Chapter 51 Chapter Forty-Eight
Demi’s point of view
By the second quarter, Westbrook stops pretending.
The hits come late. Always half a beat after the whistle, always when the refs are looking somewhere else. Every time I line up, their corner leans in close.
"You keep running your mouth," he mutters, "you're gonna regret it."
I smile at him anyway, I knew that would anger him and I did it anyways.
Inside, my ribs ache, and my left shoulder feels like it's full of static. Nothing broken. Just normal football pain. The kind you ignore until the game's over.
We huddle near the numbers. Alex's voice cuts clean through the noise.
"They're sitting on the outside routes," he says. "We'll hit the middle."
I nod. Slant. Dig. Post. Whatever he calls, I'll be there.
The snap comes fast. I explode off the line, selling the go. The corner bites, safety hesitates, and suddenly I'm wide open over the hash.
The ball hits my hands clean.
Then the safety launches.
Helmet to ribs. Way too high. Way too late.
I hit the turf hard, air knocked straight out of me. The crowd gasps. Someone yells.
No flag.
I roll onto my side, sucking in air, vision swimming.
Alex is there instantly.
"Hey," he says, dropping to a knee. Too fast. Too close. "Demi. Look at me, look at me"
I nod, forcing breath back into my lungs. "I'm good."
His jaw is clenched so tight I think it might crack.
The ref waves him off. "Let him get up."
I stand slowly, giving Alex the smallest nod I can manage. Don't lose it. Not now.
But I see his hands shaking as he jogs back to the huddle.
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Alex’s point of view
They're targeting him.
I see it now, clear as day. Every time Demi touches the ball, someone's lining him up. Every time he goes down, they stand over him just a little too long.
I want to scream. I want to throw the ball straight at their safety's head.
Instead, I call the next play.
"Chris, inside zone. Let's slow it down." I yelled over to Chris, who just gave me a nod.
We grind out yards. Four here. Three there. The Titans start creeping in, hungry.
Third and manageable.
I fake the handoff, roll right. Kyle breaks open on the flat. I hit him for the first.
The drive keeps moving.
Inside the red zone now. The crowd's on its feet, noise crashing over the field like waves. I glance at Demi. He's lined up wide, single coverage.
I know what he wants.
I hesitate.
Coach's voice echoes in my head, ‘Protect your players’.
My own voice answers back. ‘Trust him’.
I signal.
Fade route.
The snap comes. Pocket collapses fast. I loft the ball high, arcing it toward the corner of the end zone.
Demi jumps.
So does the corner.
There's contact in the air. Jersey pulled. Shoulder slammed.
Demi comes down hard, rolling out of bounds.
The ball hits the turf.
Incomplete.
No flag.
The stadium explodes in boos.
I slam my helmet with my hand. "That's PI!"
The ref ignores me.
Fourth down.
Coach sends in the kicking unit.
We settle for three.
7–3.
As Demi jogs past me, I catch his arm. Just for a second.
"Are you sure you're okay?" I ask, low.
He meets my eyes, something fierce and stubborn burning there. "Throw it again."
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Demi
Westbrook scores again before halftime.
A broken tackle. A missed assignment. Touchdown.
14–3.
Their sideline goes wild. One of their receivers points at our bench, laughing.
I want to rip his helmet off.
Instead, I pace.
Alex's shoulders are tight, movements sharper than usual. I knew he hated this- being down, feeling boxed in, watching me take hits he can't stop.
Two minutes left in the half.
We get the ball back.
This drive matters.
Alex gathers us in, eyes intense. "No panic. We move fast. We execute."
First play; quick out to Noah. Eight yards.
Second play; draw to Chris. First down.
Clock running.
I line up, chest still sore, lungs burning, but my head is clear. The corner presses again. I fake inside, then break deep.
The safety bites on another route.
I'm gone.
Alex sees it. I know he does.
The ball comes spiraling toward me, perfect and bright under the lights. I catch it over my shoulder and sprint.
Thirty yards.
Twenty.
Ten.
The corner dives, grabbing at my ankle. I stumble but keep my balance, stretching—
Touchdown.
The stadium detonates.
I spike the ball, chest heaving, adrenaline washing everything else away. Teammates swarm me, slapping my helmet, shouting.
Alex jogs in last.
Our eyes meet.
For one dangerous second, everything else fades.
Then Kyle barrels into us, yelling, "LET'S GO!"
Extra point's good.
14–10.
We jog off as the clock winds down. The Titans kneel it out.
Halftime.
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Alex
The locker room is loud but tense.
Coach paces, drawing on the whiteboard, pointing out missed assignments, holes in coverage. "They're baiting you," he says. "Don't fall for it."
I sit on the bench, helmet between my knees, replaying every hit Demi took in my head.
He sits two lockers down, shirt half off as the trainer tapes his ribs. His jaw's clenched, but he doesn't complain.
I hate how much I admire that.
The trainer finishes and moves on. The room starts to quiet.
Demi looks up and catches me staring.
He raises an eyebrow.
I look away.
When Coach dismisses us to get water, Demi slips closer, voice barely above a whisper. "You okay?"
I laugh softly. "You're the one getting murdered out there and you’re asking if I’m okay?." A small frown finds its way to my face.
He shrugs. "Part of the job and you’re my best friend Alex, I have to care for you." My heart skipped a beat.
I lean in just enough that no one can hear. "I need you to tell me if you can't go."
His expression softens, just for me. "I can go. I want the ball, I want the win."
I nod. "Then we finish this."
The second half is coming.
And I'm done playing safe.