller snorted in his sleep and woke up. “Whazzat? We got him?”
“Oakwood Drive,” I said. “That’s the old industrial district. There aren’t any houses on Oakwood. It’s all warehouses and the old textile mill.”
“He lives in a warehouse?” Miller rubbed his eyes.
“Or he doesn’t want anyone to know where he really lives,” I said. “Tomorrow is Friday. Game day. We have the pep rally in the morning.”
“So?” Leo asked.
“So,” I said, grabbing my jacket. “While everyone is screaming their heads off in the gym… I’m going to check out 424 Oakwood Drive.”
Friday morning at Jackson High is a religion. Everyone wears jerseys. The cheerleaders are in uniform. The band plays in the hallways between periods.
But the atmosphere was different today. Usually, I’m the guy everyone high-fives. Today, people were looking at me weird.
I heard the whispers.
“I heard Jackson is trying to get the new guy kicked off the team.” “I heard he’s jealous.” “Brock said Jackson tried to fight him in the shower.”
He was working fast. He was dismantling my reputation before I could expose his.
I saw Brock at his locker. He was surrounded by girls. He saw me coming and winked.
I kept walking. I had a mission.
Skip to 10:00 AM. The Pep Rally.
The gym was vibrating. The drumline was hammering out a beat. The entire student body was packed into the bleachers.
I was supposed to be down there. I was supposed to be leading the “I Believe” chant.
Instead, I was in my beat-up Ford truck, driving toward the edge of town.
Oakwood Drive is a depressing strip of cracked pavement and rusted chain-link fences. Weeds grew through the concrete. It was silent, a stark contrast to the chaos of the high school.
I found 424.
It wasn’t a house. It wasn’t a warehouse.
It was a salvage yard. Rusty’s Auto Salvage.
Piles of crushed cars were stacked like metallic totem poles. A guard dog was barking somewhere deep in the lot.
“Great,” I muttered. “He lives in a junkyard.”
I parked my truck around the corner and walked up. The gate was padlocked, but the chain was loose. I slipped through.
I crept between the rows of crushed cars. I was looking for anything that looked like a living space. An RV, a trailer, anything.
Then I saw it.
In the back corner, hidden behind a wall of stacked tires, was a pristine, silver Airstream trailer. It looked brand new. It had a satellite dish on top and a heavy-duty generator humming beside it.
And parked right next to it?
The black sedan.
My heart hammered against my ribs. The car from the practice field.
I crouched behind a rusted truck chassis. I pulled out my phone and started recording.
The door to the Airstream opened.
A man stepped out. It was the guy I saw smoking the cigar. He was big—bigger than Brock. He wore a cheap suit that strained against his shoulders. He had a scar running through his eyebrow.
“I don’t care what the kid says!” he was yelling into a phone. “The timeline has moved up. We need the money by Monday.”
He paced around the dirt patch.
“He’s playing the part,” the man continued. “Yeah, he’s the star quarterback. The whole town loves him. It’s perfect cover. Who suspects the Golden Boy?”
My blood ran cold. Perfect cover.
“Listen,” the man said, stopping right in front of where I was hiding. “If he doesn’t deliver the package during the game tonight… we pull him. And we burn the whole thing down. You understand?”
The package. During the game.
What the hell was going on? Were they dealing drugs? laundering money?
The man hung up the phone. He turned and looked at the Airstream.
“Brock!” he yelled. “Get out here!”
I held my breath. Brock wasn’t at school? The pep rally was starting right now.
The door opened again. But it wasn’t Brock who stepped out.
It was a girl.
She looked exactly like Brock. Same eyes, same jawline, but softer. She was wearing a Jackson High cheerleading uniform.
Wait. We don’t have a new cheerleader.
“I’m leaving for the school now,” she said. Her voice was terrified. “Don’t… don’t hurt him, okay?”
“Just do your job, sweetie,” the man sneered. “You keep the mascot busy. Brock handles the game. I handle the exchange.”
The mascot.
Leo.
My phone vibrated.
I cursed silently. I had forgotten to put it on silent.
The man’s head snapped toward the pile of tires.
“Who’s there?” he barked.
He reached inside his jacket. I saw the glint of metal. A gun.
I didn’t wait. I scrambled backward, my boots slipping on the gravel.
“Hey!” the man shouted. “Stop!”
I turned and sprinted. I ran faster than I had ever run on the field. I vaulted over a car hood. I heard heavy footsteps pounding behind me.
BANG.
A gunshot.
A bullet pinged off the metal of a crushed car inches from my head.
I didn’t look back. I dove through the gap in the gate and scrambled into my truck. I fumbled with the keys, my hands shaking so bad I dropped them.
“Come on, come on!”
I saw the man running toward the gate, the gun raised.
I found the ignition. The truck roared to life. I stomped on the gas, tires spinning in the dirt.
I sped away just as another shot shattered my side mirror.
I drove eighty miles an hour back toward the school. My mind was racing.
Brock wasn’t just a fake student. He was part of a crew. They had a girl posing as a cheerleader. They were planning something for tonight’s game.
And they were targeting Leo.
I looked at the clock on the dashboard. 6:30 PM.
Kickoff was in an hour.
I had to get to the stadium. I had to stop the game.
But as I pulled into the school parking lot, I saw flashing blue lights.
Two police cars were blocking the entrance to the locker room.
I jumped out of my truck and ran toward the team. Miller was standing there, looking pale.
“Miller!” I yelled. “What’s going on?”
Miller looked at me, his eyes wide with shock.
“It’s… it’s your locker, Jackson,” Miller stammered.
“My locker? What?”
A police officer stepped forward. He was holding a clear evidence bag.
Inside the bag was a brick of white powder. Cocaine.
“Jackson Miller?” the officer asked, putting a hand on his holster. “We received an anonymous tip. Step forward and put your hands behind your back.”
I looked past the officer.
Standing in the doorway of the locker room, fully dressed in his game uniform, was Brock.
He looked at me. He didn’t smile. He just gave a small, apologetic nod.
Perfect cover.
“I didn’t put that there!” I screamed as the officer grabbed my wrist. “It’s him! He’s setting me up!”
“Tell it to the judge, son,” the officer said, snapping the handcuffs on.
As they shoved me into the back of the squad car, I saw Leo running toward us, still in his mascot suit but without the head.
“Jackson!” Leo screamed.
“Leo!” I yelled, pressing my face against the glass. “Run! Get out of there! They’re coming for you!”
But he couldn’t hear me.
The car pulled away. I watched the stadium lights fade into the distance.
I was in the back of a cop car. My team was taking the field led by a criminal. And my best friend was walking into a trap set by a man with a gun.
And there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.
Chapter 5
The backseat of a police cruiser is designed to make you feel small. It’s hard plastic seats, the smell of industrial sanitizer, and a cage of wire mesh separating you from the rest of the world.
Deputy Frank was driving. I’ve known Frank since I was six. He coaches the Little League team. He buys Girl Scout cookies from my sister.
“Frank,” I pleaded, leaning forward as far as the cuffs would let me. “You know this is bogus. You know me. I don’t do drugs.”
Frank didn’t look in the rearview mirror. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
“It was in your locker, Jackson,” Frank said, his voice tight. “I don’t have a choice. It’s a felony quantity. It’s out of my hands.”
“It was planted!” I shouted, frustration tearing at my throat. “The new guy, Brock. He’s not who he says he is. He’s part of a crew. They’re planning something at the game tonight. They have a gun, Frank!”
“Stop it,” Frank snapped. “Just stop. You’re in enough trouble without making up stories about high school quarterbacks.”
“He lives in a junkyard! He has a fake transcript! Frank, listen to me—Leo is in danger!”
Frank shook his head, reaching for the radio. “Dispatch, this is Unit 4. I’m bringing the suspect in. ETA ten minutes.”
We were turning onto Route 9, a dark, two-lane stretch of road that winds through the pine woods before hitting the county jail. There are no streetlights here. Just the high beams cutting through the blackness.
I slumped back against the hard seat. I felt helpless. My team was playing the biggest game of the year. My best friend was in the crosshairs of a cartel or a mob or whatever the hell this was. And I was on my way to a cage.
Then, I saw the lights.
In the rear window, a pair of headlights appeared out of nowhere. Bright. High beams. Xenon blue.
They were closing in fast. Too fast.
“Frank,” I said, a warning rising in my throat. “Frank, watch out!”
Frank looked in the mirror. “What the…”
The car behind us didn’t slow down. It accelerated. I recognized the grill. The black sedan.
The “Uncle.” He wasn’t taking any chances. He wasn’t letting me go to jail where I might talk to a lawyer or a detective. He was cleaning up loose ends.
“He’s gonna ram us!” I screamed. “Frank, punch it!”
CRUNCH.
The sedan slammed into our bumper at sixty miles an hour.
The impact whipped my head back against the cage. The cruiser fishtailed violently. Frank fought the wheel, tires screaming against the asphalt.
“Son of a—” Frank yelled.
CRUNCH.
They hit us again. Harder this time. They clipped the rear quarter panel.
That was the kill shot. The cruiser spun out. The world turned into a blur of spinning lights and darkness. We slid sideways off the road.
We hit the ditch.
The car tipped. The ground rushed up to meet the window. Glass shattered. Metal screamed. We rolled. Once. Twice.
I was thrown around the backseat like a ragdoll. If I hadn’t been wearing my seatbelt, I would have broken my neck.
The car came to a rest upside down.
Silence.
Then, the hiss of steam. The drip of fluids. And the groan of Deputy Frank in the front seat.
“Frank?” I choked out. I was hanging upside down, the seatbelt digging into my chest. Blood was trickling into my eye from a cut on my forehead.
“Ughhh…” Frank moaned. He wasn’t moving.
I looked out the shattered back window. The black sedan had stopped on the road above us. A car door opened. Heavy boots hit the pavement.
He was coming down to finish the job.
I didn’t have time to think. Adrenaline is a powerful drug. It overrides pain. It overrides fear.
I jammed my feet against the ceiling of the car and pushed. I fumbled for the seatbelt release with my handcuffed hands. It clicked.
I dropped onto the roof of the car. Glass crunched under my knees.
I kicked the remaining jagged shards out of the rear window. I crawled out into the mud. The cold air hit my face.
I looked up at the embankment. A silhouette was standing there, holding a silhouette of a gun.
He raised it.
I scrambled into the tall grass, rolling into the drainage pipe that ran under the road.
POP. POP.
Two shots fired into the wreckage of the cruiser. He thought I was still inside.
I held my breath, standing in six inches of freezing sludge inside the pipe. I waited.
“Clear,” I heard the man’s voice echo. “Car’s totaled. Kid’s toast.”
Car doors slammed. Tires screeched. The sedan drove off.
They thought I was dead. Good. Being dead is the best camouflage.
I crawled out the other side of the pipe. I was covered in mud, blood, and transmission fluid. My wrists were chafed raw by the steel cuffs.
I checked on Frank. He was unconscious but breathing. I couldn’t move him. If I stayed, the ambulance would come, then the backup police, and I’d be back in custody.
“I’m sorry, Frank,” I whispered. “I’ll come back for you.”
I looked toward the horizon. About two miles away, the sky was glowing orange. The stadium lights.
I started running.
Running with handcuffs changes your biomechanics. You can’t pump your arms. You have to twist your torso. It’s awkward and exhausting.
But I didn’t feel the fatigue. I felt the rage.
I ran through the woods, dodging branches that whipped my face. I splashed through a creek. I climbed a deer fence.
I could hear the announcer’s voice drifting on the wind.
“…and another first down for Sterling! This kid is unstoppable!”
He was playing the hero while I was bleeding in the woods.
I reached the edge of the school property twenty minutes later. I was gasping for air, my lungs burning.
I couldn’t go in the front gate. There were cops there. I had to go in the back way. The equipment entrance.
I skirted the perimeter, staying in the shadows of the bleachers. The roar of the crowd was deafening now. It was the second quarter.
I found the maintenance shed. It was locked.
I looked around. I found a loose brick. I smashed the padlock. It took three hits.
I slipped inside. It smelled of cut grass and gasoline.
I needed a tool. I scanned the workbench.
Bolt cutters.
I grabbed the heavy red handles. I sat on the floor, maneuvering the jaws around the chain between my wrists. This was dangerous. One slip and I’d lose a finger.
I bit down on a rag to keep from screaming. I squeezed the handles with everything I had. My triceps shook.
SNAP.
The chain broke.
I was free. Well, I still had the steel bracelets on my wrists, but my hands were separate. That was enough.
I grabbed a spare groundskeeper jumpsuit—a navy blue coverall—and pulled it on over my muddy clothes. I pulled a baseball cap low over my eyes.
I opened the door and stepped out into the stadium.
I was under the bleachers. The wooden slats rattled above me as three thousand people stomped their feet. Dust and popcorn rained down.
I peered through the gaps in the bleachers.
I saw the field.
Brock was in the shotgun. He looked pristine. Not a smudge of dirt on him. He threw a pass to the sideline. Catch. Clock stops.
I scanned the sidelines.
I saw the cheerleaders. I saw the girl—the fake sister. She wasn’t cheering. She was standing near the 50-yard line, looking up at the press box, tapping her ear. She had an earpiece.
I scanned the endzone.
I saw Leo.
The Mascot was dancing. Doing the “Griddy.” The crowd loved it.
But something was wrong.
Leo moves with a bounce. He’s energetic. This mascot was… heavy. Sluggish. The movements were stiff.
And Leo is five-foot-four.
The mascot suit usually bunches at the ankles on him.
This mascot suit was filled out. The person inside was at least five-ten.
That wasn’t Leo.
My heart stopped. If that wasn’t Leo inside the suit… where was he?
And what was inside the suit with the imposter?
I had to get to the locker room. Halftime was in two minutes. That’s when the exchange would happen.
I started moving toward the tunnel, blending in with the chaos.
I was about to intercept a drug deal, save my best friend, and take down a fake quarterback. And I had to do it all before the marching band finished their set.
Chapter 6
The tunnel under the stadium is a concrete echo chamber. It’s where the players run out, where the ambulances wait, and where the secrets are kept.
I hid behind a stack of Gatorade coolers near the entrance to the locker room. The buzzer sounded. Halftime.
The team came jogging off the field. They were hyped.
“Did you see that throw?” “We’re up by twenty!”
Brock was leading them. He took off his helmet, shaking his hair out like he was in a shampoo commercial. He high-fived the coach.
“Great half, boys!” Coach Reynolds yelled. “Keep the pressure on!”
They filed into the locker room.
But the Mascot didn’t go with them.
The Mascot stayed in the tunnel.
The “Girl” cheerleader walked over to the Mascot. She looked around nervously. She didn’t see me in the shadows behind the coolers.
“Is it secure?” she whispered.
The Mascot nodded. The giant lion head bobbed up and down.
“He’s here,” she said. “Get ready.”
A door opened at the far end of the tunnel—the maintenance exit.
The “Uncle” walked in. He wasn’t wearing the suit anymore. He was wearing a team windbreaker and a lanyard that said All Access. He looked like a booster.
He was carrying a duffel bag.
“Fast,” the Uncle hissed. “The band is taking the field. We have ten minutes of noise cover.”
The Mascot reached up and unzipped the back of the costume.
I expected a person to step out.
Instead, the Mascot turned around. The Uncle reached inside the suit, into the hollow space of the oversized Lion belly.
He pulled out a black, rectangular brick. It wasn’t drugs. It was hard plastic. It looked like a server drive. A hard drive.
And then he pulled out another one. And another.
They weren’t selling drugs. They were stealing data.
My mind raced. The school? What did the school have?
Then I remembered. The server room. It’s located directly under the gym. The cooling vents connect to the mascot storage closet.
Leo. Leo had the admin passwords.
They hadn’t just kidnapped Leo to get him out of the way. They kidnapped him to get the codes. They were using the game as a distraction to raid the district’s main server. But why?
“Crypto wallets,” the Uncle muttered, shoving the drives into his duffel bag. “Five million in seized assets from the police evidence server. Thank you, Jackson High.”
The police evidence server. The county precinct backs up their data to the secure server farm in the basement of our school because it’s a designated storm shelter with a generator. Everyone in town knows that.
They weren’t stealing from the school. They were stealing from the cops.
“Where is the kid?” the Uncle asked.
The person inside the Mascot suit spoke. It was a man’s voice. Gruff.
” tied up in the boiler room. With a timer.”
“A timer?” The girl asked, her voice shaking.
“Just to keep him quiet until we’re gone,” the man said. “Or to burn the evidence.”
The boiler room.
I felt a surge of panic so strong it almost knocked me over. The boiler room is ancient. If they messed with the pressure valves to create a “timer”… that whole section of the school could blow.
I had a choice. Stop them now and lose Leo. Or go save Leo and let them get away.
It wasn’t a choice.
I stepped out from behind the coolers.
“Hey!” I shouted. My voice echoed off the concrete walls like a cannon shot.
The three of them spun around.
The Uncle reached for his waistband. The gun.
I didn’t have a weapon. But I had a stack of Gatorade coolers.
I shoved the stack. Three heavy, ice-filled orange coolers toppled over.
CRASH.
Ice and orange liquid flooded the tunnel floor.
The Uncle slipped. His leather shoes lost traction on the slick concrete. He went down hard, the gun skittering across the floor.
The Fake Mascot charged at me. He was slow in the suit.
I waited until he was close, then I dropped my shoulder. I treated him like a tackling dummy.
I drove into his midsection. The foam compressed. I felt the wind go out of the man inside. We hit the wet floor, sliding through the Gatorade.
I punched the Lion head. It was hard plastic, but I didn’t care. I punched it again.
“Where is he?” I screamed.
The Uncle was scrambling for the gun. It was five feet away from him.
“Brock!” the Uncle screamed toward the locker room door. “Code Red!”
The locker room door swung open.
Brock stood there. He was holding a water bottle. He saw the chaos. He saw me, wearing a janitor’s jumpsuit, beating up the mascot. He saw the Uncle on the floor.
For a second, Brock looked paralyzed.
“Help him!” the Uncle roared, pointing at me.
Brock looked at me. Our eyes met.
“The boiler room!” I yelled at Brock. “They have Leo rigged to blow in the boiler room! If you have a shred of humanity left, help me!”
Brock looked at the Uncle. The Uncle had the gun now. He was raising it, aiming at me.
“Don’t listen to him!” the Uncle shouted. “Get the bag, Brock! run!”
Brock looked at the bag of stolen drives. He looked at the gun. He looked at me.
Then, Brock Sterling made his play.
He threw the water bottle.
Not at me.
He threw a perfect, 90-mph fastball right at the Uncle’s face.
CRACK.
The heavy metal bottle connected with the Uncle’s nose. Blood sprayed. The Uncle dropped the gun, clutching his face, screaming.
Brock didn’t hesitate. He sprinted toward me.
“Go!” Brock yelled, grabbing the Uncle’s gun and kicking it down the drain. “Go get Leo! I’ll hold them off!”
“What?” I was stunned.
“Go!” Brock shoved me toward the maintenance exit. “I never signed up for killing kids! Go!”
I turned and ran. I burst out of the tunnel, sprinting toward the school building.
I had to get to the boiler room.
I burst through the back doors of the school. The hallways were empty. Everyone was at the game. The silence was eerie.
I ran down the stairs, taking them three at a time.
I reached the heavy steel door of the boiler room. It was hot to the touch.
I tried the handle. Locked.
“Leo!” I screamed, pounding on the door. “Leo!”
“Jackson?” A faint, muffled voice came from inside. “Jackson, get out of here! It’s ticking!”
“I’m not leaving you!”
I stepped back. I needed to break the door down. But it was steel. I needed a ram.
I looked around. A fire extinguisher.
I grabbed it. I slammed it against the handle. Once. Twice. The metal groaned but held.
Then, I heard footsteps behind me.
I spun around, raising the extinguisher as a weapon.
It wasn’t the bad guys.
It was Miller. And the Safeties. And the Linebackers.
They were still in their pads. Cleats clacking on the linoleum.
“Miller?” I gasped.
“Brock told us,” Miller panted. “He said the Captain needs backup.”
Miller looked at the door. He looked at the other linemen.
“On three,” Miller grunted.
Miller, Johnson, and two other 300-pound linemen lined up. The ultimate battering ram.
“One. Two. Three!”
They charged. Twelve hundred pounds of force hit the door at once.
BOOM.
The frame splintered. The door flew open.
We rushed in.
Leo was tied to a chair next to the main gas valve. A digital timer was taped to a bundle of road flares sitting on top of a gas leak.
The timer read 00:15.
Fifteen seconds.
“Don’t touch it!” Leo screamed. “It’s a mercury switch! If you move it, it blows!”
I froze. The team froze.
“How do we stop it?” I asked, staring at the red numbers counting down. 12… 11… 10…
“You have to cut the blue wire!” Leo cried. “But I can’t reach the scissors!”
There were no scissors.
I looked at my wrist. The handcuffs were gone, but the jagged metal link from the chain was still dangling there. Sharp.
“Hold him steady!” I yelled to Miller.
I dove for the bomb.
05…
I grabbed the wire.
04…
I used the jagged edge of my handcuff link. I sawed at the wire. The plastic coating was tough.
03…
“Jackson!” Miller yelled.
02…
The wire frayed.
01…
I ripped it with my teeth and the metal link simultaneously.
SNAP.
The timer stopped at 00:01.
Silence filled the room. The only sound was the hiss of the gas leak and our heavy breathing.
Leo looked at me, tears streaming down his face.
“You’re crazy,” Leo whispered.
I slumped to the floor, laughing hysterically. “Yeah. I guess I am.”
“We gotta go,” Miller said, sniffing the air. “Gas is strong.”
We untied Leo. We carried him out of the boiler room, up the stairs, and out into the cool night air.
But the night wasn’t over.
As we stumbled onto the grass behind the school, we heard sirens. A lot of them.
And then, we heard the PA announcer from the stadium.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please remain calm. The police have entered the field.”
I looked at Miller.
“Brock,” I said.
We ran back to the stadium.
When we got to the tunnel, it was a crime scene. Police were everywhere. The Uncle was in cuffs, his nose broken and bandaged. The Fake Mascot was being led away.
But Brock?
Brock was standing in the middle of the field. He was still wearing his helmet. He was surrounded by police.
He saw me emerge from the tunnel with Leo safe.
He took off his helmet. He raised it in the air, a silent salute to me.
Then, he dropped the helmet on the 50-yard line. He put his hands behind his head and knelt down.
The crowd was silent. They didn’t understand. Their hero was surrendering.
As the cops cuffed him, Brock looked at the camera crew broadcasting the game. He looked right into the lens.
“My name,” he said, loud enough for the field mics to pick up, “is Julian Russo. And I want to make a deal.”
Chapter 7
The interrogation room at the county precinct smelled like stale coffee and bleach. It was a stark contrast to the muddy, sweat-soaked chaos of the football field.
I sat on one side of the metal table, a bandage on my forehead where the glass from the police cruiser had cut me. Leo was next to me, still wearing the bottom half of his mascot suit, shivering despite the thermal blanket draped over his shoulders.
Detective Harris walked in. He looked tired. He tossed a file folder onto the table.
“You boys have had a hell of a night,” Harris said, pulling out a chair. “Bomb squad cleared the school. The device in the boiler room was real. Crude, but real. If that mercury switch had tripped…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to. Leo squeezed his eyes shut.
“We found the uncle,” Harris continued. “Marcus Sterling. Or rather, Marcus Vane. Wanted in three states for cyber-theft, racketeering, and fraud. He’s been hitting school districts across the Midwest. He uses the chaos of big sporting events to physically access server farms that are usually located in school basements.”
“And Brock?” I asked. My voice was raspy from the smoke and the screaming.
Harris sighed. He opened the file. “There is no Brock Sterling. The kid’s name is Julian Russo. He’s seventeen. Runaway from Ohio. Vane picked him up two years ago. Groomed him. Vane provided the fake transcripts, the money, the cars. All Julian had to do was play the part of the transfer star, get popular, and create a distraction while Vane’s crew did the dirty work.”
“He saved us,” Leo said quietly. “In the tunnel. He threw a bottle at Vane. He told Jackson where I was.”
“We know,” Harris said. “Julian is confessing to everything in the next room. He’s trying to cut a deal, but… the DA is out for blood. Kidnapping, attempted grand larceny, assaulting a police officer… even with cooperation, he’s looking at serious time in a juvenile detention center, maybe even being tried as an adult.”
I stood up. My legs were stiff, my body aching from the car crash and the fight.
“I want to see him,” I said.
“Jackson, you can’t,” Harris said. “He’s a suspect. You’re a witness.”
“He saved my life!” I slammed my hand on the table. “And he saved the school! If he hadn’t turned on Vane, that boiler room would be a crater right now. I want to talk to him.”
Harris looked at me. He looked at the desperation in my eyes. He nodded slowly.
“Five minutes. Through the glass. No contact.”
They led me down the hall. I looked through the one-way mirror.
Julian—no, Brock—was sitting there. He looked smaller without the shoulder pads. The arrogance was gone. He was slumped over the table, his head in his hands. He looked like a terrified kid.
I walked into the observation room. I picked up the phone.
On the other side of the glass, Julian looked up. He saw me. He hesitated, then picked up the receiver.
“Came to gloat, Captain?” he whispered. A ghost of his old smirk appeared, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“No,” I said. “I came to say thank you.”
Julian blinked. He looked away, focusing on the handcuffs chained to the table.
“I didn’t want to hurt anyone,” Julian said, his voice cracking. “Vane… he owns me. I owed him money. A lot of it. He said this was the last job. Then I was free.”
“You’re free now,” I said.
“Am I?” Julian laughed bitterly. “I’m going to prison, Jackson. I’m the guy who planted coke in your locker. I’m the guy who bullied your friends. I’m the bad guy.”
“You were the bad guy,” I corrected him. “Until you threw that bottle. That’s the play that matters. That’s the fourth-quarter comeback.”
I leaned against the glass.
“Why?” I asked. “Why did you turn on him? You could have run.”
Julian looked at me. His eyes were wet.
“Because of the cafeteria,” he said.
I was confused. “The cafeteria? You shoved Leo.”
“Yeah,” Julian said. “And eighty of you stood up. Eighty guys ready to fight for one little dude.” He paused, swallowing hard. “I’ve been in seven schools in two years. I’ve been on seven teams. Nobody ever stood up for me. Not once. Vane just used me. But you guys… you have a family.”
He wiped his nose on his sleeve.
“When I saw Vane point that gun at you… I realized I was on the wrong team.”
The door behind me opened. Detective Harris. “Time’s up.”
I hung up the phone. Julian didn’t look up.
“Don’t give up, QB1,” I said, even though he couldn’t hear me through the glass.
I walked out of the station. My dad was waiting in the lobby. He hugged me tight.
“Let’s go home, son,” he said.
“Not yet,” I said, looking at the swarm of reporters outside the station doors. “I have one more play to call.”
I walked out the front doors. The flashes of the cameras were blinding. Microphones were shoved in my face.
“Jackson! Is it true the QB was a criminal?” “Jackson! Did you really defuse a bomb?” “How do you feel about Brock Sterling?”
I stood on the steps of the precinct. I raised my hand. The crowd went quiet.
“His name isn’t Brock,” I said, my voice projecting like I was calling a cadence on the line. “His name is Julian. And yeah, he made mistakes. But tonight, when it mattered, he didn’t run. He stayed. He saved our mascot. He saved our school. So you can write whatever you want about the crime ring… but make sure you write that Julian Russo is the reason we’re all still standing here.”
Chapter 8
Three months later.
The courtroom was packed. It felt more like a pep rally than a legal proceeding. Half the town was there.
I was sitting in the front row, wearing my jersey. Next to me was Leo. Next to him was Miller. Behind us was the entire Varsity, JV, and Freshman squad.
We weren’t there to intimidate. We were there to support.
Julian stood before the judge. He was wearing an orange jumpsuit that was too big for him. He looked thin.
The prosecutor had made his case. He wanted ten years. He called Julian a “predator” and a “con artist.”
Then, it was the defense’s turn.
“Your Honor,” Julian’s public defender said. “We have a character witness.”
I stood up.
The judge looked over her glasses. “Jackson Barnes. The victim of the frame-up.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” I said, walking to the stand.
I swore on the Bible. I sat down.
“Tell us about the defendant,” the lawyer said.
I looked at Julian. He was staring at his hands, ashamed.
“Football is a game of assignments,” I said, speaking to the jury. “Everyone has a job. If one guy blows his assignment, the whole team fails. Julian Russo was given a bad assignment by a bad coach—his uncle. He was taught to lie. He was taught to cheat.”
I took a deep breath.
“But in the final seconds, when the game was on the line… he changed the play. He saw a teammate—Leo—in danger. And he took the hit. He took the hit for all of us.”
I looked directly at the judge.
“He’s a quarterback, Your Honor. And a good one. But more importantly, he’s a Jackson High Lion. And Lions don’t leave their own behind. If you send him away for ten years, you’re not punishing a criminal. You’re destroying a kid who finally learned what it means to be good.”
The courtroom was silent. Even the prosecutor looked down at his notes.
The judge deliberated for an hour. It felt like a lifetime.
When she came back, she banged the gavel.
“Julian Russo,” she said. “The crimes you committed are severe. However, your cooperation with the authorities led to the capture of Marcus Vane, a fugitive on the FBI’s Most Wanted list. And your actions on the night of the incident undoubtedly saved lives.”
She adjusted her robe.
“I am sentencing you to two years in the State Juvenile Rehabilitation Center. With credit for time served and good behavior, you will be eligible for parole in eighteen months.”
Two years. Not ten. It was a miracle.
Julian slumped against the table, letting out a sob of relief.
As the bailiffs led him out, he passed our row.
He stopped. He looked at me.
“Thank you, Captain,” he whispered.
“We’ll be waiting,” I said. “Training camp starts in August. You’ll be out by the time you’re a senior.”
Julian smiled. A real smile this time. “I better work on my arm then. I heard the defense is getting tougher.”
The State Championship Game. Two weeks later.
We were playing the Westlake Titans. They were huge. They were undefeated.
We were battered. We were emotionally drained. But we were there.
Davis was back at QB. He wasn’t flashy. He couldn’t throw the ball seventy yards. But he was steady.
Fourth quarter. Ten seconds left. We were down by four points. Ball on the five-yard line.
“Time out!” I yelled.
We huddled up. Everyone was gasping for air.
“This is it,” I said, looking at the boys. “One play for the ring.”
“What do we run?” Davis asked. “They’re stuffing the run. They’re double-covering the pass.”
I looked at Leo on the sideline. He was back in the suit, jumping up and down, pointing at his chest.
The Lion.
“We run ‘The Ghost’,” I said.
The team looked at me. We didn’t have a play called ‘The Ghost’.
“Davis,” I said. “Roll right. Pump fake. Then throw it to the back pylon. To the spot where nobody is.”
“But who’s gonna catch it?” Davis asked.
“Just throw it,” I said. “Trust the play.”
We broke the huddle.
The crowd was screaming. The lights were blinding.
“Blue eighty! Blue eighty! Hut!”
Davis took the snap. He rolled right. The defense pursued him. He pumped faked.
He threw the ball to the back corner of the endzone. It looked like a throw-away.
But Chase, our receiver, knew the adjustment. We had practiced it with Julian. The “back shoulder fade.”
Chase broke off his route. He spun. He dove.
He caught the ball by his fingertips, dragging his toes just inside the white line.
TOUCHDOWN.
The stadium exploded.
We dogpiled in the endzone. Helmets flew. Tears flowed. We were State Champions.
Later, in the locker room, amidst the spraying champagne (sparkling cider, actually) and the cheering, I sat by my locker.
I pulled out my phone. I sent a text to a number that I knew wouldn’t answer, but I knew his lawyer checked.
We won. 24-20. The ring is yours too.
I looked at the empty locker next to mine. The nameplate was gone. But someone had taken a sharpie and written on the metal:
QB1.
I smiled, closing my locker.
We survived the bully. We survived the bomb. We survived the betrayal.
Football is just a game, they say. But in this town, with this team? It’s the thing that saved us.
I walked out of the locker room, my arm around Leo, the trophy held high in my other hand. The lights of the stadium were turning off, one by one, leaving the field in darkness. But for the first time in a long time, the future looked bright.
END