The Captain's Dirty Little Secret

ZAC’S POV

Zac waited for the snap.

That was always the worst part.

The second before everything moved.

His hands were under Mason, waiting for the snap. His cleats dug into the grass. His mouthguard pressed against his teeth. Across from him, the Northview Jaguars crouched low in their black helmets, shoulders tense, eyes fixed on him like they had spent the whole week studying every way to break him.

They probably had.

Everyone had been waiting for this.

Regional final.

Briarwick Ravens against the Northview Jaguars.

Winner would advance to the state championship game.

The other team would go home.

That was it.

The season either stayed alive tonight or ended under the lights with everyone watching.

Zac heard the crowd behind him, but it sounded far away through his helmet. Students yelling. Parents shouting. The band hitting the same four notes too hard. The cheer team calling from the sideline.

He knew where Roxie was.

He had known since warmups.

She stood with the cheer team near the forty-yard line, hair pulled back, uniform sharp, face serious.

State cheerleader.

His state cheerleader.

He had looked at her once when he ran onto the field.

Only once.

She had lifted her chin a little.

Small.

Fast.

Enough.

Then she turned back like he was only the quarterback.

That was how it had to be.

It still made his chest feel tight.

"Prescott!"

Coach Hayes’s voice cut through the noise from the sideline.

Zac blinked.

Focus.

Mason shifted in front of him. "Call it."

Zac scanned the defense.

Two safeties high.

Linebacker creeping left.

Corner pressed tight on Dylan.

The Jaguars had watched film. Every rollout. Every fake. Every third-down habit. Every time Zac checked to Dylan when the right corner gave him half a step. He knew cause that’s what they did. They had studied every clip they could find on Jaguars, looking for the habits that might beat them.

They knew him.

Or they thought they did.

Zac flashed two fingers low behind Mason.

Slide right.

Mason’s shoulders barely moved, but Zac felt the answer in the line. The guard shifted his weight. The tackle set deeper.

Dylan saw it from the outside and tapped his right glove against his thigh.

Inside break.

Zac gave the smallest shake of his head.

Too early.

Dylan went still again.

That was how it worked.

Everyone in the stadium heard the noise.

Only the Ravens knew the conversation happening under it.

The referee marked the ball ready.

Zac clapped once. "Blue eighty! Blue eighty!"

His throat felt dry.

His father’s voice sat in his skull, calm and cold from breakfast that morning.

"If football was worth risking your future over, today is where you prove it."

His father had said it while reading the paper at the table, already dressed, coffee untouched beside his hand. His mother had sat across from him with her prayer book near her plate and her eyes lowered like she had heard nothing.

Zac had heard.

He had heard every word and every unspoken one.

Football was the risk.

Roxie was the risk.

Zac wanting something for himself was always the risk.

"Set!"

Mason snapped the ball.

The world moved.

Zac dropped back.

One step.

Two.

The pocket collapsed before his third.

A Jaguars linebacker came through the right side clean.

Too fast.

Zac barely saw the number before the hit slammed into his ribs.

The ball stayed in his hand but the ground knocked the air out of him.

The crowd groaned.

For a second, he heard only the inside of his own helmet and the rough rush of breath trying to come back.

Then Mason was above him.

"Get up."

Zac grabbed his arm and rolled to one knee. "I am."

"You missed him."

"You don’t need to tell me."

Mason pulled him the rest of the way up.

The scoreboard still read 0-0.

First play.

First hit.

The Jaguars’ defense celebrated like they had already found the weak spot.

Zac stared at them through his facemask.

His ribs hurt.

His pride hurt worse.

From the stands, the Briarwick crowd started clapping, trying to make it supportive. Sympathy applause made him want to throw something.

He glanced toward the sideline.

Coach Hayes stood with both hands on his play sheet, jaw tight.

Beside the cheer line, Roxie had gone still.

Roxie turned toward Karen, said something, and snapped back into cheer captain mode.

Keep it normal.

Keep everything normal.

Zac jogged back to the huddle.

Dylan stepped in, breathing hard through his mouthguard. "Corner is sitting outside."

Zac grunted.

"He wants you to force it."

"I know."

Mason looked at Zac. "Next call."

Zac looked around the huddle.

Ten faces stared back.

Waiting.

That was his job.

He could feel Northview’s hit in his side. He could feel his father in the stands. He could feel Roxie on the sideline.

None of that could call the next play.

Only he could.

"Trips right," Zac said. "Dylan, sell the outside release and cut underneath. Mason, same slide. They’ll bring him again."

Mason nodded once.

The next play gained three yards.

The one after that got swallowed behind the line.

Fourth down.

Punt.

Three plays in, and Zac was already walking to the sideline with grass in his facemask and Northview yelling like they smelled blood.

Coach Hayes met him near the numbers.

"What happened?"

Zac pulled his helmet off. Cold air hit his sweaty hair. "Linebacker walked up late. We shifted, but I held the ball too long."

Hayes studied him.

"You held it because you wanted Dylan downfield."

"Yes, sir."

"Take the easy throw when it’s there."

"Yes, sir."

Hayes looked toward the field, then back at him. "See him next time before he hits you."

Zac nodded.

He looked toward the stands before he could stop himself.

His father sat three rows behind the Briarwick bench, coat buttoned, back straight, face unreadable. His mother sat beside him, gloved hands folded over her purse. She smiled faintly whenever someone looked her way.

His father was not smiling.

Nathan would have been praised for standing straight.

Zac could win a regional final and still get evaluated like a failed inspection.

He put his helmet back on.

The Jaguars scored on their second drive.

A long pass down the right side. Their receiver broke free, Kyle slipped half a step late, and then the whole stadium watched the ball drop into the guy’s hands like Briarwick had invited him.

Touchdown.

Jaguars 7.

Ravens 0.

The Northview crowd exploded.

Kyle stood in the end zone for one second longer than he should have.

Then he ripped his helmet off and shouted at himself hard enough that Coach Hayes sent two assistants toward him.

Zac watched from the sideline.

Kyle was their hardest hitter on defense, but when he got angry, he read late. Northview knew that too. They had baited him outside, then cut behind him.

Zac lifted one hand when Kyle turned toward the bench.

Two fingers to his own helmet.

Think.

Kyle saw it.

His jaw worked once.

Then he nodded with a huff.

The next drive started with a false start.

Then a dropped pass.

Then Zac threw high under pressure, and the ball sailed through Dylan’s hands and almost into a Jaguars safety’s chest.

The safety missed it by inches.

The crowd made the sound crowds made when everyone saw disaster pass close enough to touch.

Zac stood frozen for half a breath.

Dylan jogged back, eyes sharp. "Too high."

"I know."

"Put it on my numbers."

"I said I know."

Dylan stared at him through his facemask.

Then he nodded once and went back to the huddle.

That was worse than arguing.

Dylan was pissed, and Zac was angrier at himself because Dylan was right.

Why was he forcing it?

Why was he missing now?

His hands clenched around nothing before he made himself open them again.

The punt team went out again.

The quarter ended with the Jaguars up 10-0.

Ten points.

That was all.

Ten points in football was nothing.

Teams came back from ten points all the time.

Zac told himself that while he stood near the bench with his helmet in both hands and his ribs throbbing.

The entire stadium felt like it was leaning toward him.

Waiting.

Briarwick’s undefeated quarterback.

Briarwick’s golden boy.

Prescott.

The name did half the work until it didn’t.

Coach Hayes walked over slowly.

That was never good.

Zac straightened.

Hayes stopped in front of him. "You done?"

Zac blinked. "What?"

"You done playing like you’re trying to prove something to every person in this stadium?"

Zac’s jaw locked.

Hayes lowered his voice. "Because I need my quarterback. I don’t need General Prescott’s son. I don’t need the headline. I don’t need the kid trying to make one throw fix his entire life."

Zac stared at him.

The words hit harder than the sack.

Coach Hayes stepped closer. "I need the boy who knows the field. I need the boy who can count six in the box and punish it. I need the boy who trusts his receiver to make the catch instead of trying to throw through his chest."

Zac swallowed.

Hayes held his gaze. "Can you do that?"

The crowd roared behind them as the Jaguars’ defense ran back onto the field.

Zac looked down at his helmet.

Then toward the cheer line.

Roxie was leading a chant.

Her voice did not reach him clearly, but he could see her mouth moving.

She looked like she belonged there.

She had told him to win.

He had told her yes, captain.

His chest tightened.

He looked back at Hayes. "Yes, sir."

Hayes nodded once. "Then stop thinking and play."

Zac put his helmet on.