Chapter 50 Chapter Forty-Seven
{Days Later}
Alex Point Of View
The stadium lights hum the way they always do, low, electric, almost alive.
East Eagles's field looks smaller tonight, tighter, like it's bracing itself for what's coming.
The bleachers were packed. School colors everywhere. The band warming up off-key.
And across the field, stretching in smug little clusters, the Westbrook Titans.
I roll my shoulders, helmet tucked under my arm, and exhale slowly.
Rivalry games always feel heavier, but this one sits right in my chest.
Westbrook hasn't beaten us clean in two years. Late hits. Cheap shots. Trash talk that follows you into the hallway Monday morning.
"Eyes up, QB."
Coach voice snaps me back. I nod. "Yes, sir."
I scan my offense, checking faces. Chris bouncing on his toes at running back, Noah adjusting his gloves at tight end, Kyle jawing with a lineman. And then-
Demi.
He's standing near the sideline, helmet off, hair damp with sweat even though warmups just started.
His Eagles jersey clings to him, number sharp and bright under the lights. He catches me looking and smirks, just barely.
I jog over, stopping a safe distance away. "You ready?"
He tilts his head. "I was born ready."
Same answer he always gives. Same confidence. Same fire that makes defenses nervous and coaches scream.
"Westbrook's secondary is aggressive," I say. "They'll try to jam you early."
Demi grins. "Let them try, you must have forgotten who I am and where I come from"
I laughed at his confidence. “Your ego might be too big for the field so I suggest you leave it here until after the game”
The ref blows the whistle for captains to midfield. I turn to go, then pause.
"Hey" I say quietly. "Just be smart out there okay?"
His eyes soften for half a second- just long enough for me to catch it.
"Always" he says.
I don't tell him what I really mean. I never do.
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Demi’s point of view
Westbrook's cornerback keeps staring at me like he's already planned where to hit me.
Good.
I adjust my gloves, flex my fingers, and bounce on my heels.
Rivalry games light something up inside me, something reckless and sharp. The Titans talk big, but they hate us because we don't back down. Because we keep winning.
Because of the team but mostly because of Alex.
I watch him at midfield, standing tall with the captains, calm like the game belongs to him.
He looks the same as always, focused, unreadable, quarterback-perfect.
Nobody sees the version of him I do. The one who laughs too hard when it's just us. The one who presses his forehead to mine when he gets too clingy for my liking.
The coin toss goes our way. We choose to receive.
The crowd erupts.
I slide my helmet on, the noise muffling into a steady roar. As I jog toward the huddle, Alex meets my eyes for half a second. That's all we need. A shared breath. A silent promise.
We break.
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Alex point of view
First play. First drive. Establish control.
"Trips right," I call. "Z on a slant."
Z is Demi.
We line up. Defense shifts. Westbrook's corner creeps up on him, hands twitching like he's itching to grab jersey.
I clap. Snap.
The pocket forms, solid. I take three steps back, eyes scanning. Safety bites on the run fake.
Demi explodes off the line.
The corner jams him hard, too hard. I see the tug, the shove, the ref looking the other way.
Demi doesn't flinch. He cuts inside, clean and sharp.
I fire the ball.
He catches it in stride and takes the hit, shoulder to chest, but he stays on his feet for five more yards before going down.
First down.
The crowd roars louder.
I jog over as the ref spots the ball. "Nice route."
Demi pushes himself up, helmet tilted toward me. "You throw decent."
I laugh, then immediately school my face back into game mode. We don't linger.
Next play. Run for four. Incomplete on third.
Fourth and short.
Coach signals to go for it.
I don't hesitate. "Spread."
Westbrook stacks the box, daring us to throw.
Fine.
I take the snap and roll left, eyes up. Demi breaks free, slipping behind the linebacker.
For a split second, the world narrows to just him.
I launch.
The ball arcs perfectly, dropping into his hands just past the sticks. He spins away from the first tackle, then the second, until a Titan dives low and clips his legs.
Flag flies late.
Personal foul.
The sideline erupts.
I jog over as trainers check him. "You good?"
Demi nods, breathless but smiling. "Told you. Let them try me"
I help him up before I remember not to. My hand lingers half a second too long.
No one notices.
I hope.
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Demi’s point of view
Westbrook plays angry.
Late shoves. Extra hands. Words hissed through face masks.
"You won't last the night," their safety mutters after one play.
I grin behind my mouthguard. "Watch me."
Alex keeps feeding the offense, mixing plays, reading the defense like he always does.
He trusts me, and I feel it in every look, every ball thrown just where I need it.
But the Titans adjust.
They double me.
Hard.
On third and long, I cut deep, feeling the corner grab my jersey. The ball sails just out of reach. Incomplete.
The drive stalls. We punt.
As I jog off, one of their linebackers shoulder-checks me-after the whistle.
I stumble but don't fall.
The ref warns him. The crowd boos.
Alex's jaw tightens when he sees it. He doesn't say anything, but I know that look. He's filing it away.
Westbrook scores first. A short field after a busted coverage. Their fans go wild.
7–0.
I pace the sideline, helmet off, chest rising and falling. This is exactly how they want it, us frustrated, rushing, making mistakes.
Alex comes over, voice low. "Shake it off."
"I'm good," I say. "We've got them."
He studies my face, searching for something only he knows how to read.
"Yeah," he says finally. "We do."
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Alex’s point of view
End of the first quarter. Down by seven. Nothing we can't handle.
But rivalry games don't follow scripts.
Westbrook keeps pushing, testing the refs, trying to get in our heads. My job is to stay steady.
To keep the offense calm. To keep Demi out of trouble, on the field and off it.
We huddle up again, the clock ticking down.
"This drive," I say, voice firm, "we take it back."
Helmets nod.
Demi meets my eyes last. His expression is pure focus, but beneath it, I catch something else, trust, heat, history.
I clap my hands.
The snap hits my palms clean.
And the game truly begins.