Modern Family: New Life-Chapter 253: Reality check

POV Zack Bailey

Santa Ana Stadium was packed. There wasn't a single empty seat in the stands.

They had even added temporary bleachers, so there had to be more than ten thousand people ready to witness the Southern Section quarterfinals: Mater Dei High School versus Los Alamitos High School.

The atmosphere was unreal. A sold-out stadium, nonstop noise, pristine grass, professional ESPN cameras everywhere, and a press area set up like it was a college game.

'What the hell…? Are we seriously still in high school?'

I couldn't help thinking it as I went through my stretches, scanning the place.

Unfortunately, it wasn't our stadium. We were in enemy territory.

I'm a senior cornerback for Los Alamitos. My job tonight is to cover the area where wide receiver number 83 will show up: Sedric.

I'm not afraid of him. He's a good prospect, sure. Three stars, plays for Mater Dei, a powerhouse far better than my school, that much is undeniable. But I'm a four-star cornerback, and there aren't many of us.

I'm taller. Faster. I jump higher. I'm having the best season of my career, and I'm probably the best at my position so far this year.

Doing that in the Southern Section, playing for Los Alamitos, is no small feat, especially with the monstrous players that come out of this area.

Then again… I'm one of them too.

That thought made me smile. A confident smile. The kind that borders on arrogance, but one I've earned on the field.

A deafening roar from a large part of the crowd snapped me out of my thoughts.

I turned my head and looked toward the reason the stadium had suddenly come alive. Or rather, the reason.

Mater Dei's players, in their red uniforms, came out of the tunnel to warm up. And at the front of it all, setting the pace while everyone else followed, was number 19: Andrew Pritchett-Tucker.

The chosen one.

The standard.

The golden boy.

And an endless list of nicknames the press never got tired of repeating.

Black hair, light eyes, and an unshakable expression. He barely reacted to the ovation, just raised a hand in acknowledgment and nothing more.

'Arrogant,' I thought, frowning.

Although, to be honest, it didn't look like arrogance. It looked more like indifference. As if none of this weighed on him: what was at stake tonight, national television, the pressure. And that bothered me even more.

Did he see us as just another formality?

He was the real problem. A quarterback with 46 touchdowns in eight games. The same one who had dominated everything last season, winning every possible team and individual title.

Even if I shut down his receiver, the accuracy, speed, and timing of that guy's throws were going to make my night a lot harder than I cared to admit.

"Nervous?" a voice asked, one I recognized instantly.

It was Patrick, our defensive captain. A defensive lineman over 260 pounds, the anchor of the defense and the kind of guy who always seemed to take up too much space, even when standing still.

I looked at him, offended. "Of course not. I was just observing."

Patrick smile. "There's nothing wrong with being nervous," he said in that always-didactic tone of his. "It's actually healthy. The brain identifies threats, releases adrenaline, and sharpens your reflexes. Ignoring it or pretending it isn't there is what makes you mess up."

He paused briefly and added, "Hiding it only makes things worse."

"Always so scientific…" I said, rolling my eyes.

Patrick laughed loudly, patting me on the back. "Just don't sell absolute confidence on the outside and then collapse on the inside," he replied. "We need to stay solid for all four quarters if we want a chance."

I shook my head, but smiled. We'd known each other for years.

Then Patrick stopped laughing and looked at me seriously. "Tell me, do you think you can cover receiver number eighty-three?" he asked.

I thought about it for half a second.

Just half.

"Of course," I replied without hesitation. "They've got a good quarterback, but I'm better than that receiver. I'll read his routes. He's not going to run faster than me or jump higher."

Patrick watched me for a few seconds, as if weighing my words, then slowly shook his head with an amused smile.

"It's funny how you say 'good quarterback,'" he commented. "You make it sound like you're talking about some average guy, not someone many already consider the greatest quarterback in high school history, the guy who breaks records every game."

I shrugged. "I'm not going to kiss his feet like everyone else does. My job doesn't change."

I paused briefly, then added, "Besides, he's human. Remember Barkley? He didn't have a good game when we faced him."

Patrick nodded after a few seconds, clearly remembering.

I was referring to a game nearly four years earlier, when we were freshmen at Los Alamitos. I was a backup then, but I got some snaps. Patrick, with his monstrous build, had already earned a starting spot on the defensive line.

Back then, Barkley was a senior. The season before, he had established himself as a five-star prospect, number one in his class and across all positions. He'd won multiple individual awards and was considered the best football player that year, the most coveted prospect since Clausen.

Everyone expected his senior season to be even better than the last.

It wasn't.

Against us, they won by only three points. And Barkley made clear mistakes, errors that easily could have cost them the game. I'm sure that if I'd been the player I am now, we would've won that matchup. I probably could've come away with one or two interceptions without much trouble.

After that game, Mater Dei didn't go much further. They were eliminated in the very next round.

"I remember," Patrick finally said, nodding.

He fell silent for a moment, looking toward the other side of the field, where Andrew was still warming up, completely calm. Then he looked back at me.

"And I don't want to sound like a fanboy or someone who worships him," he said, "but Andrew isn't the same as Barkley."

I grimaced, almost resigned. "I know."

The stats didn't lie.

What Andrew was doing didn't fit any normal progression. Most players hit their peak and then level off, or dip slightly, sometimes a lot, the following year.

Not him. What had been a historic ceiling for most last season seemed like nothing more than a starting point for him. Every game he raised records that already felt untouchable, with a consistency that left no room for simple explanations.

If the other players in this section were monsters, he was the final boss.

I clicked my tongue. "Yeah, I know. I'll take care of eighty-three."

Patrick looked at me seriously, stepped forward, and gave me a firm tap on the chest. "Stay solid," he said. "Play your game. I'll handle the rest."

He turned away and headed toward the rest of the defense to talk to them.

Yeah, I'm definitely shutting down number eighty-three, I thought, reaffirming my confidence. I'm better than him. And I can definitely anticipate Andrew's reads, I've always been good at that.

Finally, the game began.

Unfortunately for me, I didn't start on the field.

Our offense went out first, facing the Monarchs' defense. For many, the supposed Achilles' heel of Mater Dei.

Although, of course, when your offense is the best in the country, any defense looks inferior by comparison. That didn't mean it was weak. Maybe not as dominant as the offense, nor as suffocating as Poly's, Servite's, or even De La Salle's, but it was still solid.

I sat on the bench, elbows on my knees, watching the kickoff. Mind blank. Just the game.

Minutes passed, and our offense didn't start well. Just as I'd thought, Mater Dei's defense wasn't something you could underestimate. Even without standing out, they were still allowing very few points per game, partly, no doubt, because a lot of teams collapsed once the opposing offense crushed them and forced them into bad decisions.

We couldn't even move the ball far enough to attempt a field goal. On fourth down, unable to gain more yards, the punter came on and kicked it away.

Now it was time.

My turn.

I stood up from the bench, adjusted my shoulder pads and helmet as I walked onto the field, feeling the noise of the stadium intensify. Mater Dei's offense was already lining up on the other side.

'Please throw it to eighty-three,' I thought, taking my position after the quick huddle with Patrick and the rest.

At last, the ball reached the hands of the standard-bearer, I thought ironically, watching Andrew take the snap with that almost insulting calm.

Mater Dei's offense started to move. At a controlled pace. No rush. It wasn't a whirlwind, but it wasn't slow or sloppy either. It was pure efficiency.

As for me, I focused completely on my area. Every step, read, and fake. Some passes found Sedric, yes. He wasn't bad, you had to admit it. But others didn't. I got my hands on the ball, disrupted the timing, made his catches uncomfortable at the last second.

I didn't get an interception, not yet. But one thing was clear: I was the only one managing to make those passes fail.

The rest of my team didn't have the same luck.

Little by little, the Monarchs kept pushing forward. Until they crossed far enough to get into field-goal range.

Three points.

The ball sailed through the uprights, and the scoreboard changed.

3–0, Mater Dei.

As we jogged back to the sideline, a barely noticeable smile slipped onto my face.

'It's no big deal,' I thought.

Andrew wasn't tearing us apart. He wasn't doing magic. If it kept going like this, if he kept looking for Sedric, the mistake would come. I could feel it. That moment when the throw came out just a bit late, or just a bit high. And when it did, I'd be there.

An interception. If I could cut the angle, find the lane, I could take it all the way to the end zone. A pick-six.

The dream play for any cornerback. An interception off the quarterback everyone said was the greatest in high school history.

In his stadium. In front of his people. On national television, turned into a touchdown. The thought alone made my confidence grow.

"That would be glorious," I murmured with a smile.

But that feeling didn't last long.

The cut was brutal.

Sweat ran down my forehead. My breathing was ragged. I looked up at the scoreboard and felt a knot tighten in my stomach.

Mater Dei 26 – Los Alamitos 10.

Andrew had already thrown three touchdowns. And another field goal. The third quarter was nearing its end, about two and a half minutes left.

And the possession belonged to the damn Monarchs.

What happened?

I clenched my jaw.

It wasn't my fault. Not entirely.

I was covering one zone. One. That was my responsibility. And against a five-star quarterback with a playbook like Mater Dei's, that was not always enough. He had too many options: other receivers, a tight end releasing up the middle, a running back, even his own legs. Andrew was a dual threat too. If he saw nothing, he ran.

How do you beat that?

I could only do it if my team followed through.

Still, I couldn't help thinking about that pass in the second quarter. More than twenty yards. Sedric accelerating, me trailing half a step behind. The ball dropping exactly where it had to.

Touchdown.

It had gone through my zone. The read had been too fast, the speed of the throw, the pinpoint precision. I frowned and shook my head. I can't cover everyone, I thought in frustration. I can't be in two places at once.

"Hey! Wake up, man!"

Patrick's deep voice snapped me out of it. I looked up, brow furrowed.

"I told you," he added, serious. "Don't collapse on the inside. Go do your job and cover your zone."

He shoved me with his forearm, firm, the way he always did. I let out a short breath and obeyed reluctantly, jogging back onto the field.

For what?

The third quarter was about to end, and with that guy's efficiency, getting an interception felt like a fantasy. At best, we'd force a punt that didn't turn into another field goal. And even then, we were down sixteen points. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝔀𝓮𝒃𝙣𝓸𝒗𝒆𝒍.𝙘𝒐𝒎

Sixteen.

How the hell do you come back from that in one quarter? Our offense wasn't miraculous. We didn't have a quarterback like Mater Dei's who could finish a drive in three minutes or less.

I lined up, adjusted my stance, and fixed my eyes forward, more out of inertia than conviction.

The ball was snapped, and then it happened.

Before I could even finish reading the play, I saw Patrick explode off the line. He ripped through the block with violence, shoving the offensive lineman as if he didn't exist. In two strides, he was there.

Andrew barely had time to turn. Patrick caught him and slammed him hard into the turf. A clean, sharp hit.

'That had to hurt,' I thought. More than 250 pounds coming down at full speed.

The stadium reacted with a mixed roar, shock and disbelief. I watched without being all that impressed.

It was the second time Patrick had sacked him that night. Andrew had lightning-fast reads and releases, could run, escape, improvise, but he wasn't untouchable.

Still, statistically, getting to him twice was a rarity. I saw Patrick get up, pound his chest, and jog back into formation, celebrating with the other linemen.

I stayed frozen in my spot.

'This isn't going to change much,' I thought.

One sack doesn't shut down an offense like that, certainly not enough to give you back sixteen points.

The wheel kept turning. Mater Dei had three downs to gain a little over ten yards or they'd lose possession.

The ball went back to Andrew. He threw.

It wasn't to Sedric, and I didn't care. What caught my attention was the way the ball came out of his hand.

It was strange. Low velocity. An odd trajectory, and I caught a fleeting grimace on his face.

Pain?

The pass went to the other side of the field. Our other cornerback got a hand in just in time and forced the incompletion.

"What the hell…?" I murmured, confused.

That throw was weak. Too weak. I could've intercepted it easily.

Could it be…?

I didn't know. Not yet.

Third down came. They needed more than ten yards. And with that guy, you could never relax, he could pull a deep throw out of nowhere or decide to run and pick up twenty yards if he felt like it.

But this time I saw it clearly. Yes. He was hurting. Another incomplete pass.

The sack. Patrick coming down on him with all his weight. More than 260 pounds hitting him clean. That had to have left something, especially in his arm or shoulder.

It was normal. Even for quarterbacks in general, even for the ones who hardly ever get sacked.

I felt something different. Not confidence, not the earlier arrogance. A real opportunity. I wasn't the only one who noticed. Two straight incompletions didn't go unnoticed by anyone in the stadium. It was strange.

Luckily, or maybe out of stubbornness, he stayed on the field. He didn't ask to come out. Either the pain wasn't serious, or he simply didn't want to leave. And if it was the latter, all the better for us.

That guy was clearly too proud to step aside. And playing through pain like that, sooner or later, pushes you into making a mistake.

This time I lined up with total focus. Every muscle tense. I prayed silently. To a God I honestly didn't believe in. But I prayed anyway: Please throw it to this side.

If I got an interception right then and took it back to the end zone, a pick-six, the score would be 26–17. And there would still be a full quarter left to play. Nine points weren't impossible. Not if Andrew came out with a possible injury, or if he kept playing limited.

But luck wasn't on my side. He didn't throw the ball. Not anywhere. The moment he took the snap, he secured it and ran without hesitation, his men covering for him.

The bastard made it. Fourteen yards. Exactly what he needed to keep the drive alive.

The only positive was that he got hit again, hard. And I hoped the pain would intensify enough for him to try another pass and mess it up.

I lined up again.

New set of downs. 1:20 left in the third quarter. About 35 yards to the end zone.

'They're going for the field goal,' I thought for a second. From that distance, it was the logical choice. Three more points, close out the quarter, and extend the lead while your QB looked banged up.

But no, the running back didn't come in. They kept the same formation.

'That arrogance is going to cost them,' I thought angrily.

Andrew stayed on the field.

Snap.

I read the play quickly. Sedric broke inside, a short route, crossing my zone. I stuck to him, step for step. This was mine.

I saw Andrew raise his arm to throw, but something didn't add up. It wasn't his usual mechanics.

What…?

My brain took a fraction of a second to process it. He didn't raise his right arm.

It was his left.

'What the hell?' I thought.

The confusion lasted a split second. I kept doing my job, closing the space and preparing for the break. But the ball was already out.

It didn't come out with a perfect spiral, nor like a missile. It was a short, tight pass, but functional.

Nine yards.

Nine damn yards with his non-dominant arm.

The stadium exploded. Not a normal cheer, one of those strange, chaotic sounds of collective disbelief.

I didn't get there in time to deflect it. I didn't even touch it. I couldn't do anything. Sedric caught the ball and kept running. He slipped out of my angle, gaining another ten yards before one of our guys finally brought him down.

Nineteen yards on a single play. Sixteen more to go for another touchdown.

But I wasn't looking at Sedric.

Not at the people in the stands celebrating in disbelief, as if they'd just seen a touchdown. Not even at the faces on our sideline, frozen somewhere between shock and frustration.

I stood there, motionless, staring at Andrew.

I saw him bring his left hand to his right arm, like it was nothing. Like he had just thrown the most normal pass in the world. He massaged it for a second, took a deep breath, and called the huddle again.

That's when I felt it.

The blow to my ego hit like a punch straight to the chest. I had just become the cornerback who gave up a nine-yard pass thrown with the quarterback's non-dominant arm.

That kind of throw isn't something you train for. It's not in the playbook. A quarterback spends his entire life perfecting one arm, the mechanics, the strength, the control. Everything is built around it. The other arm exists, sure, but not to throw real passes under pressure.

Of course, there are cases. Very few. Even then, almost no one tries it. Much less with the dominant arm hurting, under defensive pressure, and at a key moment in the game.

It wasn't desperation. It was a conscious decision. He chose the least likely option, the one that isn't supposed to work, and still executed it successfully.

I watched him give instructions as if nothing extraordinary had happened. Then I remembered Patrick's words: he isn't the same as Barkley.

He wasn't. Not at all.

Both were five stars. Both had been the number one prospect in their class, across all positions. But this felt like something else. Like you'd need to invent a different kind of five-star category just for him.

For the first time, I stopped thinking about how to stop him or hoping the ball would come my way. I just wanted the play to go somewhere else.

Unfortunately for me, it didn't. The ball went into his hands, and he didn't throw. He ran. Straight toward my zone.

I felt my pulse spike. It was my responsibility. I closed the angle, lowered my center of gravity, and went after him. I had to stop him.

He faked with his body, just a slight motion, and I bit. Only for a second. Then came the cut. A clean, precise change of direction, almost elegant, and way too fast.

I dove and missed.

I hit the turf with empty hands, feeling the sharp impact against the grass. From the ground, I watched him pull away. Number 19 getting closer and closer to our end zone.

And touchdown.

That's when I understood.

He was that kind of player, the kind that shows up only once in a while. The ones who aren't measured by the same standard as everyone else. The ones who aren't compared to their peers, but to the truly great. The ones who don't play just to win a game, but to change the perception of what's possible: LeBron James, Kobe, Peyton Manning, Brady, Lionel Messi, Rafael Nadal, those kinds of players.

The Monarchs' score climbed to 32. The kick was good: 33–10, and the third quarter came to an end.

Andrew already had four touchdowns. He didn't return to the field in the fourth quarter. He stayed on the bench, helmet at his feet, watching the game. It made sense.

For us, it didn't matter anymore. Our morale was gone. Scoring 23 points in one quarter would take a real miracle, something impossible.

Whether he was on the field or not no longer mattered.

Mater Dei, even with their backup quarterback, wasn't the same, but they stayed steady, sticking to long, grinding possessions.

One drive lasted more than five minutes. It ended with a field goal.

36–10.

All we managed to scrape together was a field goal. A late gesture, almost symbolic.

36–13.

Final.

"Shit," I muttered, pulling off my helmet and tossing it aside in frustration.

We had lost, and in a way I wouldn't forget for a very long time.

-------------------------------------------------

You can read 15 chapters in advance on my patreon.

Link: https://[email protected]/Nathe07