Scramble
Copyright© 2025 by Lumpy
Chapter 41
“Blake! We’re starting!” Kenneth yelled from behind him.
I blinked hard, forcing myself back to the present as Dad hurried up the bleachers away from me.
“I’m here,” I said, pulling on my helmet.
Everyone was already on the field. Across the line, Westlake’s defenders spread out in their blue, red, and white uniforms. They were big. Not just tall, but wide. I wouldn’t be surprised if half of them were secretly college players.
Mickey bounced on the balls of his feet next to me, a wire of nervous energy. On the other side, Hunter gave his hamstring one last, long stretch.
“Alright, listen up,” I said. “They’re gonna press. Expect man coverage across the board. Miguel, check for the safety cheating over. Mickey, quick out. Hunter, slant. Go.”
I clapped my hands, bringing the guys out of the loose huddle. The referee sounded his whistle, and the twenty-one-minute clock started its countdown.
The first ten minutes were a meat grinder. It wasn’t just that Westlake was good; they were smart. Their defensive backs didn’t bite on fakes. They stayed in our receivers’ hip pockets, their hands always ready to disrupt a route or bat down a pass. Their safeties moved before I even finished my drop, reading me way too well.
My first pass, intended for Miguel on a comeback route, was nearly intercepted by a corner who broke on the ball the second it left my hand. My second throw was a sack. Not a physical one, but the four-second clock expired before anyone could get open. On the third down, I tried to hit Jerry on a seam route, but the middle linebacker, a guy who looked like he could already be playing on Saturdays, dropped back and forced an incompletion. Two points for them. Turnover on downs.
Westlake’s offense was just as efficient. Their quarterback, a tall redhead with a cannon for an arm, took three plays to march them down the field. He hit his slot receiver, crossed the twenty-five for a first down, then found his tight end in a soft spot in our zone for a touchdown. Six points. Their PAT was good. 9-0, just like that.
Our next possession was marginally better. I managed to connect with Hunter on a short curl route for a five-yard gain. He took a hard touch from the safety but held on. We were moving, but it was ugly. Every yard felt like a battle. On second down, I found Mickey for twelve yards, just enough to cross the twenty-five-yard line for a first down. The momentum was short-lived. A pass behind the line of scrimmage to Jerry saw him get touched before he could advance, another sack. Then a pass intended for Hunter was tipped at the line. On third down, I slung it out of bounds just before the clock in my head ran out. Another turnover. Another two points for them. 11-0.
They scored again. It was methodical. A pass here, a pass there. They didn’t need explosive plays; they just took what our defense gave them, which was a lot. 18-0.
“Come on, guys!” I said as we watched the defense get taken apart. “They’re eating us up, and we need to start putting up points, or we’re out of this. We’re better than this. We’re just letting their size and speed get in our heads. We can play smarter.”
We finally put a drive together. It started with me finding Miles on a little out-route. He rumbled for eight yards. Then I hit Mickey, who made a sharp cut to get open, for just enough to get the first down at the twenty-five. The defensive back covering him was talking trash the whole way back to the huddle.
“He can’t cover you, Mickey,” I said as we got back to the line. “You’re quicker.”
“He’s also holding my jersey on every play,” Mickey shot back. “The ref seems to think it’s part of the uniform design.”
“Just keep working him. He’ll get flagged eventually.”
On the next play, I faked a throw to Hunter and saw the safety take a step in his direction. It was all I needed. I fired a pass to Jerry on a wheel route, and he hauled it in at the ten-yard line for another first down. Touchdown. On the PAT I hit Miguel on a quick slant. 18-7.
Westlake answered with a field goal’s worth of points, getting an interception when their corner jumped a route meant for Hunter. 21-7. The game felt like it was slipping away.
We got the ball back with just over three minutes on the clock. This was it. I found Mickey on a crucial third down, firing the ball into a window the size of a dinner plate. He snagged it, his feet dragging just inbounds. First down. The sideline erupted. We were still alive. I hurried everyone to the line. The Westlake defense looked tired, their size finally working against them. I saw the corner covering Hunter was playing five yards off him, respecting his speed.
I took the snap, pump-faked to the flat to move the safety and then lofted it to the back corner of the end zone. Hunter went up over the defender, his body twisting in the air, and came down with the ball. Touchdown. 21-13. The PAT was good. 21-14.
We got the ball back one last time after our defense finally forced a turnover on downs, giving us two points. 21-16. With forty-five seconds left, we were on our own thirty-yard line facing third and long. Westlake’s defense was showing the same Cover 2 shell they’d used to stop us earlier. The safeties were high and wide, daring me to throw underneath.
I glanced at Mickey. He saw it too. I tapped my helmet, the signal for an audible. His route was supposed to be a fifteen-yard comeback. I changed it to a deep post, right down the middle, splitting the safeties.
“Hut!”
Tyrell snapped the ball. The four-second clock started. I felt the imaginary pressure of a pass rush, my internal clock screaming. Three-point-five seconds ... I stepped up, planted, went all the way through my reads once. Three-point-seven seconds ... I saw Mickey break past the linebacker. Three-point-eight ... He got a step on the safety. Three-point-nine ... I let it fly, putting everything I had into the throw.
The ball spiraled, a perfect arc against the bright sky. Mickey caught it at the ten-yard line without breaking stride and dove into the end zone.
The whistle blew. Touchdown. 22-21. Our PAT was good. 23-21. Westlake got the ball back, but they were out of time and out of options. The final whistle blew. On the sideline, Kenneth pumped a fist. It had been close, but we’d won.
We didn’t have long to rest. Other teams were playing on other fields, but there was still some crossover, so we had about an hour until the first bracket was done. We went over our playbook again and tried to stay warm, but mostly we rested, since we’d have to play two more games at the same pace.
It was going to be a long day.
As the hour came to a close, we huddled around the tournament bracket posted on a large board near the concessions. Midland High had pulled off an upset against their higher-seeded opponent, and they were next in line for us.
“We got this,” Jerry said, gulping down water from a jug. “We already beat them twice. This’ll be easy.”
“Don’t get cocky,” I said. “Both of those games were close and they won their first game too.”
Calvin limped over, wincing as he stretched his calf. He’d spent the entire last game chasing Westlake’s receivers up and down the field.
“You good, Cal?” I asked.
“Peachy. I’ll be fine. Just need to stretch it out.”
I hoped so, but Kenneth made a note and I was pretty sure he might pull Calvin for this game to give him a chance to get ready for the next one.
Not that our bench was very deep.
A voice over the PA system announced results from other games, including names of some of the powerhouses. Dallas Carter. Converse Judson. Odessa Permian.
We were holding our own in our bracket, but the inclusion of Division 1 5A schools put some serious sharks in our pond.
Our game against Midland started, and it was clear from their first defensive snap that they’d decided to change nothing from our last two meetings.
They lined up in the same predictable Cover 2, the same safety rotations we’d seen twice before. It was like watching a rerun. Kenneth just grinned at me from the sideline and gave me a thumbs-up. He didn’t even need to call a play.
It was a clinic. My first eight passes were completions. I spread the ball around, hitting all five receivers. A quick out to Miguel. A slant to Hunter. A comeback to Mickey. A dump-off to Jerry. They couldn’t stop any of it. We scored on our first possession, a walk-in touchdown to Miles in the flat. 7-0.
Midland’s offense looked flustered. Their quarterback threw into double coverage on their second play. Don Manoux was sitting right there waiting for it. Interception. Three points for us. 10-0.
Our offense trotted back onto the field. Mickey looked at me and just shook his head, a small smile on his face.
“It’s the same play,” he said. “They’re running the exact same coverage.”
“So let’s run the exact same route,” I replied.
I sent him on a deep post, the same play that had beaten Westlake. Midland’s safety bit on the play-action, and Mickey was wide open. I laid the ball out for him, and he jogged into the end zone. 16-0. The PAT made it 17-0.
The game became almost boring. Hunter made three spectacular catches, one a one-handed snag along the sideline that had people on the neighboring fields turning to watch. Mickey added another touchdown on a route concept so identical to his first one that I almost felt bad for the corner trying to cover him. By the midway point in the game, the score was 25-6. We were just toying with them.
A few college scouts who had been watching our game with interest started to pack up their notebooks and drift toward the more competitive matchups. I couldn’t blame them. This wasn’t a game; it was a slaughter.
The second half was extended garbage time. I threw two more touchdown passes, one to Jerry and one to a jubilant Miguel, before Kenneth gestured for Gabriel to go in. I spent the last five minutes on the sideline, watching Gabriel slow our offense way down while our defense continued to dominate. Malcolm got an interception, and Midland’s offense never even crossed the twenty-five-yard line.
Gabriel didn’t manage to pick up any more touchdowns, but with the interception, the final score was 43-18. It was our most lopsided victory of the season. I had completed eighteen of twenty-one passes, and we’d scored on six of our seven possessions. We were rolling.
Our third opponent, La Marque, was surprisingly small. We were to them what Westlake had been to us. None of their players looked over five-foot-ten. We had a significant height and weight advantage at every position. It almost felt like a trap.
It was.
On the very first play from scrimmage, their quarterback, a kid who couldn’t have weighed more than 150 pounds, took the snap and fired a rocket to his receiver, a blur of motion wearing number 3. The kid burned past Calvin like he was standing still. A forty-yard gain. Two plays later, they were in the end zone. 6-0.
I watched from the sideline, a knot tightening in my stomach. Their speed was deceptive. That little receiver wasn’t just fast; he was explosive. He went from a standstill to full speed in two steps.
I tried to answer, moving our offense down the field with methodical, underneath routes. I wasn’t going to get into a track meet with them. Short passes to Hunter and Miguel. We crossed the twenty-five. We crossed the ten. I finally hit Mickey on a slant for a touchdown. We missed the PAT. 6-6.
Then it happened again. Number 3 lined up against Don. He gave a little stutter-step, a double move that Don bit on completely. The receiver was five yards clear down the sideline before Don even turned his hips. Another easy touchdown. They went for one and got it. 13-6. Their speed felt like a current pulling us under.
Kenneth called a timeout.
“We have to bracket him,” I said to Calvin and Wilbur Phillips as they came to the sideline. “Calvin, you take him underneath. Don’t let him get a clean release. Wilbur, you play over the top. No matter what, do not let him get behind you. Make the quarterback throw into a window.”
They both nodded. They looked grim. I didn’t blame them, the guy was taking us apart.