Live from Frisco — Bait in the Red Zone

Max, an entertainment reporter, had chased Rachel Zegler all the way out to Frisco to cover her as she filmed the hottest movie of the moment.

The truth was, he liked football well enough himself, so when word broke that Rachel would be appearing at a camp for the nation's top high school prospects, he'd jumped at the chance to tag along.

Fortunately, the camp organizers didn't turn reporters away at the gate.

Thanks to that, Max was able to film Rachel and her entourage while catching the scrimmage on the side.

"High school prospects, huh..."

America was the land of football. Diehard gridiron fans kept a close eye on the high school game too, but most casual viewers never got past the NFL and college ball — hardly anyone went as deep as the prep ranks.

Of course, he'd at least heard a name or two like Raysheen Guillory or Dakorien Moore mentioned before.

That was the full extent of Max's knowledge, and honestly, he hadn't had much interest in the camp itself.

WHUMP!

"TOUCHDOWN!"

...Not that he would have cared, supposedly.

Tweeeeet!

"Bravo!"

"That's it! Right there!"

"Goddammit, when do you people get tired?!"

"SO COOOL!!"

As the game wore on, everyone gathered there — Max very much included — fell completely under its spell.

Tension and raw thrill to rival anything in college football or the NFL. It had the power to make you clench both fists without even realizing it.

Man, it'd be a shame to keep this all to myself.

Then it struck Max — he'd come all this way with a camera in hand, so why not shoot some footage? Nobody had told him he couldn't when he arrived, and a few people were already dutifully filming the players' highlights anyway.

So why not go one step further?

He'd bring this atmosphere straight to the public himself.

Where's the best place, though?

Obviously, this is a job for the anonymous communities.

First he set up a temporary live broadcast room and hit record, then dropped the link onto a football forum. Anyone curious would click in and see for themselves.

After that, roughly thirty people trickled into the stream. Up to that point, Max thought nothing of it.

Somewhere along the way, word had apparently gotten out. The viewer count kept climbing ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠— past one hundred, then pushing past five hundred.

But Max was too absorbed in the game to keep an eye on the numbers. He just reacted to every play, occasionally glancing at the chat and nodding along.

"You're telling me these are sub-senior prospects? Does that even make sense? This is way too fun."

The stream broke a thousand viewers. Football fans with nothing to watch kept flooding in.

And through it all, the game went on.

Finally, it crossed the midway point of the fourth quarter.

That was when Max — broadcasting every bit of it to the viewers — realized something.

"That's Kim Jaehyuk," Max answered into the stream. "He's already made quite a name for himself — everyone around here seems to know him."

One player stood out above all the rest.

Even in a field crowded with marquee high school prospects, he was putting on an utterly dominant display. His monstrous athleticism blazed like a beacon as he drove the field end to end, all by himself.

Where other players were puking their guts out from the brutal, grinding march, Jaehyuk still looked fresh. By this point, even the people watching from the sidelines were letting out awe that came straight from the heart.

"That stamina is straight-up cheating."

"His skill was already elite, but you pile that endurance on top of it..."

"How long can he keep it up, though? Can he really run at that intensity all the way to the end?"

"I looked into him — not a single injury on his record, either. Wherever he ends up, that team is hitting the jackpot."

Even Rachel Zegler, who'd spent the early going loudly broadcasting her displeasure, was cheering now.

"Kyaaa! Amazing! Mateo! Jaehyuk!"

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Doing his duty as a reporter, Max caught that moment in a frame too, then turned his focus back to the game.

Wondering, all the while, where this game's finish line would be.

"Uuuugh."

"Khh—hoo. Hoo. Hoo."

Groans of exhaustion rose from every direction. Everyone had run themselves to the limit.

Impressive, honestly.

Even me, who normally felt nothing watching these guys — their grit alone deserved a round of applause.

Football was a sport with no room to breathe. Ambling along like athletes in other sports wasn't an option; every single play demanded a full sprint. The moment a turn ended, you hustled straight back to your position, and the game started all over again.

Think of it as an all-out hundred-meter dash run interval-style, over and over until the sides swapped. Honestly, you'd wonder how anyone's stamina could hold up. And with no offensive-defensive substitution now, this was the equivalent of pouring out every last drop of energy we had.

"Hah... hah..."

"Hoo... haah... hoo..."

The voices that had spent the whole game taunting each other had all gone quiet. Both teams had been provoking one another right up to the edge of a penalty flag midway through — and now, nothing.

Just standing upright takes courage at this point.

Even with the Gift's help, my breathing was ragged. But I could hold on just fine. Because of that, though I said nothing, the looks the other side kept throwing me were strange — as if asking when exactly I planned to drop dead.

"What're you looking at? You think staring hard enough is gonna make me keel over?"

When I flashed them a rotten grin, the opposing players looked utterly fed up. Except ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my own teammates were wearing the exact same expression. What's with you guys?

"Hoo, hoo."

Mateo, across the field, was gasping too. Even a quarterback who rarely had to run had gone pale in the face.

Soon the game resumed.

"Ngh."

"Ugh."

Seriously, I don't know if this is okay.

Just hold out ten more minutes, you idiots.

"Set! Ready ready, hut hut!"

Noah took the snap.

I faked my route, drifted for the catch — and in that instant slipped sideways instead. Right on cue, a short pass came flying at me.

Whump.

First things first — the catch. Looking up, I saw players charging at me with everything they had left, even though they had to be spent. They couldn't touch me even at full strength.

There was no chance now.

The gap in stamina carved an even sharper difference into the field. I ran past the defenders on pure speed, light as a breeze.

"RUN!!"

"Stop him! STOP HIM!"

The crowd roared itself hoarse. Regardless, I stepped lightly into the end zone.

"Touchdown."

Score, 35–28.

From here, the gap would only keep widening. Not ten seconds ago, they'd thrown a triple team at me — and still failed to stop it. They knew that fact as well as I did.

But they were too drained even to despair. Everyone was simply using the lull after the score to squeeze out a little more air into their lungs.

"Stay with me a little longer. We're almost there."

At my words, my teammates all cracked grins. They must have felt it from that last touchdown too —

This gap isn't getting closed again. Not ever.

The sides swapped, and we took our positions once more.

"Hm."

Curious, I glanced at Mateo's face. A blank mask that read as completely spent.

It seemed like it was over.

Ssssssss—

What? A mission, now, of all times?

In that instant, I knew something was wrong.

Missions rarely appeared under ordinary circumstances. Going by everything I'd experienced so far, they were only issued in situations with a genuine degree of difficulty.

Which meant that a mission popping up right now...

Are those bastards faking their exhaustion while cooking something up?

No room to let my guard down. Eight minutes left. Eight minutes, and the game was ours.

"Hut. Hike."

Mateo's voice, a shade weaker than before.

But in that split second, I saw it.

His eyes were alive.

It's a pass anyway, right?

By now I could no longer read his motions — but his delivery had slowed just enough that our cornerbacks could react—

—or so I thought, right as I moved.

Tatatatak!

"!!"

"Eh?!"

Startled cries burst from our players all over the field.

Oh — that was an option?!

Sreeek!

Mateo, ball in hand, slid to the turf before our defense could lay a tackle on him. First down, renewed, easy as anything.

This was the same Mateo who had never once carried the ball himself until now — that alone threw a whole new variable onto the board.

And his stamina's still got more left in the tank than the rest of them.

On top of that, he was faster than he had any right to be.

And so, Mateo's one-man show began.

Pass, ball carry, run, pass, run, ball carry...

Layering tactic upon tactic in dizzying combination, he pushed our already-outmatched roster straight back off the field. For a moment I thought about shifting over and playing edge rusher myself — but then the long pass would go completely uncovered.

Tap-tap-tap!Sreeek—!

Once again Mateo carried the ball himself and took his yards — then, without a single change in his complexion, started readying the next play.

"Haha."

Good. That's more like it.

It was far more satisfying than simply getting hammered. But hey.

What happens when there's no more field left to give?

They were at the end zone now. They had crossed into the Red Zone — inside the opponent's 20-yard line.

And I, who had been guarding the deep field from far away, could now defend within those twenty yards.

"Linemen, over here for a second."

They gathered, faces grave at the thought of coughing up another score.

"Open up a lane."

At my words their expressions turned strange for a heartbeat — then they nodded, understanding dawning.

"So we bait him into running it."

"Love it. Let's do it."

"So me and Tray just crack the gap a little, right?"

"Edge rusher goes after him like normal?"

"That's the idea."

If we'd had a head coach and a staff, they would've been busy drawing up strategy and tactics from the bench. Right now, we had to scheme every situation on the fly, purely on our own.

I gave the linemen their orders, then pulled the cornerbacks aside separately.

"Cover the sidelines only. I will take the middle, no matter what."

"Okay."

"Got it."

Their stamina was running on fumes, and the Red Zone made things far easier to defend. Tight space meant constant danger of the ball being ripped away — for them.

Now, choose.

You running it again this time too?

"..."

"..."

Having entered the Red Zone, every player on the field readied themselves with taut nerves.

And then—

Mateo shouted the cadence, his focus unbroken.

"Hut, hike—!"

PABABAK!

I bolted at once — like an edge rusher launching from behind the line. The receivers went their routes, trusting their teammates. I watched only for Mateo, or their running back.

Thud! Thud! THUD!

And at last—

Our linemen, exactly as I'd told them, slyly cracked open a seam in the middle.

Bait.

Bite, Mateo.

Tatatatak!

The instant Mateo saw the gap, he burst through it as if he'd been waiting for it. I, meanwhile, had been circling along an angle cleverly veiled by the linemen's bulk.

He almost certainly hadn't spotted me.

Thump.

"!!"

In that moment, I felt something — and stopped dead on instinct. My eyes dropped to the ground: Gift lines spreading out in every direction.

I chose one of them.

I couldn't have said why. It just felt like it had to be that one.

All my experience in football — brief, by anyone's measure, but thick with substance. And if it was the Mateo I'd watched all this time...

Tak— tak— tak—

Every other sound was buried. Only Mateo's footfalls rang in my ears. The air around me felt heavy, as if my engine had roared to full throttle.

My vision locked onto Mateo as I ran. His sprint entered my eyes in slow motion — and our edge rushers dove in at him first.

Swish!

Mateo, mid-stride with the ball tucked away, suddenly pulled it out — and without breaking his run, balanced on the narrowest of lines, launched a throw!

A perfect play that deceived everyone.

"Heugh!"

"Ghk!"

Our players scrambled in panic. The ball spun end over end, sailing toward a receiver downfield —

The trap our entire team had built in unison, torn apart by a single flash of Mateo's instinct.

WHUMP!

The ball landed in a pair of leaping hands. A desperate, barely-there landing.

"Ah."

"Huh?"

"Oh, you—"

Zzzzt— crackle—

A hissing static. Consciousness rose slowly back to the surface.

Every fiber of my attention had been fixed on Mateo —

Gwaduk.

I crushed the ball in my hand and looked ahead.

A crimson world, everything else wiped clean, spread out before my eyes.