Cam needs to lock in. Gonna be hard for Zane to ball out if they sagging off him cause his vag hurting
Invictus
-
Captain Canada
Topic author - Posts: 6162
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
-
Captain Canada
Topic author - Posts: 6162
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Invictus
Season III | Chapter IV - Snake in the Grass
Friday night arrived like a blessing.
The sky over Upper St. Clair Stadium was washed deep navy, stars faint but present, the floodlights burning white against the dark like towers of promise. A soft breeze drifted through the stands, just enough to cut the lingering Pittsburgh heat that had haunted summer workouts and August practices.
Perfect football weather. Rare. Almost sacred.
Zane stood on the sideline, helmet tucked under his arm, eyes tracing the crowd.
Packed.
Students in black and silver. Parents lining the railings. College scouts hidden among them, clipboards tucked discreetly under jackets.
This was it. Senior year. Opening night. Harrisburg.
And for the first time, the pressure felt real.
“Good evening from Upper St. Clair, folks,” the booth crackled to life. “I’m Dave Holloway alongside former WPIAL great Marcus Bell - and Marcus, this atmosphere feels different tonight.”
“It does, Dave. New quarterback for the Panthers, new expectations, and one of the hottest receivers in the state in Zane Jones. This Panthers team is a team that wants to prove that they belong.”
The coin flipped. Upper St. Clair won.
And they choose to receive.
Zane jogged onto the field, breath steady, cleats biting into cool turf. The opening kickoff had sailed high, and as the return man brought it back to the thirty, the stadium roared like it had been waiting months to exhale.
First snap.
Run for five. Second down. Quick out. Third and shot. Chains moved after Kwon dropped his shoulders into a MIKE linebacker’s chest who misjudged his tenacity.
The nerves eased. Then - on second-and-seven near midfield - Zane saw it.
Pre-snap analysis. Cover 1 coverage. The strong safety had cycled down, as if expecting another Raekwon run.
The corner across from him stood square - splitting leverage, unsure which side to favor.
That’s mine.
Zane flexed his fingers.
Ball snapped.
One step.
Two.
He exploded.
Inside release - violent and clean - shoulder ripping past the corner’s hip. The defender reached, missed, stumbled. Zane was free.
He planted hard and broke into the post, eyes lifting. Then he hard it.
A soft whup slicing the air. Before he even saw the ball, he knew it was perfect.
Malik had dropped it like a gift from the sky. Zane tracked it over his shoulder, hands snapping shut around leather, feet never breaking stride.
Thirty. Twenty. Ten.
The stadium detonated.
“Oh my goodness - ZANE JONES TO THE HOUSE!”
“Going Cover 1 with no safety help and Harrisburg pays for it immediately! That is big-time football right there, Dave!”
“That ball from Malik Richards was a thing to behold, and Upper St. Clair strikes first!”
Zane crossed the goal line and flung the ball to the official, chest heaving, heart hammering. First touch. First catch. First touchdown.
Under the lights. He didn’t celebrate long. He just nodded once toward the sideline.
We’re here.
The game turned into a war. Harrisburg answered with two quick scores - tempo offense, power runs, clean execution. Upper St. Clair countered with pace and creativity. Malik scrambled for a touchdown. Raekwon ripped a forty-yard run that set up another.
But slowly, Zane noticed.
Third down - he broke open on a slant.
Ball went elsewhere.
Next series - he absolutely torched his man on a go-route.
Malik checked it down.
Yet someone else was benefitting. Cam was getting his looks. Corner route. Out route. First down. Deep crossing pattern. Twenty yard gain.
Zane threw a crushing block on a safety, sealing the edge. Cam streaked past him.
Touchdown.
“And look at that! Cam Wilson finds the end zone! The chemistry between Richards and Wilson has been excellent tonight.”
“It has, Dave - but keep an eye on Zane Jones. Harrisburg is bracketing him now, but it feels as though Richards hasn’t really gone back to him since that first score.”
By halftime, the scoreboard glowed:
25-25.
A shootout. A statement.
But Zane jogged into the tunnel with fire in his thighs and frustration tightening his chest.
Lactic acid burned his legs.
Breath came harder now. And worse, he didn’t have much to show for it.
He felt ignored. On purpose.
He sat on the bench, helmet off, sweat dripping from his jaw. The opening touchdown felt distant now.
Like bait.
Like proof Malik had needed before shutting him out.
He said nothing. Not yet.
The third quarter had come and the same pattern had held.
Harrisburg scored. Upper St. Clair answered.
Malik scrambled. Cam converted.
He wanted to be happy for his best friend, he really did. He was balling.
Zane drew attention - double teams, holds, safety help - but still not one look.
After a stalled drive, Zane walked straight toward Malik between series. No change in his gait. Just steam emanating from his head.
Grabbed his jersey. Pulled him close.
Anger barely contained.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Malik stiffened. “Get the fuck off-”
“No,” Zane snapped. “Listen. Whatever problem you’ve got with me? That’s later. That’s after. Right now, you’re putting some bullshit vendetta ahead of the team. Ahead of both of our futures.”
Malik’s jaw tightened.
Zane leaned closer, eyes burning.
“Hate me later,” he said quietly. “Let’s win this fucking game now. Get me the fucking ball.”
For a moment, Malik looked like he might swing.
Something shifted instead.
He exhaled. Nodded once.
“This ain’t over,” he said.
The next drive changed everything.
Post route. Completion.
Dig. First down.
Back shoulder. Third-and-long conversion. It felt as though Malik and Zane were playing a game of catch instead of the 11th-ranked team in the state. Zane felt it again - the rhythm, the trust, the offense bending around them.
Harrisburg tightened.
The crowd was on its feet.
Fourth quarter. Only two minutes left. Upper St. Clair trailing by four.
Red zone opportunity. Season’s first moment.
Zane lined up wide right.
Man coverage. No safety help.
Another mistake.
He released, immediately selling the slant. He snapped into a hook - hard stop - just barely inside the goal line.
The ball hit his chest before he fully saw it.
Thump.
He trapped it, stumbled, fought.
Touchdown.
“He caught it! Zane Jones again!”
“The clutch gene continues! Absolutely clutch!”
“Upper St. Clair has taken the lead with under a minute to go!”
The stadium lost its mind.
Zane rose slowly, chest heaving, ball tucked tight, eyes lifting to the lights.
Upper St. Clair 38
Harrisburg 31
Upset. Statement victory. Arrival.
As the crowd stormed the railings and teammates mobbed him, Zane found Malik in the chaos.
They locked eyes. No smiles. No hugs.
Merely a waving of the white flag. Most likely temporary.
Whatever war lived between them - tonight, they had chosen the same side.
And under a perfect Friday night sky, Zane Jones had announced himself to the state.
The season had begun.
Friday night arrived like a blessing.
The sky over Upper St. Clair Stadium was washed deep navy, stars faint but present, the floodlights burning white against the dark like towers of promise. A soft breeze drifted through the stands, just enough to cut the lingering Pittsburgh heat that had haunted summer workouts and August practices.
Perfect football weather. Rare. Almost sacred.
Zane stood on the sideline, helmet tucked under his arm, eyes tracing the crowd.
Packed.
Students in black and silver. Parents lining the railings. College scouts hidden among them, clipboards tucked discreetly under jackets.
This was it. Senior year. Opening night. Harrisburg.
And for the first time, the pressure felt real.
***
“Good evening from Upper St. Clair, folks,” the booth crackled to life. “I’m Dave Holloway alongside former WPIAL great Marcus Bell - and Marcus, this atmosphere feels different tonight.”
“It does, Dave. New quarterback for the Panthers, new expectations, and one of the hottest receivers in the state in Zane Jones. This Panthers team is a team that wants to prove that they belong.”
***
The coin flipped. Upper St. Clair won.
And they choose to receive.
Zane jogged onto the field, breath steady, cleats biting into cool turf. The opening kickoff had sailed high, and as the return man brought it back to the thirty, the stadium roared like it had been waiting months to exhale.
First snap.
Run for five. Second down. Quick out. Third and shot. Chains moved after Kwon dropped his shoulders into a MIKE linebacker’s chest who misjudged his tenacity.
The nerves eased. Then - on second-and-seven near midfield - Zane saw it.
Pre-snap analysis. Cover 1 coverage. The strong safety had cycled down, as if expecting another Raekwon run.
The corner across from him stood square - splitting leverage, unsure which side to favor.
That’s mine.
Zane flexed his fingers.
Ball snapped.
One step.
Two.
He exploded.
Inside release - violent and clean - shoulder ripping past the corner’s hip. The defender reached, missed, stumbled. Zane was free.
He planted hard and broke into the post, eyes lifting. Then he hard it.
A soft whup slicing the air. Before he even saw the ball, he knew it was perfect.
Malik had dropped it like a gift from the sky. Zane tracked it over his shoulder, hands snapping shut around leather, feet never breaking stride.
Thirty. Twenty. Ten.
The stadium detonated.
***
“Oh my goodness - ZANE JONES TO THE HOUSE!”
“Going Cover 1 with no safety help and Harrisburg pays for it immediately! That is big-time football right there, Dave!”
“That ball from Malik Richards was a thing to behold, and Upper St. Clair strikes first!”
***
Zane crossed the goal line and flung the ball to the official, chest heaving, heart hammering. First touch. First catch. First touchdown.
Under the lights. He didn’t celebrate long. He just nodded once toward the sideline.
We’re here.
***
The game turned into a war. Harrisburg answered with two quick scores - tempo offense, power runs, clean execution. Upper St. Clair countered with pace and creativity. Malik scrambled for a touchdown. Raekwon ripped a forty-yard run that set up another.
But slowly, Zane noticed.
Third down - he broke open on a slant.
Ball went elsewhere.
Next series - he absolutely torched his man on a go-route.
Malik checked it down.
Yet someone else was benefitting. Cam was getting his looks. Corner route. Out route. First down. Deep crossing pattern. Twenty yard gain.
Zane threw a crushing block on a safety, sealing the edge. Cam streaked past him.
Touchdown.
***
“And look at that! Cam Wilson finds the end zone! The chemistry between Richards and Wilson has been excellent tonight.”
“It has, Dave - but keep an eye on Zane Jones. Harrisburg is bracketing him now, but it feels as though Richards hasn’t really gone back to him since that first score.”
***
By halftime, the scoreboard glowed:
25-25.
A shootout. A statement.
But Zane jogged into the tunnel with fire in his thighs and frustration tightening his chest.
Lactic acid burned his legs.
Breath came harder now. And worse, he didn’t have much to show for it.
He felt ignored. On purpose.
He sat on the bench, helmet off, sweat dripping from his jaw. The opening touchdown felt distant now.
Like bait.
Like proof Malik had needed before shutting him out.
He said nothing. Not yet.
***
The third quarter had come and the same pattern had held.
Harrisburg scored. Upper St. Clair answered.
Malik scrambled. Cam converted.
He wanted to be happy for his best friend, he really did. He was balling.
Zane drew attention - double teams, holds, safety help - but still not one look.
After a stalled drive, Zane walked straight toward Malik between series. No change in his gait. Just steam emanating from his head.
Grabbed his jersey. Pulled him close.
Anger barely contained.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Malik stiffened. “Get the fuck off-”
“No,” Zane snapped. “Listen. Whatever problem you’ve got with me? That’s later. That’s after. Right now, you’re putting some bullshit vendetta ahead of the team. Ahead of both of our futures.”
Malik’s jaw tightened.
Zane leaned closer, eyes burning.
“Hate me later,” he said quietly. “Let’s win this fucking game now. Get me the fucking ball.”
For a moment, Malik looked like he might swing.
Something shifted instead.
He exhaled. Nodded once.
“This ain’t over,” he said.
***
The next drive changed everything.
Post route. Completion.
Dig. First down.
Back shoulder. Third-and-long conversion. It felt as though Malik and Zane were playing a game of catch instead of the 11th-ranked team in the state. Zane felt it again - the rhythm, the trust, the offense bending around them.
Harrisburg tightened.
The crowd was on its feet.
Fourth quarter. Only two minutes left. Upper St. Clair trailing by four.
Red zone opportunity. Season’s first moment.
Zane lined up wide right.
Man coverage. No safety help.
Another mistake.
He released, immediately selling the slant. He snapped into a hook - hard stop - just barely inside the goal line.
The ball hit his chest before he fully saw it.
Thump.
He trapped it, stumbled, fought.
Touchdown.
***
“He caught it! Zane Jones again!”
“The clutch gene continues! Absolutely clutch!”
“Upper St. Clair has taken the lead with under a minute to go!”
***
The stadium lost its mind.
Zane rose slowly, chest heaving, ball tucked tight, eyes lifting to the lights.
Upper St. Clair 38
Harrisburg 31
Upset. Statement victory. Arrival.
As the crowd stormed the railings and teammates mobbed him, Zane found Malik in the chaos.
They locked eyes. No smiles. No hugs.
Merely a waving of the white flag. Most likely temporary.
Whatever war lived between them - tonight, they had chosen the same side.
And under a perfect Friday night sky, Zane Jones had announced himself to the state.
The season had begun.
