The school buzzed with energy all day Friday.
Posters lined the halls. Lockers were wrapped in gray and red streamers. Teachers turned blind eyes to wandering attention and whispered conversations. Even the overhead announcements had a little more bounce in the principal’s voice.
The players all donned their jerseys and beamed with pride.
By lunchtime, Chase could feel it too—an electricity in the air that had nothing to do with science class.
Sleepy Hollow football wasn’t known for packed crowds or historic seasons. Not yet. But there was something about the season opener. A clean slate. A chance to rewrite the story.
For a program with a new quarterback, a new offense, and a brand-new attitude, it felt like the right time to begin.
The pep rally was louder than expected.
The Sleepy Hollow gym wasn’t built for pageantry, but that didn’t stop it from feeling electric. The bleachers on both sides were packed—students crammed shoulder to shoulder, waving signs, wearing gray and red, some with faces painted in streaks of school spirit.
Banners hung from the rafters: “GO HORSEMEN,” “RUN THE DANG BALL,” and a massive painted sheet reading NEW SEASON. NEW IDENTITY. SAME MISSION.
At center court, a spotlight lit the giant Horseman logo—headless, charging forward, jack-o’-lantern in hand.
The cheerleaders worked through a routine to the roar of the drumline, which rattled the metal bleachers with every stomp of the bass drum. It wasn’t polished, but it was raw, real, and full of energy. Chase stood near the baseline with the rest of the football team, watching it all unfold.
He glanced around at his teammates—some hyping up the crowd, others standing a little stiff like him, taking it all in. Johnny was soaking it up, mugging for one of the girls who’d made a glitter poster with his number on it. Connor just clapped along. Miles leaned against the wall, trying to look unfazed.
Coach Ella eventually took the mic, standing at midcourt in a gray polo, sleeves pushed up.
“First things first—thank you,” he said, his voice firm but calm. “This program’s been through some tough years. And we’re not promising anything overnight. But I’ll tell you this: we’re different now.”
The crowd hushed, leaning in.
“This team has put in the work. This team has grit. And tomorrow night, when we take the field at Nanuet, it’s not going to be about the name on the schedule. It’s going to be about the name on the chest.”
He paused, then raised a fist toward the bleachers behind the bench.
“HORSEMEN!”
“HORSEMEN!” the crowd echoed.
Chase didn’t cheer as loud as the others. But he stood straighter. He felt it in his chest—this wasn’t just the start of the season. It was the start of something new.
---
That night, the gym didn’t look like it had earlier that day.
The bleachers were pushed back, replaced by long rows of folding tables draped in plastic tablecloths—gray and red, naturally. Streamers hung from the basketball hoops. Soft music played from a Bluetooth speaker someone had stashed in the corner. The scent of marinara, garlic, and warm bread drifted through the air, curling into every corner.
Parents and boosters moved with quiet efficiency behind the buffet line. Foil trays of spaghetti, meatballs, baked ziti, Caesar salad, garlic knots, and chicken parm sat steaming in aluminum trays. A volunteer ladled red sauce like she was painting a canvas. Another handed out rolls by the fistful.
The team filed in in groups, clapping a bit when they spotted someone’s mom or dad on food duty. A few of the younger players gawked like they hadn’t seen this much food in one place outside of Thanksgiving.
Chase moved through the line behind Johnny and Connor.
Johnny didn’t hold back. He stacked his plate high with pasta, then doubled back for meatballs, piling them like cannonballs in a corner pocket of his plate. Connor wasn’t far behind, constructing a delicate balancing act of chicken parm over spaghetti, side salad, and two rolls jammed into the crook of his elbow.
“Hope y’all ain’t planning on sprinting tomorrow,” Chase said with a smirk.
Johnny grinned. “We bulkin’ tonight.”
Chase chuckled and took two plates—one for real food, the other for “extras,” which apparently meant salad, two cookies, and a roll. He glanced toward the drinks table and nodded at the row of red Gatorades, thinking about Horseman Bagels and how Sophie would probably approve.
Connor and Johnny found their usual spots toward the middle, Chase sat down across from them and set both plates in front of him. A moment later, Miles slid into the seat beside him, noticeably slower than usual.
Chase glanced over. Miles had a single piece of garlic bread and a small scoop of salad on his plate. He poked at the bread with his fork.
“That all you’re eating?” Chase asked, keeping his tone light.
Miles shrugged. “Not that hungry.”
Connor looked up. “You sick or something?”
“Nah,” Miles said. “Just… not feeling it.”
Johnny glanced at Chase, then back at Miles. “You sure? I mean, they got meatballs the size of softballs over there. I’d go a third round if I wasn’t scared I’d split my pants.”
Miles offered a faint smirk. “Maybe later.”
Chase didn’t push. He recognized that look—somewhere between nerves and self-doubt, masked behind a quiet front.
They sat there, the four of them, surrounded by the low hum of conversation and clinking forks. Some guys were already talking about the game—trash talk about Nanuet, predictions, debates about whose cleats were the freshest.
But at Chase’s table, they didn’t bring up football. Not yet.
Instead, they debated which rapper had the best summer drop, who would win in a 40-yard dash between Coach Ella and the school’s 70-year-old custodian (Connor swore it would be close), and whether the cafeteria’s pizza could legally be called “pizza.”
Johnny teased Connor about his girlfriend, teasing that she was fake even though he had met her because she goes to another school.
“At least I'm getting some, only one at this table.” He retorted with a smirk, quickly quieting Johnny.
“If I speak I'm in big trouble.” Miles said with a laugh, refusing to provide any details when pressed by the others.
Chase shook his head and shoveled in a bite of spaghetti.
It was stupid. It was perfect.
For a little while, the weight of the season opener faded into the background. They were just guys—tired, hungry, anxious, and pretending not to be.
Eventually, Miles got up and returned with a small portion of pasta plate.
Chase didn’t say anything. Just slid him a cookie off his extra plate.
Miles accepted it with a nod, and for the first time that evening, he smiled like he meant it.
---
The sun had barely cracked the horizon when players began to arrive at the school, bags slung over shoulders, Sleepy Hollow polos tucked into black joggers. The parking lot filled slowly—cars pulling in, one by one, until the only sound was the rhythmic tap of cleats dangling from backpacks.
Chase climbed onto the bus and found a window seat. His helmet sat in his lap, already polished. He glanced down at the word “HORSEMEN” across the back in red lettering. The decal still looked new. It still felt new.
It was only a half-hour ride to Nanuet—nothing like the two-hour treks across back roads in Maine. But this ride came with something different.
As they crossed the Tappan Zee Bridge, the Hudson River sprawled out beneath them, wide and shimmering in the morning sun. Chase leaned toward the window, forehead almost touching the glass. His first time crossing the river. A first of many, he hoped.
They arrived at Nanuet and filed into the visitors’ locker room. Tight. A little too warm. Clean, but utilitarian. Cement floors. Wooden benches. Painted cinderblock walls.
They suited up in silence, helmets set neatly on the floor in front of them. When they took the field for warmups, it was helmets only. No pads. No reason to show too much.
When they walked through plays, Coach Ella had the assistant coaches line up along the sideline, shielding their movements from the home team.
Afterward, Chase checked his equipment, adjusting the straps on his shoulder pads and asking for help pulling his jersey on afterward.
Coach Ella walked over, arms folded.
“Before we head back out,” he said, “I want you to say something to the team.”
Chase blinked. “Me?”
“You’re the quarterback now,” Ella said. “Doesn’t have to be a speech. Just be real.”
Chase nodded slowly. “Yeah. Okay.”
---
As kickoff approached everyone moved through their final preparations. Tape. Cleats. Shoulder pads. Silent rituals and quiet nerves.
Chase took a breath and stood.
“Hey—uh, listen up.”
A few players turned. A few didn’t.
“Team first. Teammate second. Self third. That’s what Coach said this week. That’s what I’ve been thinking about.”
He paused.
“I don’t care who scores. I don’t care who starts. I care that we win. That we play as one. That we show who we are now, and we start the season right.”
Johnny clapped once. Connor nodded.
Chase raised a fist. “Horsemen on three. One, two, three—”
“HORSEMEN!”
The team broke and jogged into the tunnel.
---
Early on the Horsemen jogged out for their first offensive possession.
Chase lined up, heart pounding, eyes scanning the defense. The crowd was loud, louder than he could remember one ever being in Maine. The sideline roared. His fingers twitched with adrenaline.
He clapped.
The snap was clean. The linebacker crashed inside.
Chase pulled the ball and sprinted left. The defender recovered too late. Chase hit the sideline, flying past the 40, then the 45, before being forced out at the 49.
Twenty-four yards. Nerves? Gone.
Zeke pounded out three straight runs—six yards, three, then two. First down at the 41.
Another read. Another keep. Chase slashed through the edge for 14 more to the 27.
The Nanuet defense was rattled. Shouting at each other. Hands in the air.
Zeke again for nine. Kyle Paul for a new set of downs at the 14.
Miles stood on the sideline, helmet on, bouncing on his toes, waiting for a chance.
Second and short. Chase handed to Zeke—nine more. First and goal.
Then the snap sailed.
Wyatt launched it over Chase’s head. He scrambled, scooped it, tried to salvage it—but got buried at the 19.
Third and 14.
Coach Ella sent in the call.
Trips left. Fake dropback. Chase under center.
He took the snap, sold the three step drop the defensive end crashed hard, thinking he had beaten Connor. Chase stepped up then burst around him.
He dove, stretching for the pylon—just short. Down at the one.
Next play, Chase misread the tackle—lost two.
Second down. Fake to Zeke. Roll left. Pump the pitch to Kyle. Tuck it. Sprint.
Touchdown.
Chase is swarmed by half the offense as he attempts to get the ball to the ref. He jogs off the field with a smile on his face.
Sleepy Hollow 7, Nanuet 0.
---
Late in the half, third and two from the Nanuet 47.
Coach Ella barked out the call to Chase on the sideline, his voice rising over the dull roar of the home crowd. Chase relayed it in the huddle, eyes sharp, voice calm.
“Jet option right. Let’s hit it fast.”
The players clapped and broke.
Jon Stokke, their junior slot receiver, came in motion from the left—his cleats tapping rhythmically on the turf, his red gloves already up, calling for the ball.
Chase took the snap, pivoted right, and rolled with him. For a split second, it was chaos—shoulder pads clashing, defenders hesitating.
The linebacker froze. The end committed.
Chase waited until the last possible heartbeat, then pitched.
The ball snapped cleanly into Stokke’s hands. The lane was there.
Stokke turned on the jets and hit the edge like he’d been shot from a slingshot—one step, two, and he was gone. The Nanuet corner had taken a bad angle, the safety was late crashing down. There was nothing but grass and end zone ahead.
Chase was still picking himself up off the turf when he saw the number 15 streaking down the sideline, the crowd rising in a wave of disbelief and cheers.
No one touched him.
Touchdown.
14–0.
The sideline exploded. Coaches fist-pumped. Players bumped helmets and screamed into the sky.
Chase jogged over to meet Stokke near the bench, slapping his shoulder pads as the receiver grinned wide.
“Perfect pitch,” Jon said, breathing hard.
“Perfect run,” Chase replied.
Coach Ella nodded subtly from the sideline. He didn’t say much, but the look said everything.
They’d made a statement.
Sleepy Hollow wasn’t the same team anymore.
Not even close.
---
But Nanuet adjusted.
They hit on a long touchdown pass late in the third, then capitalized on a short field in the fourth. Two quick scores. Tie game.
Sleepy Hollow couldn’t answer.
Overtime.
Nanuet got the ball first.
Chase, Zeke, Johnny and Connor stood anxiously on the sideline, trying to will the defense to a stop.
A long completion set them up inside the five yard line and their big runningback barreled into the endzone from there.
21–14.
Chase gathered the huddle. “We score here. Nothing else.”
First down—Chase kept. Up the middle. Fourteen yards.
Next play—Zeke ran for five, but a holding call killed it. Second and long.
Chase kept again. Down to the 7.
Zeke got stuffed on third down.
Fourth and goal from the 7.
Chase took the snap, rolled right. Stokke mirrored him. Defender committed.
Chase turned the corner.
He stretched for the pylon.
Hit from the side.
Both players slid out of bounds.
The ref waved his arms.
Inches short.
---
The locker room was dead quiet.
No pads being thrown. No shouting. Just silence thick enough to drown in.
Sweat still clung to shoulder pads. Some players sat slumped, heads in their hands. Others stared at the floor, unmoving. Cleats clicked lightly against the tile as a few shifted in place, but no one said a word.
Chase sat on the bench with his back against the locker, helmet between his knees. His jersey was soaked, streaked with grass and dirt. He could still feel the sting of that final play, the sharp jerk of being stopped just inches short of the goal line.
So close.
Coach Ella stepped into the room.
He didn’t yell. Didn’t bark.
He just stood there.
Let the silence do its work. Let the loss breathe.
Then he spoke—low and steady, just above a whisper, but strong enough to carry across the room.
“That team shut us out last year,” he began. “Twenty-nine to nothing. They embarrassed us. Pushed us around. Laughed about it.”
He let the memory hang in the air a moment longer.
“This year,” he continued, taking a step forward, “we went toe to toe with them. Brand new offense. Brand new identity. First game for half of you. First game for our quarterback.”
He turned slightly, gesturing toward Chase without naming him.
“And we were inches away.”
He raised two fingers, holding them apart barely an inch.
Some players finally looked up.
“I don’t want heads down right now. Not tonight. That effort—that toughness—that was real. That was earned. And if you didn’t believe before tonight, you better start now. Because this team? This team is gonna be a problem for people.”
A murmur of agreement passed through the room. Someone pounded a fist softly on a locker.
Coach Ella paced slowly, making eye contact with several players as he passed. “Losses hurt. That’s part of it. You don’t grow without pain. And I’m proud of every damn one of you.”
He stopped near the middle of the room and turned back to face them.
“We’ll learn from this. We’ll clean up the details. And next week—Hendrick Hudson? We go after them with everything we’ve got.”
He took one more look around.
“Keep your heads up. Tonight wasn’t failure. Tonight was a warning shot.”
Then his voice dropped to a quiet, firm close.
“This… is just the beginning.”
A few players nodded. Someone clapped once. Johnny whispered something to Connor, who nodded and sat up straighter. Chase exhaled. Not a sigh. A reset.
They hadn’t won. But they hadn’t lost themselves either.
And that meant something.
---
The quarterback room was quiet, save for the low hum of the projector fan and the occasional murmur of cleats shifting on tile. Film flickered across the front wall, showing Arizona State’s Thursday night win at Texas State.
Jalen Knox sat in the back row, hoodie pulled over his head, arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. The only thing in front of him was a half-filled notebook and a pen with the cap chewed off.
He hadn’t traveled with the team.
He’d watched the game on a dorm room television, surrounded by half-packed boxes and unopened textbooks. Bruzon traveled with the team. Leavitt looked sharp.
Two touchdown drives in the first half. A 52 yard TD dime to Jordyn Tyson and a touchdown run right before halftime to tie it up.
Now he was just... watching.
Up front, the quarterbacks coach paused the film. “Here. See this read?”
The screen showed Leavitt in the shotgun, eyes scanning. He pulled the ball on a zone read and darted outside, picking up 8 yards before stepping out of bounds.
“That’s picture-perfect,” the coach said. “Key the end. Don’t rush the mesh. He doesn’t force it—he lets the play come to him.”
A few of the players nodded. One of the walk-ons even said, “That’s smooth,” under his breath.
Jalen felt something twist in his gut.
He flipped a page in his notebook—most of the early pages were filled with diagrams, notes, and scribbled corrections. The more recent pages were blank.
Coach rolled the film again. Another clip. Another completed pass. More praise.
No one looked at Jalen. They didn’t have to.
He knew what they were thinking.
He hadn’t separated himself in camp. He’d struggled with the terminology. His footwork was inconsistent. He didn’t know when the reps stopped shrinking—just that they did. Slowly. Quietly.
At first, he told himself it was temporary. That he was just adjusting. But now?
Now he was invisible.
Bruzon won the battle to be QB3. Sims and Leavitt got the reps. Even Bourguet—the system vet—still held respect in the room. Jalen was just there. A body with talent. A résumé that no longer mattered.
His mind wandered. Back to Saguaro. To packed stands and late touchdowns. To headlines and offers. To Signing Day.
Back when he was the guy.
Now he couldn’t even get on the travel list.
Coach played another clip—this one a deep ball over the middle. Leavitt hit the tight end in stride. The room let out a few low whistles.
“Confidence,” the coach said. “That’s what we need under center. Know what you’re seeing. Trust your guy and rip it.”
Jalen’s pen hadn’t moved in ten minutes.
He stared at the screen. At the jersey he should have been wearing. At the position he was supposed to own.
Then slowly, he clicked the pen and wrote in block letters at the bottom of the page:
Be ready when it’s your turn.
He stared at the words, pressing his thumb over the ink until it smudged.
He didn’t know when the moment would come. Or if it would.
But if it did, he had to be ready.
He had to believe it would come.
Because if not—if this was all there was—he didn’t know what came next.
And that scared him more than any depth chart ever could.
Run To The Sun
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djp73
Topic author - Posts: 11551
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
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djp73
Topic author - Posts: 11551
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Run To The Sun
Sleepy Hollow QB Chase Pryor is forced out of bounds inches shy of the goalline in the Horsemen's OT loss at Nanuet
Nanuet Escapes Sleepy Hollow in Overtime Thriller, 21–14
NANUET —For most of three quarters, it looked like the Sleepy Hollow Horsemen were going to make a statement in their season opener. But a late rally from the Nanuet Knights and a goal-line stand in overtime handed the Horsemen a heartbreaking 21–14 defeat on Saturday afternoon.
Making his debut at quarterback, senior newcomer Chase Pryor showcased why he was chosen to lead Coach Robert Ella’s new-look option offense. Pryor racked up 125 rushing yards and a touchdown on 19 carries, adding another 7 yards through the air on his only pass attempt. He opened the scoring with a 6-yard touchdown run late in the first quarter and nearly tied the game in overtime, coming up just inches short of the goal line on fourth down.
“That’s a tough one to swallow,” Coach Ella said after the game. “But I’m proud of the way our kids fought. We’re a different team than last year, and people are going to find that out soon.”
Sleepy Hollow (0–1) led 14–0 late in the first half, thanks in part to a 47-yard touchdown run by wide receiver Jon Stokke on a beautifully executed jet option pitch from Pryor.
But the Knights (1–0) responded with 21 unanswered points. Quarterback Marquel Babcock threw for 175 yards and two touchdowns, including a 63-yard strike to Marvin Hollenbach that sparked Nanuet’s comeback in the third quarter.
Babcock also hit Nathan Bowanko for a 3-yard score early in the fourth quarter to tie the game. In overtime, senior running back Joel Fe’esago punched in a 3-yard touchdown to give the Knights the lead. Pryor and the Horsemen faced a fourth and goal from the seven yard line with Pryor getting pushed out of bounds inches from the goal line.
“That’s football,” Pryor said after the game, sweat-soaked and frustrated. “One more inch and it’s a different headline. But we’re going to learn from this. We’ll be back.”
Zeke Tamm added 64 yards on 20 carries for Sleepy Hollow, while Stokke contributed 47 yards and a score on his lone rushing attempt. Senior Miles Cunningham, the team’s top receiver last season, rotated in at running back and picked up 9 yards on 4 carries in his first varsity backfield action.
Defensively, the Horsemen were tough for most of the afternoon, holding Nanuet to just 14 regulation points and forcing multiple punts. But the Knights found rhythm late, and Fe’esago’s punishing running helped seal it in extra time.
Sleepy Hollow outgained Nanuet on the ground 252–25 and won the time of possession battle, but three penalties and a costly red zone snap that led to a 15-yard loss ultimately turned the tide.
Still, Coach Ella was optimistic.
“Last year, this team lost to Nanuet 29–0,” he said. “This year, we took them to overtime and had a shot to win. That’s progress. That’s belief.”
The Horsemen return home next week to face Hendrick Hudson in their home opener.
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djp73
Topic author - Posts: 11551
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Run To The Sun
Sleepy Hollow QB Chase Pryor scores on a 50 yard run to put the Horsemen on top in their 14-7 win over Hendrick Hudson
Sleepy Hollow Rides Pryor’s Legs to First Win of Season, 14–7 over Hendrick Hudson
SLEEPY HOLLOW —Chase Pryor made sure the Horsemen didn’t start 0–2.
The senior quarterback ran for 162 yards and two touchdowns—including a dazzling 50-yard score in the fourth quarter—and led Sleepy Hollow to a gritty 14–7 home win over Hendrick Hudson on Saturday afternoon.
“It wasn’t perfect,” head coach Robert Ella said. “But it was tough, physical, and it was us. We’re learning how to win.”
Pryor, who was stopped just short of the goal line in overtime last week at Nanuet, made sure his team finished the job this time. He carried the ball 22 times, broke three tackles, and extended drives with both his legs and his leadership.
The Horsemen (1–1) led 7–0 at the half after a methodical second-quarter drive capped by Pryor’s 2-yard keeper.
After Hendrick Hudson (1–1) tied the game late in the third with a 40-yard strike from Thaddeus Shelley to Nolan Duckett, it took Sleepy Hollow just a few plays to answer. Runs by Pryor and Cunningham set the Horsemen up at midfield, Pryor did the rest from there.
Lined up in a tight formation, with Tamm and Cunningham flanking him Pryor read the edge defender and kept the ball on a triple option. He got outside a crashing defensive end then followed an outstanding block by Connor Winston. Pryor spun at the 30, leaving a defender on the turf, then accelerated into the open field. One safety took a bad angle, and Pryor was gone—50 yards untouched down the left sideline.
“That’s just instincts,” Ella said. “He sees grass and he goes. He’s got the green light in those moments.”
Zeke Tamm and Miles Cunningham combined for 110 rushing yards on 20 carries. Tamm started strong with several bruising runs, including a key 22-yard burst in the second quarter, but exited late with what Ella called a “lower body tweak.”
That opened the door for Cunningham, who responded with 63 tough yards on 12 carries, including two conversions on third down in the fourth quarter to help chew up clock.
“Miles gave us a spark,” Pryor said. “He’s always ready. I trust him.”
Sleepy Hollow attempted just two passes all game—both completions, totaling four yards.
“We knew what kind of game this was gonna be,” Tamm said. “Tough. Physical. We weren’t interested in style points.”
The defense, meanwhile, held Hendrick Hudson in check for most of the afternoon. Junior linebacker Keelan Woodhead led the way with six solo tackles and a pass deflection. Cornerback Cameron Cano broke up a pair of passes, including one that helped stop a third quarter drive in Sleepy Hollow territory.
Shelley finished 11-for-18 for 146 yards and a touchdown but was sacked twice and under pressure for most of the second half.
Tevin Troup led the Sailors with five catches for 75 yards, but Hendrick Hudson managed just 42 total rushing yards on 11 carries.
“They gave us some issues with their motion and short passing,” Ella said. “But I thought our front seven held up when we needed it.”
After the win, players didn’t celebrate wildly. They shook hands. They slapped helmets. But they knew this was just one step forward.
“We’ve got more to prove,” Pryor said. “But it’s nice to get that first win.”
Sleepy Hollow heads to Croton-Harmon (0–2) next week.
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djp73
Topic author - Posts: 11551
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
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djp73
Topic author - Posts: 11551
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Run To The Sun
The air inside the Sleepy Hollow locker room was thick with sweat, adrenaline, and the unmistakable scent of victory.
It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t easy. But it was theirs.
Helmets lay strewn across the floor. Shoulder pads hung half-strapped and lopsided. Cleats squeaked on damp tile as players shouted, chest-bumped, and jumped in place like a swarm of overcaffeinated energy.
The sound system—if you could call it that—blared from someone’s phone wedged into an overturned equipment bin, the volume warping just enough to make every beat sound louder, more chaotic.
Zeke Tamm, still catching his breath, leapt into the arms of Carter Ramos, the junior guard who had cleared the final lane for his third-quarter touchdown. Both of them collapsed into laughter.
Miles Cunningham was beaming—really, genuinely beaming—as a parade of teammates slapped his helmet and shoulders in celebration. After a tough summer of uncertainty and quiet doubt, he’d found something again. His second-half runs, especially the drive-saving third-down conversion with under four minutes left, had turned the game. Chase had told him so on the field. So had Coach Ella. But the reactions now—the joy on his teammates’ faces—meant even more.
Chase stood back near his locker, still in full pads, his helmet tucked under one arm, watching. He didn’t need to jump around. He didn’t need to shout. He just took it all in—the sound, the sweat, the feeling of something finally clicking.
This wasn’t fake joy. This wasn’t forced celebration.
This was real.
Johnny quickly drowned everyone out with a thunderous, offbeat shout of “HORSEMEN RIDE!” His voice cracked halfway through the second yell, and someone tossed a towel at his head, but that didn’t stop him from doing it a third time, arms raised like he was leading a war band into battle.
Connor stood off to the side, sipping from a water bottle and laughing at Johnny’s theatrics. Even the more reserved players—the quiet linemen, the new varsity players, even the student managers—were caught up in the buzz. For once, everyone felt a part of it.
Coach Ella watched from near the whiteboard, arms crossed. He didn’t say a word at first. He never liked cutting short these moments. Wins like this, wins that came from the grind, needed to be felt.
But eventually, he raised his hand.
“Take a knee,” he said—calmly, but with enough volume to cut through the music and laughter.
It wasn’t instant. Pads creaked. Helmets clanked against the floor. But slowly, the room stilled. One by one, the players dropped to a knee, forming an uneven semicircle around their coach.
Ella stepped forward. His voice was steady, but there was weight behind it. He didn’t pace. He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to.
“I’m proud of every one of you,” he began. “Not just because we won. Not just because we held them to one score. But because of how we got here.”
He let the silence hang for a second.
“You’ve been fighting since June. Early mornings. Two-a-days in the heat. Film. Lifting. Conditioning. You’ve put in the work, and you’ve done it the right way. And last week?” He looked out toward the center of the room. “We took one on the chin. And that kind of loss—that close, that painful—it can break a team. We didn't let them beat us twice. That's grit. That's mental toughness.”
Chase nodded slightly, remembering how quiet that bus ride home from Nanuet had been. How Coach Ella hadn’t said much then either, choosing to let it simmer.
“You didn’t break,” Ella continued. “You came back. You lifted. You studied. You practiced like it mattered. And today, you beat a tough, physical football team. A team that tried to out-punch you. A team that tried to bully you in the second half.”
He looked over at the O-line. “They tried everything they could come up with to win the trenches. They couldn’t.”
Then at Zeke. “They tried to gang tackle us. You dragged them.”
And finally at Miles. “They thought we’d fold late. We didn’t.”
Miles lowered his eyes, just for a second. Not out of shame—but out of quiet disbelief. He hadn’t expected this night, this recognition, this feeling.
Coach Ella exhaled slowly. “You showed grit. You showed toughness. You didn’t blink when it got hard. That’s what this program is about. And that’s why this win? You earned it.”
There was a brief pause, like the locker room itself was waiting for permission.
Then it erupted again—but not in the wild, manic way from earlier. This was different. This was deeper. Like the difference between laughing at a joke and laughing from relief. It was pride that spilled over now. Belief.
Johnny slapped the floor, yelling something about “DAWGS EAT.” Someone tackled Zeke into a laundry cart. A few players shouted Miles’ name in a chant that barely lasted four seconds before dissolving into chaotic whoops.
Chase didn’t move much. But his smile stuck. It was small. Steady. The kind of smile you can’t fake, because it’s built on weeks of doubt and hours of grind and a single fourth-quarter drive that changed everything.
Coach Ella stayed a few seconds longer, then turned toward his assistants. He didn’t say anything.
But his look said enough:
We’re on the right track.
And this time—finally—everyone in that locker room believed it too.
---
Later that night, Chase sprawled across the old sectional in Johnny’s basement, one socked foot resting on the edge of the coffee table, the other planted against a bean bag chair someone had dragged over earlier in the evening. A lukewarm slice of pepperoni pizza drooped in his hand, forgotten for the moment as he watched the Colorado vs Baylor game flicker across the TV screen. The volume was up just enough to catch the announcers’ excitement without drowning out the banter between the guys.
Johnny was perched on the arm of the couch, tossing a football from hand to hand while loudly defending Colorado'd QB, Shedeur Sanders.
“I’m telling you—he’s got enough arm, the size, and the tape. He’s a Day One pick easy.”
Connor, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a bag of chips between his knees, scoffed. “Yeah, until he’s got a defender in his face, the dude takes more sacks than Tianna Stevens. He stares down his first read like he’s trying to hypnotize the dude, then he checks it down if he manages to not get sacked for once.”
“Man, whatever,” Johnny shot back. “He’s better than Ward, and they’re talking about him like he’s Joe Burrow.”
Miles, stretched out in the bean bag beside Chase, surprised them all by chiming in.
“That dude’s got talent, sure,” he said, gesturing at the screen with the neck of his Gatorade bottle. “But no vision. Can’t teach that. You either see the reads or you don’t.”
Johnny turned, eyebrow raised. “You trying to talk smack after your guys almost lost to Central Connecticut today?”
Miles grinned, not backing down. “Damn right I am.”
Connor leaned over and clinked his drink against Miles’ Gatorade in mock celebration. “To our star receiver-turned-RB-turned-whatever-you-wanna-be.”
Everyone laughed, and Miles ducked his head with a smirk, clearly enjoying the moment. It was the most relaxed Chase had seen him since the summer. No edge. No doubt. Just a guy hanging with his friends after a win, like the weight he’d been carrying had finally lightened.
They let the game run for a while without commentary, the room settling into that easy, comfortable rhythm only teammates can build—half-watching the TV, half talking trash, fully enjoying the night.
Eventually, the conversation shifted.
“Bro,” Johnny said, sitting forward and grabbing another slice. “Croton-Harmon has been outscored 65 to nothing. That’s not a football team. That’s a tackling dummy drill.”
Connor cackled. “If we don’t win by 40, I’m submitting my helmet to the lost and found and walking home.”
“Don’t get cocky,” Chase said, sitting up slightly. “That’s exactly how you screw it up. You sleepwalk through Monday, go half-speed Tuesday, and then wonder why Saturday’s full of penalties and fumbles.”
Johnny pointed at him like a preacher spotting a heretic. “Coach Pryor in the building!”
Connor raised both hands like he was holding an imaginary clipboard. “Somebody get this man a headset.”
Miles laughed but nodded. “Nah. He’s right. We handle business.”
That settled the room. Not in a heavy way—but the kind of grounded, collective agreement that happens when everyone knows they’re chasing something bigger. The jokes gave way to a quiet moment of focus, unspoken but understood.
They weren’t just a fun story anymore.
They were 2–1, learning how to win.
And that, more than anything, felt real.
---
Sleepy Hollow was hushed beneath a soft gray sky, the kind of quiet that only existed early on a Sunday. The town still seemed half-asleep. Storefronts remained shuttered. Mailboxes leaned slightly with the weight of the morning’s stillness. A light breeze stirred a few dry leaves across the sidewalk, and the streetlamps, for some reason, hadn’t all turned off yet.
Chase had decided to put in a rare Sunday run, yesterday's conversations about putting in the work echoing in this mind.
He ran a bit slower than usual. Not because he was tired—but because he didn’t want to rush this. His legs moved on autopilot, each stride steady and smooth, while his mind drifted.
The win over Hendrick Hudson still lingered in his chest like a campfire that refused to burn out. It hadn’t been perfect. It hadn’t been easy. But they’d done it—he’d done it—and now, for once, Sunday didn’t feel like recovery. It felt like possibility.
As he rounded the familiar turn near the riverwalk, the water came into view. Thin clouds stretched like gauze across the sky, the Hudson shimmering beneath them in slow motion. For a moment, Chase just… watched. Let himself be still. The river had a way of making everything feel both small and infinite. Like there was time. Like it was okay not to know everything yet.
Instead of heading straight home, he took a detour—no real plan, just the kind of whim you don’t think about too hard. His feet led him down Broadway, past the gas station, past the animal hospital, until he found himself in front of Horseman Bagels.
The door chimed as he stepped inside.
It smelled like toasted dough and cinnamon, like warmth wrapped in paper sleeves. The lights were a little softer than usual. Music played low from the kitchen—something acoustic and old. Chase glanced toward the counter and stopped short.
Sophie was there.
She looked up, a little startled, then grinned. “Well look who decided to mix it up. What brings you out on the day of rest?”
Chase scratched the back of his neck. “Just putting in a little extra work. I didn’t know you worked Sundays.”
“I don’t,” she said, pulling her apron snug. “Covering for someone. Guess it’s destiny?”
He laughed, a little off-balance. “Maybe.”
She tilted her head, smiling with just a touch of mischief. “Let me guess. Everything bagel with egg and cheese, turkey sausage, light veggie cream cheese, red Gatorade?”
“Not today,” he said, stepping over to the cooler. “Gotta keep you guessing.” He plucked an orange Gatorade from the rack and held it up like a challenge.
Sophie raised an eyebrow but turned toward the prep counter. “I respect it,” she said, already slicing his bagel without being asked.
They talked while she worked—about nothing and everything. He told her how the game had gone, a little guarded at first, but opening up as her easy tone smoothed over his nerves.
“I was there, you know,” she said, wiping her hands on a towel. “Y’all looked good.”
Chase blinked. “Wait, really? I didn’t see you.”
“I was up near the top, by the band. Figured you’d be a little busy anyway.”
He nodded, heart ticking slightly faster. “I guess I was.”
She leaned against the counter, resting her forearms on the glass. “You played great.”
There was something in the way she said it—not flirty, not distant. Just honest. Like she meant it.
“Thanks,” he said, feeling the words stick a little in his throat.
They stood like that for a moment, the morning light catching in her hair, the air between them quiet but not awkward.
Then she said, “I graduated last year.”
Chase nodded slowly. “I figured. You just… never seem to be around school.”
“I’m at College of Westchester now. Part-time. Trying to figure out what’s next.”
The words hit Chase harder than expected. College. It shouldn’t have felt like a canyon between them, but it did. She was on the other side of a line he hadn’t even reached yet.
And yet…
“What about you?” she asked.
He blinked. “What?”
“What are you doing later?”
“Uh…” He scratched his head. “Probably just watching football. Maybe a bit of school work.”
She smiled, then reached under the counter and pulled out her phone. “Well, if you’re not too busy being a future Heisman winner, maybe you wanna hang out after I get off?”
His breath caught—just for a second. The idea of her asking that… it felt like the world had tilted just slightly.
“Yeah,” he said, trying not to sound too surprised. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
She handed him the phone. “Then give me your number, bagel boy.”
He typed it in, thumbs suddenly clumsier than usual, and handed it back.
She didn’t text him right away, just gave a wink and slid his bagel into a brown paper bag.
Chase tapped his phone to pay, smiled, thanked her, and walked out into the sleepy morning with the kind of lightness he hadn’t felt in months.
He wasn’t sure if he was walking or floating.
Either way—he didn’t look back.
---
Midweek practice brought with it a gray sky and a sharp breeze that tugged at jerseys and kicked up dust across the Sleepy Hollow practice field. The grass was damp and uneven in places, and cleats occasionally slipped just enough to throw off timing. There was no music today, no relaxed chatter. Just the rhythmic thump of footfalls, the barked commands of coaches, and the occasional clatter of pads during blocking drills.
It was the kind of practice where sharpness mattered—where good teams got better and lazy ones got embarrassed come Saturday.
But the Horsemen didn’t look sharp.
Not yet.
Offensive reps dragged. A toss play to the boundary died when the pulling guard whiffed on a block. A simulated third and short turned into a third and long when a receiver left early. Even the mesh exchange in their option series—usually second nature—looked sluggish and uncertain.
Chase stood behind the huddle after another broken play, hands on his hips, watching one of the sophomore receivers jog back lazily to the line after missing his block entirely.
Coach Ella took a step forward, jaw tightening.
Then he stopped.
Instead of raising his voice or blowing the whistle, he motioned to one of the assistants—Coach Mayes, the receivers coach—who looked ready to rip into the group. A subtle shake of Ella’s head held him back.
This wasn’t a coach’s moment.
It was Chase’s.
And Chase felt it.
He stepped forward, clearing his throat just enough to get their attention.
“Hold up.”
The huddle turned, sweat-streaked and half-expectant. A few helmets bobbed. A few shoulders slumped, already bracing for another reminder from the quarterback who was still technically “the new guy.”
Chase didn’t yell. He didn’t have to.
But his voice was firm.
“We’re not doing that again. Not like that.”
He looked around the circle of players—some veterans, some wide-eyed underclassmen—until his eyes landed on the same sophomore receiver who had blown the play.
“You didn’t even try to block,” Chase said flatly.
The sophomore, still catching his breath, straightened. “Wasn’t my fault, man. The throw was late.”
There was a moment of pause—tension tightening like a rubber band.
Chase took a breath. “It’s not about the throw. It’s about the effort. You didn’t even look for your block.”
The kid scoffed and turned away. “Whatever.”
Before Chase could respond, Johnny stepped forward from the right side of the huddle.
“Hey,” he said, voice sharp as cleats on concrete. “You got something else to say?”
The sophomore hesitated.
Connor, helmet unbuckled and propped on his forehead, walked over and stood on Chase’s other side. “You think we’re just making stuff up? You blew the rep. Period.”
“Fall in line,” Johnny added. “Or get out the way for someone who will. That goes for everyone.”
There was a beat of silence.
The sophomore looked between the three of them—then nodded once and jogged back to the huddle.
Coach Ella, still watching from the sideline, gave the smallest of nods. Then he turned away, saying nothing. The message had been delivered, and not by him.
Chase reset the huddle, physically moving a couple players who weren't in the correct places.
“Let's get it right here. Diamond right tail screen.”
The offense broke the huddle. Everyone moved with a little more purpose now. The line got set faster. The snap came cleaner. Miles caught the screen with sharper timing, rode his blocks tighter, and slipped upfield for a solid gain before a scout team linebacker shoved him out of bounds.
“Better,” Chase said. “But not good enough. Again.”
They ran it again.
And again.
Until the rhythm returned. Until the steps synced. Until Chase could feel the pulse of the play clicking into place the way it had on game day.
There were no cheers. No slaps on the helmet. Just focused execution.
That was enough.
When the period ended, Coach Ella blew the whistle and gathered the offense at midfield.
“Leadership doesn’t come with a title,” he said, voice calm. “You earn it by showing up, every day, doing the right thing—even when it’s uncomfortable.”
His eyes met Chase’s, just for a second.
“Good work. Let’s finish the week the right way.”
As the group jogged to the next drill, Johnny clapped Chase on the back. “About time someone told him off.”
Connor grinned. “Coach Pryor strikes again.”
Chase rolled his eyes, but beneath it, a flicker of pride burned steady in his chest.
He didn’t just wear the QB label now.
He owned it.
---
The air was thick with September warmth, a stillness settling over the Croton-Harmon stadium as the sun angled low in the afternoon sky. Sleepy Hollow’s sideline buzzed with anticipation. Helmets gleamed, voices barked out calls, and cleats scratched nervously at turf.
Coach Ella stood stone-faced near the numbers, scouring his play sheet, looking for a quick spark. Then he held up a hand signal—diamond right screen.
Chase Pryor saw it, relayed it to the huddle, and took a deep breath as they broke and jogged to the line.
This was the play.
The one they’d butchered on Monday. The one he’d had to demand more for in practice. The one they had finally started hitting by Thursday.
Now it had to count.
Miles Cunningham jogged wide to the right, three receivers stacked in front of him like a triangle—hence the "diamond." Jon Stokke, Kane Bitonio, and Spencer Avery all knew their roles by heart now. Get out. Stay low. Block with purpose.
Chase stood in the gun, hands hovering at his knees. He scanned the defense, saw a linebacker creeping toward the box. Perfect.
He clapped. The snap was crisp.
Chase took a jab step forward like he was running behind Wyatt. He tucked the ball and held his left hand out like he was feeling for a block just long enough to freeze the defense. Then—he opened up to his right and whipped the ball wide.
Miles caught it in stride, eyes already scanning for his convoy.
Stokke—#15—immediately engaged the cornerback, driving his feet like a sled push. Kane looped around and sealed off the outside linebacker with a wide, arcing block. And on the backside—Spencer Avery, the sophomore who had mouthed off in practice earlier in the week, made the most satisfying block of his season. He launched into the trailing cornerback with perfect timing, shoulder down, helmet square. The corner crumpled. The sideline roared.
Chase gave Spencer a quick shout and a slap on the helmet mid-sprint. "Atta boy, 82!"
Miles followed the wall of white and gray like a surfer catching the perfect wave. He got outside his blocks then kicked into top gear.
The defenders had angles. But they weren’t enough.
Not with this kind of execution.
Not with Miles really believing in himself again.
He turned the corner, shoulders low, churning upfield. The crowd rose behind him in a wall of noise.
Fifty-four yards later, Miles crossed the goal line untouched.
Touchdown.
Sleepy Hollow 6, Croton-Harmon 0.
And it was just the beginning.
From there, the Horsemen went into full stampede mode.
On their second drive, Chase faked a jet sweep and kept the ball himself. The edge collapsed, but he read it perfectly, bursting through a crease and slicing between two safeties like a hot knife through snow. One juke—then daylight. He galloped 61 yards before even glancing back.
Touchdown, Pryor.
In the second quarter, Zeke Tamm bulldozed through a tackler at the line of scrimmage and dragged another defender across the goal line from eight yards out. The offensive line, bruising and deliberate, surged as one—like they could sense this was their kind of game.
Just before halftime, Chase struck again. This time on third and long. A designed QB run.
He took the snap, followed Johnny, slipped past a linebacker, and then it was just green grass. He veered to the left sideline, turned on the jets, and didn’t stop until he was under the scoreboard again.
Four drives. Four touchdowns.
Croton-Harmon looked overwhelmed. Disjointed. And Sleepy Hollow? They looked like a team with purpose.
In the second half, they didn’t let up.
When Zeke came up gimpy after a collision midway through the third quarter, Miles stepped right in—and up. His confidence, already glowing after the first quarter score, was now full-on wildfire.
Late in the fourth quarter, he lined up in the backfield, took a handoff out of a shotgun look, cut once inside the right tackle, then bounced outside for a 24-yard touchdown. No theatrics. Just clean footwork and better vision than he’d shown all summer.
The scoreboard glowed beneath the overcast sky:
Sleepy Hollow 35, Croton-Harmon 0.
The numbers told the story:
Chase Pryor: 12 carries, 224 rushing yards, 2 TDs
Zeke Tamm: 14 carries, 112 yards, 1 TD
Miles Cunningham: 11 carries, 101 yards, 1 rushing TD + 1 reception for 54 yards and a score
Total Team Rushing: 447 yards
Only one pass attempted—and completed.
They didn’t need more.
When the final whistle blew, the sideline met at midfield, helmets held high, the gray and red swirling together in a moment of collective pride.
The locker room afterward had the energy of a team that knew what it had just done.
Yes, it was Croton-Harmon. Yes, they were 0–3 now. But Sleepy Hollow hadn’t just won. They had dominated.
And they had done it together.
Back inside, the music was already thumping off the cinderblock walls. Shoulder pads were half-off, and towels whipped through the air. Even the freshman who rarely spoke was clapping along.
Coach Ella stepped inside and waited just a beat before speaking.
He didn’t need to quiet them down this time. The second he entered, they turned.
He looked around the room with that unreadable coach expression. Then he cracked a rare smile.
“Now that’s how you respond,” he said.
The room erupted.
And for Chase Pryor—covered in sweat, helmet tucked under his arm, a grin stuck on his face—it felt like they weren’t just winning.
They were becoming.
It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t easy. But it was theirs.
Helmets lay strewn across the floor. Shoulder pads hung half-strapped and lopsided. Cleats squeaked on damp tile as players shouted, chest-bumped, and jumped in place like a swarm of overcaffeinated energy.
The sound system—if you could call it that—blared from someone’s phone wedged into an overturned equipment bin, the volume warping just enough to make every beat sound louder, more chaotic.
Zeke Tamm, still catching his breath, leapt into the arms of Carter Ramos, the junior guard who had cleared the final lane for his third-quarter touchdown. Both of them collapsed into laughter.
Miles Cunningham was beaming—really, genuinely beaming—as a parade of teammates slapped his helmet and shoulders in celebration. After a tough summer of uncertainty and quiet doubt, he’d found something again. His second-half runs, especially the drive-saving third-down conversion with under four minutes left, had turned the game. Chase had told him so on the field. So had Coach Ella. But the reactions now—the joy on his teammates’ faces—meant even more.
Chase stood back near his locker, still in full pads, his helmet tucked under one arm, watching. He didn’t need to jump around. He didn’t need to shout. He just took it all in—the sound, the sweat, the feeling of something finally clicking.
This wasn’t fake joy. This wasn’t forced celebration.
This was real.
Johnny quickly drowned everyone out with a thunderous, offbeat shout of “HORSEMEN RIDE!” His voice cracked halfway through the second yell, and someone tossed a towel at his head, but that didn’t stop him from doing it a third time, arms raised like he was leading a war band into battle.
Connor stood off to the side, sipping from a water bottle and laughing at Johnny’s theatrics. Even the more reserved players—the quiet linemen, the new varsity players, even the student managers—were caught up in the buzz. For once, everyone felt a part of it.
Coach Ella watched from near the whiteboard, arms crossed. He didn’t say a word at first. He never liked cutting short these moments. Wins like this, wins that came from the grind, needed to be felt.
But eventually, he raised his hand.
“Take a knee,” he said—calmly, but with enough volume to cut through the music and laughter.
It wasn’t instant. Pads creaked. Helmets clanked against the floor. But slowly, the room stilled. One by one, the players dropped to a knee, forming an uneven semicircle around their coach.
Ella stepped forward. His voice was steady, but there was weight behind it. He didn’t pace. He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to.
“I’m proud of every one of you,” he began. “Not just because we won. Not just because we held them to one score. But because of how we got here.”
He let the silence hang for a second.
“You’ve been fighting since June. Early mornings. Two-a-days in the heat. Film. Lifting. Conditioning. You’ve put in the work, and you’ve done it the right way. And last week?” He looked out toward the center of the room. “We took one on the chin. And that kind of loss—that close, that painful—it can break a team. We didn't let them beat us twice. That's grit. That's mental toughness.”
Chase nodded slightly, remembering how quiet that bus ride home from Nanuet had been. How Coach Ella hadn’t said much then either, choosing to let it simmer.
“You didn’t break,” Ella continued. “You came back. You lifted. You studied. You practiced like it mattered. And today, you beat a tough, physical football team. A team that tried to out-punch you. A team that tried to bully you in the second half.”
He looked over at the O-line. “They tried everything they could come up with to win the trenches. They couldn’t.”
Then at Zeke. “They tried to gang tackle us. You dragged them.”
And finally at Miles. “They thought we’d fold late. We didn’t.”
Miles lowered his eyes, just for a second. Not out of shame—but out of quiet disbelief. He hadn’t expected this night, this recognition, this feeling.
Coach Ella exhaled slowly. “You showed grit. You showed toughness. You didn’t blink when it got hard. That’s what this program is about. And that’s why this win? You earned it.”
There was a brief pause, like the locker room itself was waiting for permission.
Then it erupted again—but not in the wild, manic way from earlier. This was different. This was deeper. Like the difference between laughing at a joke and laughing from relief. It was pride that spilled over now. Belief.
Johnny slapped the floor, yelling something about “DAWGS EAT.” Someone tackled Zeke into a laundry cart. A few players shouted Miles’ name in a chant that barely lasted four seconds before dissolving into chaotic whoops.
Chase didn’t move much. But his smile stuck. It was small. Steady. The kind of smile you can’t fake, because it’s built on weeks of doubt and hours of grind and a single fourth-quarter drive that changed everything.
Coach Ella stayed a few seconds longer, then turned toward his assistants. He didn’t say anything.
But his look said enough:
We’re on the right track.
And this time—finally—everyone in that locker room believed it too.
---
Later that night, Chase sprawled across the old sectional in Johnny’s basement, one socked foot resting on the edge of the coffee table, the other planted against a bean bag chair someone had dragged over earlier in the evening. A lukewarm slice of pepperoni pizza drooped in his hand, forgotten for the moment as he watched the Colorado vs Baylor game flicker across the TV screen. The volume was up just enough to catch the announcers’ excitement without drowning out the banter between the guys.
Johnny was perched on the arm of the couch, tossing a football from hand to hand while loudly defending Colorado'd QB, Shedeur Sanders.
“I’m telling you—he’s got enough arm, the size, and the tape. He’s a Day One pick easy.”
Connor, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a bag of chips between his knees, scoffed. “Yeah, until he’s got a defender in his face, the dude takes more sacks than Tianna Stevens. He stares down his first read like he’s trying to hypnotize the dude, then he checks it down if he manages to not get sacked for once.”
“Man, whatever,” Johnny shot back. “He’s better than Ward, and they’re talking about him like he’s Joe Burrow.”
Miles, stretched out in the bean bag beside Chase, surprised them all by chiming in.
“That dude’s got talent, sure,” he said, gesturing at the screen with the neck of his Gatorade bottle. “But no vision. Can’t teach that. You either see the reads or you don’t.”
Johnny turned, eyebrow raised. “You trying to talk smack after your guys almost lost to Central Connecticut today?”
Miles grinned, not backing down. “Damn right I am.”
Connor leaned over and clinked his drink against Miles’ Gatorade in mock celebration. “To our star receiver-turned-RB-turned-whatever-you-wanna-be.”
Everyone laughed, and Miles ducked his head with a smirk, clearly enjoying the moment. It was the most relaxed Chase had seen him since the summer. No edge. No doubt. Just a guy hanging with his friends after a win, like the weight he’d been carrying had finally lightened.
They let the game run for a while without commentary, the room settling into that easy, comfortable rhythm only teammates can build—half-watching the TV, half talking trash, fully enjoying the night.
Eventually, the conversation shifted.
“Bro,” Johnny said, sitting forward and grabbing another slice. “Croton-Harmon has been outscored 65 to nothing. That’s not a football team. That’s a tackling dummy drill.”
Connor cackled. “If we don’t win by 40, I’m submitting my helmet to the lost and found and walking home.”
“Don’t get cocky,” Chase said, sitting up slightly. “That’s exactly how you screw it up. You sleepwalk through Monday, go half-speed Tuesday, and then wonder why Saturday’s full of penalties and fumbles.”
Johnny pointed at him like a preacher spotting a heretic. “Coach Pryor in the building!”
Connor raised both hands like he was holding an imaginary clipboard. “Somebody get this man a headset.”
Miles laughed but nodded. “Nah. He’s right. We handle business.”
That settled the room. Not in a heavy way—but the kind of grounded, collective agreement that happens when everyone knows they’re chasing something bigger. The jokes gave way to a quiet moment of focus, unspoken but understood.
They weren’t just a fun story anymore.
They were 2–1, learning how to win.
And that, more than anything, felt real.
---
Sleepy Hollow was hushed beneath a soft gray sky, the kind of quiet that only existed early on a Sunday. The town still seemed half-asleep. Storefronts remained shuttered. Mailboxes leaned slightly with the weight of the morning’s stillness. A light breeze stirred a few dry leaves across the sidewalk, and the streetlamps, for some reason, hadn’t all turned off yet.
Chase had decided to put in a rare Sunday run, yesterday's conversations about putting in the work echoing in this mind.
He ran a bit slower than usual. Not because he was tired—but because he didn’t want to rush this. His legs moved on autopilot, each stride steady and smooth, while his mind drifted.
The win over Hendrick Hudson still lingered in his chest like a campfire that refused to burn out. It hadn’t been perfect. It hadn’t been easy. But they’d done it—he’d done it—and now, for once, Sunday didn’t feel like recovery. It felt like possibility.
As he rounded the familiar turn near the riverwalk, the water came into view. Thin clouds stretched like gauze across the sky, the Hudson shimmering beneath them in slow motion. For a moment, Chase just… watched. Let himself be still. The river had a way of making everything feel both small and infinite. Like there was time. Like it was okay not to know everything yet.
Instead of heading straight home, he took a detour—no real plan, just the kind of whim you don’t think about too hard. His feet led him down Broadway, past the gas station, past the animal hospital, until he found himself in front of Horseman Bagels.
The door chimed as he stepped inside.
It smelled like toasted dough and cinnamon, like warmth wrapped in paper sleeves. The lights were a little softer than usual. Music played low from the kitchen—something acoustic and old. Chase glanced toward the counter and stopped short.
Sophie was there.
She looked up, a little startled, then grinned. “Well look who decided to mix it up. What brings you out on the day of rest?”
Chase scratched the back of his neck. “Just putting in a little extra work. I didn’t know you worked Sundays.”
“I don’t,” she said, pulling her apron snug. “Covering for someone. Guess it’s destiny?”
He laughed, a little off-balance. “Maybe.”
She tilted her head, smiling with just a touch of mischief. “Let me guess. Everything bagel with egg and cheese, turkey sausage, light veggie cream cheese, red Gatorade?”
“Not today,” he said, stepping over to the cooler. “Gotta keep you guessing.” He plucked an orange Gatorade from the rack and held it up like a challenge.
Sophie raised an eyebrow but turned toward the prep counter. “I respect it,” she said, already slicing his bagel without being asked.
They talked while she worked—about nothing and everything. He told her how the game had gone, a little guarded at first, but opening up as her easy tone smoothed over his nerves.
“I was there, you know,” she said, wiping her hands on a towel. “Y’all looked good.”
Chase blinked. “Wait, really? I didn’t see you.”
“I was up near the top, by the band. Figured you’d be a little busy anyway.”
He nodded, heart ticking slightly faster. “I guess I was.”
She leaned against the counter, resting her forearms on the glass. “You played great.”
There was something in the way she said it—not flirty, not distant. Just honest. Like she meant it.
“Thanks,” he said, feeling the words stick a little in his throat.
They stood like that for a moment, the morning light catching in her hair, the air between them quiet but not awkward.
Then she said, “I graduated last year.”
Chase nodded slowly. “I figured. You just… never seem to be around school.”
“I’m at College of Westchester now. Part-time. Trying to figure out what’s next.”
The words hit Chase harder than expected. College. It shouldn’t have felt like a canyon between them, but it did. She was on the other side of a line he hadn’t even reached yet.
And yet…
“What about you?” she asked.
He blinked. “What?”
“What are you doing later?”
“Uh…” He scratched his head. “Probably just watching football. Maybe a bit of school work.”
She smiled, then reached under the counter and pulled out her phone. “Well, if you’re not too busy being a future Heisman winner, maybe you wanna hang out after I get off?”
His breath caught—just for a second. The idea of her asking that… it felt like the world had tilted just slightly.
“Yeah,” he said, trying not to sound too surprised. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
She handed him the phone. “Then give me your number, bagel boy.”
He typed it in, thumbs suddenly clumsier than usual, and handed it back.
She didn’t text him right away, just gave a wink and slid his bagel into a brown paper bag.
Chase tapped his phone to pay, smiled, thanked her, and walked out into the sleepy morning with the kind of lightness he hadn’t felt in months.
He wasn’t sure if he was walking or floating.
Either way—he didn’t look back.
---
Midweek practice brought with it a gray sky and a sharp breeze that tugged at jerseys and kicked up dust across the Sleepy Hollow practice field. The grass was damp and uneven in places, and cleats occasionally slipped just enough to throw off timing. There was no music today, no relaxed chatter. Just the rhythmic thump of footfalls, the barked commands of coaches, and the occasional clatter of pads during blocking drills.
It was the kind of practice where sharpness mattered—where good teams got better and lazy ones got embarrassed come Saturday.
But the Horsemen didn’t look sharp.
Not yet.
Offensive reps dragged. A toss play to the boundary died when the pulling guard whiffed on a block. A simulated third and short turned into a third and long when a receiver left early. Even the mesh exchange in their option series—usually second nature—looked sluggish and uncertain.
Chase stood behind the huddle after another broken play, hands on his hips, watching one of the sophomore receivers jog back lazily to the line after missing his block entirely.
Coach Ella took a step forward, jaw tightening.
Then he stopped.
Instead of raising his voice or blowing the whistle, he motioned to one of the assistants—Coach Mayes, the receivers coach—who looked ready to rip into the group. A subtle shake of Ella’s head held him back.
This wasn’t a coach’s moment.
It was Chase’s.
And Chase felt it.
He stepped forward, clearing his throat just enough to get their attention.
“Hold up.”
The huddle turned, sweat-streaked and half-expectant. A few helmets bobbed. A few shoulders slumped, already bracing for another reminder from the quarterback who was still technically “the new guy.”
Chase didn’t yell. He didn’t have to.
But his voice was firm.
“We’re not doing that again. Not like that.”
He looked around the circle of players—some veterans, some wide-eyed underclassmen—until his eyes landed on the same sophomore receiver who had blown the play.
“You didn’t even try to block,” Chase said flatly.
The sophomore, still catching his breath, straightened. “Wasn’t my fault, man. The throw was late.”
There was a moment of pause—tension tightening like a rubber band.
Chase took a breath. “It’s not about the throw. It’s about the effort. You didn’t even look for your block.”
The kid scoffed and turned away. “Whatever.”
Before Chase could respond, Johnny stepped forward from the right side of the huddle.
“Hey,” he said, voice sharp as cleats on concrete. “You got something else to say?”
The sophomore hesitated.
Connor, helmet unbuckled and propped on his forehead, walked over and stood on Chase’s other side. “You think we’re just making stuff up? You blew the rep. Period.”
“Fall in line,” Johnny added. “Or get out the way for someone who will. That goes for everyone.”
There was a beat of silence.
The sophomore looked between the three of them—then nodded once and jogged back to the huddle.
Coach Ella, still watching from the sideline, gave the smallest of nods. Then he turned away, saying nothing. The message had been delivered, and not by him.
Chase reset the huddle, physically moving a couple players who weren't in the correct places.
“Let's get it right here. Diamond right tail screen.”
The offense broke the huddle. Everyone moved with a little more purpose now. The line got set faster. The snap came cleaner. Miles caught the screen with sharper timing, rode his blocks tighter, and slipped upfield for a solid gain before a scout team linebacker shoved him out of bounds.
“Better,” Chase said. “But not good enough. Again.”
They ran it again.
And again.
Until the rhythm returned. Until the steps synced. Until Chase could feel the pulse of the play clicking into place the way it had on game day.
There were no cheers. No slaps on the helmet. Just focused execution.
That was enough.
When the period ended, Coach Ella blew the whistle and gathered the offense at midfield.
“Leadership doesn’t come with a title,” he said, voice calm. “You earn it by showing up, every day, doing the right thing—even when it’s uncomfortable.”
His eyes met Chase’s, just for a second.
“Good work. Let’s finish the week the right way.”
As the group jogged to the next drill, Johnny clapped Chase on the back. “About time someone told him off.”
Connor grinned. “Coach Pryor strikes again.”
Chase rolled his eyes, but beneath it, a flicker of pride burned steady in his chest.
He didn’t just wear the QB label now.
He owned it.
---
The air was thick with September warmth, a stillness settling over the Croton-Harmon stadium as the sun angled low in the afternoon sky. Sleepy Hollow’s sideline buzzed with anticipation. Helmets gleamed, voices barked out calls, and cleats scratched nervously at turf.
Coach Ella stood stone-faced near the numbers, scouring his play sheet, looking for a quick spark. Then he held up a hand signal—diamond right screen.
Chase Pryor saw it, relayed it to the huddle, and took a deep breath as they broke and jogged to the line.
This was the play.
The one they’d butchered on Monday. The one he’d had to demand more for in practice. The one they had finally started hitting by Thursday.
Now it had to count.
Miles Cunningham jogged wide to the right, three receivers stacked in front of him like a triangle—hence the "diamond." Jon Stokke, Kane Bitonio, and Spencer Avery all knew their roles by heart now. Get out. Stay low. Block with purpose.
Chase stood in the gun, hands hovering at his knees. He scanned the defense, saw a linebacker creeping toward the box. Perfect.
He clapped. The snap was crisp.
Chase took a jab step forward like he was running behind Wyatt. He tucked the ball and held his left hand out like he was feeling for a block just long enough to freeze the defense. Then—he opened up to his right and whipped the ball wide.
Miles caught it in stride, eyes already scanning for his convoy.
Stokke—#15—immediately engaged the cornerback, driving his feet like a sled push. Kane looped around and sealed off the outside linebacker with a wide, arcing block. And on the backside—Spencer Avery, the sophomore who had mouthed off in practice earlier in the week, made the most satisfying block of his season. He launched into the trailing cornerback with perfect timing, shoulder down, helmet square. The corner crumpled. The sideline roared.
Chase gave Spencer a quick shout and a slap on the helmet mid-sprint. "Atta boy, 82!"
Miles followed the wall of white and gray like a surfer catching the perfect wave. He got outside his blocks then kicked into top gear.
The defenders had angles. But they weren’t enough.
Not with this kind of execution.
Not with Miles really believing in himself again.
He turned the corner, shoulders low, churning upfield. The crowd rose behind him in a wall of noise.
Fifty-four yards later, Miles crossed the goal line untouched.
Touchdown.
Sleepy Hollow 6, Croton-Harmon 0.
And it was just the beginning.
From there, the Horsemen went into full stampede mode.
On their second drive, Chase faked a jet sweep and kept the ball himself. The edge collapsed, but he read it perfectly, bursting through a crease and slicing between two safeties like a hot knife through snow. One juke—then daylight. He galloped 61 yards before even glancing back.
Touchdown, Pryor.
In the second quarter, Zeke Tamm bulldozed through a tackler at the line of scrimmage and dragged another defender across the goal line from eight yards out. The offensive line, bruising and deliberate, surged as one—like they could sense this was their kind of game.
Just before halftime, Chase struck again. This time on third and long. A designed QB run.
He took the snap, followed Johnny, slipped past a linebacker, and then it was just green grass. He veered to the left sideline, turned on the jets, and didn’t stop until he was under the scoreboard again.
Four drives. Four touchdowns.
Croton-Harmon looked overwhelmed. Disjointed. And Sleepy Hollow? They looked like a team with purpose.
In the second half, they didn’t let up.
When Zeke came up gimpy after a collision midway through the third quarter, Miles stepped right in—and up. His confidence, already glowing after the first quarter score, was now full-on wildfire.
Late in the fourth quarter, he lined up in the backfield, took a handoff out of a shotgun look, cut once inside the right tackle, then bounced outside for a 24-yard touchdown. No theatrics. Just clean footwork and better vision than he’d shown all summer.
The scoreboard glowed beneath the overcast sky:
Sleepy Hollow 35, Croton-Harmon 0.
The numbers told the story:
Chase Pryor: 12 carries, 224 rushing yards, 2 TDs
Zeke Tamm: 14 carries, 112 yards, 1 TD
Miles Cunningham: 11 carries, 101 yards, 1 rushing TD + 1 reception for 54 yards and a score
Total Team Rushing: 447 yards
Only one pass attempted—and completed.
They didn’t need more.
When the final whistle blew, the sideline met at midfield, helmets held high, the gray and red swirling together in a moment of collective pride.
The locker room afterward had the energy of a team that knew what it had just done.
Yes, it was Croton-Harmon. Yes, they were 0–3 now. But Sleepy Hollow hadn’t just won. They had dominated.
And they had done it together.
Back inside, the music was already thumping off the cinderblock walls. Shoulder pads were half-off, and towels whipped through the air. Even the freshman who rarely spoke was clapping along.
Coach Ella stepped inside and waited just a beat before speaking.
He didn’t need to quiet them down this time. The second he entered, they turned.
He looked around the room with that unreadable coach expression. Then he cracked a rare smile.
“Now that’s how you respond,” he said.
The room erupted.
And for Chase Pryor—covered in sweat, helmet tucked under his arm, a grin stuck on his face—it felt like they weren’t just winning.
They were becoming.
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djp73
Topic author - Posts: 11551
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Run To The Sun
fixed the format, update moved to next page.
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redsox907
- Posts: 3890
- Joined: 01 Jun 2025, 12:40
Run To The Sun
Sleepy Hollow is rolling. How are you playing the games, on CFB25?
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djp73
Topic author - Posts: 11551
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Run To The Sun
Yeah I am playing on CFB 25 for the high school games. The first two games were battles but there’s nothing like playing a bad team to get you rolling.
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Soapy
- Posts: 13835
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Run To The Sun
the text is super funky on those GFX my boy, not sure what's happening there. they're like getting stretched (ayo) and blurred
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djp73
Topic author - Posts: 11551
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42