Post
by djp73 » 04 Jul 2025, 09:06
Tuesday’s late-afternoon sun hung low over the practice field, splashing golden light across the players as they jogged between stations. The air was cool, almost crisp—a gift of early autumn. Helmets shone. Cleats bit into turf. The sounds of thudding pads and shouted direction and encouragement echoed through the stillness of Sleepy Hollow’s empty stands.
Monday had been a gift—a day off after the 35–0 dismantling of Croton-Harmon—and the team came back fresh. The energy was different. Confident, but not cocky. Reps snapped off with precision. Plays looked sharper than they had all year. Chase barked out reads, his voice cutting through the din with authority. Receivers finished their blocks with intention, backs took their fakes seriously, and linemen fired out with discipline.
Coach Ella moved from group to group, eyes narrowed, but the corners of his mouth hinted at satisfaction. When practice wrapped, he blew his whistle and called the team together at midfield.
They knelt in a ragged semicircle, helmets resting on knees.
“First,” Ella began, voice carrying over the quiet field, “congratulations on Saturday. That was a statement. We didn’t just win—we dominated. That’s what happens when we trust the plan and execute.”
A ripple of nods moved through the group.
“But Westlake isn’t Croton-Harmon,” Ella continued. His tone hardened just enough. “They’re undefeated. They know how to win. They expect to win. They went deep last year, and they believe they’re better this year.”
A hush settled in.
“We’ve got extra time,” he said, voice dropping slightly. “This week is about polishing everything. Details. Timing. Execution. We’re not just aiming to compete with Westlake. We’re aiming to beat them.”
He paused, scanning their faces. Then his tone shifted, a small smile tugging at his lips.
“And yes, I know what week it is. Homecoming. Dance. Pep rallies. I know this town will have your backs, and that’s a good thing. But don’t let it become a distraction. Don’t spend this week planning what you’re gonna do with your girl after the dance while you should be focused on what you’re gonna do on Friday night.”
A few players chuckled. Johnny smothered a laugh in his forearm. Even Ella cracked a grin, shaking his head.
“Stay locked in. Stay hungry. We get better every day, and we finish this week right. Break it down.”
Chase stood first. “Horsemen on three—one, two, three—”
“HORSEMEN!”
They jogged toward the locker room as the sun slipped below the treeline.
---
The next evening, Chase sat at the large desk in the family's shared home office, textbooks spread around him like a fortress. His pencil tapped absently against the margin of a biology worksheet as his eyes drifted over a highlighted section he’d already read three times.
His phone buzzed.
Sophie: what r u doing?
He smiled. Studying for a bio test. you?
Sophie: just got off. thinking about sunday since u don’t have a game. wanna watch the bills? they’ll probably lose again but misery loves company.
Chase chuckled, thumb hovering over the keys.
sounds fun. what time?
They worked out the details—early afternoon, her place, she’d handle snacks. He told her he’d bring drinks. A quiet excitement stirred in his chest as he set the phone down and returned to his notes, focus rekindled.
---
Friday afternoon, the team gathered near the sideline before practice, stretching and getting taped up. The mood was loose but alert—players bouncing on their toes, helmets in hand, the low hum of conversation mixing with the distant drone of lawnmowers from nearby houses.
Johnny leaned into Connor’s shoulder. “So, you bringing your inflatable playmate to homecoming, or what?”
Connor’s eyes flashed. “At least I don’t gotta bring my cousin.”
A few heads turned. Chase blinked, trying to parse the joke.
Johnny scowled. “For the last time, that was one time at my cousin’s wedding, and I didn’t even know it was her, and—”
Connor burst out laughing. Even Chase cracked a grin.
Johnny rolled his eyes. “I got a date, anyway. But I’m not telling who.”
“What about you two?” Connor asked, nodding toward Miles and Chase.
Miles shifted his helmet under his arm. “Flying solo,” he said with a shrug.
Connor nudged Chase, who tried to pretend he hadn't heard the question.
“What about you, new guy? Who you bringing?”
Chase hesitated. “I don’t know. Might not even go. Depends on if we win.”
Johnny raised his eyebrows dramatically. “Ohhh, conditional attendance. And who you going with if we do? Miles?”
Miles shot him a glare and tossed a roll of tape at him. Johnny ducked, howling with laughter.
Chase shook his head. “Just stay focused. Win Friday first. Nobody’s gonna wanna dance with you if we get stomped.”
Johnny smirked. “Coach Pryor strikes again.”
Connor clapped Chase on the shoulder. “He’s not wrong.”
A whistle blew in the distance, and helmets snapped on. Jokes faded, replaced by a quiet determination as the team jogged out, their minds shifting back to Westlake.
---
Chase slumped back into the couch cushions, one hand loosely holding a bottle of red Gatorade, the other brushing a stray crumb from his jeans. On the TV, C.J. Stroud lined up the Texans for a potential game-winning drive. The Bills had just tied it, 20-20, but momentum felt like it was tipping Houston’s way.
He’d never really been a Bills fan. Growing up in Maine meant Patriots country, but he’d always been more into college ball than the NFL anyway. Sophie’s loyalty to Buffalo, though—that ran generations deep, something she’d mentioned with a mix of pride and exasperation.
Sophie sat at the far end of the couch, legs tucked under her, a worn Josh Allen jersey draped over her shoulders. Her eyes flicked between the TV and Chase, her expression bright, unbothered by the game’s tension.
She shifted, rubbing her arms lightly. “It’s kind of chilly in here,” she said with a small laugh, though the room felt warm enough. Before Chase could answer, she scooted closer until her shoulder brushed against his, leaning in just enough to share her warmth. His pulse quickened slightly.
Sophie’s presence felt comfortable, natural, like she belonged there next to him. Her hair brushed his shoulder when she shifted, and a light, floral scent mingled with the faint aroma of popcorn lingering in the room.
On screen, Stroud dropped back to pass, the announcer’s voice rising. Sophie gasped as the camera panned to a diving Bills defender who missed the tackle. She pressed a little closer to Chase, her fingers curling around the edge of her jersey.
“Come on defense,” she whispered, eyes locked on the screen.
Chase chuckled softly, the tension in his chest easing. Her easy energy, the way she yelled at the TV without a hint of self-consciousness, made him feel like he could finally settle into the moment.
He let his arm rest along the back of the couch, close but not quite touching her shoulders, as they watched the final moments unfold together. The warmth between them was subtle, steady—no need for words, no need to force anything.
For once, he didn’t feel like he was trying too hard.
The TV flickered as Stefon Diggs caught a ball near the sideline, the announcer’s voice crackling with excitement. “That’s Diggs’ sixth grab today—he’s been a difference-maker!”
Sophie clapped once, then shot him a sheepish smile. “Sorry, force of habit.”
He chuckled, but it came out awkward. “Nah, you’re good.”
“Guess it’s emotional for him,” she said, gesturing to the screen. “First time playing the Bills since the trade.”
“Yeah,” Chase said, voice flat. He imagined what it would be like to play against his old team, his old friends.
They watched in silence as Stroud took a snap, then got flagged for intentional grounding. Houston punted it back to Buffalo, downing the ball at the Bills' three yard line.
“Shit.” Sophie muttered under her breath, drawing a smirk from Chase as the game cut to commercials.
Sophie glanced at him. “So… homecoming,” she said, her tone light, but her eyes searching.
Chase hesitated, eyes fixed on the TV where a Whopper commercial was suddenly very interesting.
“Yeah...”
“Are you going?” she pressed.
He blew out a breath, fingers drumming lightly on his knee. “I told the guys—I’ll decide if I’m going after the Westlake game. If we win, maybe. If we don’t… probably not.”
She studied him for a second longer than felt comfortable. “And who would you go with?”
His face twisted slightly, confused. “No one,” he said with a slight shrug. “I guess I’d just… go.”
The corner of her mouth twitched, but he couldn’t tell if she was amused or disappointed. “Just you, huh?”
“Yeah,” he said, feeling a hot flush creep up his neck. He looked down at the Gatorade bottle like it might save him.
On the TV, Ka’imi Fairbairn’s kick sailed through the uprights as time expired. The announcer’s call burst from the speakers: “And the Texans win it—23-20! What a finish!”
Sophie groaned, flopping back dramatically. “Are you kidding me? Two weeks in a row?”
Chase forced a laugh, but inside he was spinning. He wanted to ask her what she meant by the look she’d given him. He wanted to ask if she’d go to homecoming with him. He wanted a lot of things he couldn’t find the words for.
Instead, they watched the postgame interview where Diggs looked into the camera and sang, “I’m emotional…” Sophie snorted. Chase managed a weak smile.
The game ended, but neither moved right away. Chase realized he was staring at her, and quickly shifted his gaze back to the TV screen.
Sophie shifted closer and Chase let his arm drape over her shoulders. The Bills game was over, but the Giants had just kicked off, the TV now filling the room with muted crowd noise and the rhythmic commentary.
For a while, they just sat there, the glow of the screen painting them in shifting light. Chase found himself relaxing in the quiet, letting the warmth of Sophie next to him ease the lingering tension in his chest.
He almost forgot the jumble of things he’d been worrying about.
The Giants fumbled the ball and Seattle returned it over 100 yards for a score.
Sophie shook her head. “Dumpster fire,” she muttered.
Chase chuckled. “Honestly, it’s impressive how bad they are now.”
Another drive stalled, and they exchanged amused looks. The ease between them felt good—better than he’d expected. But a small knot of responsibility tugged at him, and he cleared his throat.
“I… should probably get going. I’ve got some homework I need to finish... but.. I don't really want to.”
Sophie didn’t move right away. She glanced up at him, eyes soft, a small smile playing at her lips. “Then don’t. Not yet.”
That was all it took. He settled back against the cushions, and they half watched the Giants’ manage to tie the game in silence.
They traded quiet commentary—Sophie laughing under her breath when Jones missed an open receiver, Chase shaking his head at a blown block and a sack on Geno Smith—and the minutes slipped by unnoticed.
When halftime arrived, they both sighed almost at the same time, reluctant to break the calm. Sophie nudged his knee with hers. “Guess we should be responsible, I have school work too.”
“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “Thanks for…everything. For inviting me over. And the food.”
She stood with him, walking him to the door. At the threshold, she paused, her hand brushing his arm before she rose onto her toes and kissed his cheek, lingering just long enough for him to feel the softness of her lips and the warmth of her breath.
“Anytime,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
He reluctantly stepped out into the dark, the chilly air trying to fight it's way in, but the warmth of the evening—and of Sophie—lingered long after he walked down the steps.
---
The low autumn sun painted the Sleepy Hollow field in muted gold as the Horsemen went through their pregame routine. Cleats whispered across the turf. Helmets glinted under the lights warming up overhead. Coaches barked out adjustments, players responded with crisp claps and calls, but Chase’s mind drifted.
He moved through stretches almost automatically: knee hugs, lunges, leg swings. But every few seconds his thoughts slipped—back to Sophie, to the way her lips had brushed his cheek, to the text she’d sent that morning: Good luck today, I’ll be cheering loud.
He’d stared at his phone so long he’d nearly missed his ride. In the end, all he’d managed was a one-word reply: Thanks. It felt stupid. Insufficient. He couldn’t shake the feeling he was messing everything up before it even started.
As they transitioned into half-speed walk-throughs, his feet lagged a half-step behind. His eyes flicked to the stands rising along the sideline. Already, they were filling with students and families. Somewhere up there, maybe Sophie would be watching.
He caught himself shaking his head, tried to lock in, but the doubt lingered.
“Hey.” Miles’s voice cut through, sharp and direct.
Chase turned, startled to find his friend jogging up beside him instead of with his group.
“You good, bro?” Miles asked, eyebrow arched.
Chase hesitated, his mouth working silently before he managed, “Yeah…yeah, I’m good.”
Miles studied him a second longer, eyes flicking from Chase’s face to Westlake’s players across the field—bigger, sharper, more disciplined than anyone they’d faced so far. Their blue-and-white uniforms moved with intimidating precision.
“Better lock the fuck in, man,” Miles said quietly but firmly. He jerked his chin toward the Westlake side. “These guys came to play.”
The words landed like a slap of cold water. Chase looked past Miles to the Westlake players going through their own synchronized drills, helmets popping under contact, coaches moving with urgent energy. His pulse quickened—not with nerves, but with the steady, rising drum of purpose.
He clenched his jaw, rolling his shoulders back as he stepped into the next stretch with renewed intensity. He tuned out the noise, the crowd, the lingering swirl of texts and kisses.
This was his field. His team. His moment.
He locked in.
---
Chase stood on the sideline next to Johnny, helmets in hand, eyes fixed on the Westlake offense methodically picking its way downfield. Their quarterback was poised and sharp, converting a third and long with a dart across the middle, then floating a perfectly placed ball into the endzone for a quick 7-0 lead.
Chase clenched his jaw, grabbed his helmet, and jogged to the huddle, his mind now entirely on the task at hand.
“Settle in,” he barked, pulling his teammates’ eyes to him.
“Do your job. They came here to win—so did we.” Heads nodded. Breath steadied.
They broke the huddle, red throwback jerseys practically gleaming under the lights. At the line, Chase sauntered forward, scanning the Westlake defense as Wyatt, Johnny, and Connor pointed and called adjustments.
Chase clapped his hands; the snap was crisp. He planted the ball in Zeke’s belly, reading the end man who stayed home to contain him. Zeke took the handoff, churned through a hole, and barreled for a solid gain. Connor hauled him off the turf, and they jogged back to the huddle, momentum slowly building.
Later in the drive, third and short inside the Westlake 30, Zeke got the call again. He lowered his pads, dragging a linebacker six yards for the first down. A few plays later, Chase kept the ball, slicing down inside the five. On the next snap, Miles took a handoff off-tackle, slipping one arm tackle and diving across the goal line. The sideline erupted—7-7 as the first quarter ended.
But Westlake struck again—fast.
They marched for another touchdown, then shocked everyone with a perfect onside kick recovery, cashing it in with another touchdown to lead 21-7 halfway through the second quarter. Sleepy Hollow’s sideline sagged.
Chase looked around the huddle. Faces were pale, eyes uncertain. He knew they needed a spark
“This shit isn’t over,” he snapped, voice hard. “Not even close!”
Johnny and Connor nodded. Miles clapped. They broke the huddle with fire.
At the line, Chase saw what he needed. If Connor sealed the edge, it was daylight.
The snap came; Chase waited until the last instant, pulled the ball from Miles, and hit the sideline with a burst.
His legs churned, carrying him 75 yards untouched. He tossed the ball to the ref, his gaze flicking briefly to the stands—Sophie’s section—where he caught a flash of her celebrating with friends before locking back in. He slapped five with his linemen and backs, energizing everyone.
The defense stiffened, forcing a three-and-out. The next offensive series was a masterclass in patience: Miles for four, Zeke for three, Chase for six. They chipped away, grinding out 78 yards on 13 plays, bleeding the clock until Chase plowed in from the one-yard line with under a minute left in the half.
As they swapped with the defense, Chase and the offense slapped hands with the defenders, urging them to hold.
Westlake’s QB took the snap and, under instant pressure, forced a throw—Sammy Warmack, burned earlier, read it perfectly, snagging the pick and setting up Sleepy Hollow with one final chance before the half.
Coach Ella’s eyes locked with Chase’s as he gave him the play.
“Diamond right screen. If it’s not there—take the delay or run.”
Chase nodded, jogged out to the huddle and relayed the call.
Wyatt patted Miles on the shoulder. “You got this.”
They lined up. Chase scanned the defense—base personnel, linebacker slow to shift. Confusion. Westlake's coaches screaming from the sideline.
Perfect.
He clapped; the snap hit his hands, and he pivoted, hitting Miles squarely in the hands.
Blocks detonated ahead of him—cornerbacks erased, safeties stumbling. One man left. Miles faked for the sideline, dropped his shoulder, and exploded through the safety at the three, tumbling into the endzone as the clock hit zero.
Chase threw his hands up as the official signaled touchdown.
28-21 Sleepy Hollow at halftime.
---
After halftime, Sleepy Hollow’s offense found another gear.
Chase, Miles, and Zeke pounded Westlake’s defense into submission, the line burying defenders snap after snap.
The Horsemen milked the clock, using up more than three quarters of the second half and forcing Westlake to be one-dimensional on offense.
The defense fed off the energy, picking off two more passes.
By game’s end, Sleepy Hollow had 400-plus rushing yards: Chase with 197, Miles with 151, Zeke with 58.
Miles scored again in the third quarter and Zeke’s bruising fourth-quarter touchdown sealed the game, crushing Westlake’s spirit.
When it was all said and done the scoreboard read 42-21 Sleepy Hollow.
---
In the locker room, Coach Ella addressed the team.
“That’s how you answer,” he said, voice fierce with pride.
He held up the game ball, trying to hand it to Chase.
Chase shook his head.
“We earned this together,” he said. “Line— you busted your asses. Miles, Zeke—those were big-boy runs. Receivers—every block mattered. Defense—you flipped the game.”
The locker room roared with applause.
As the coaches exited, Chase, Miles, Johnny, and Connor lingered, still half in uniform, basking in the glow. Miles jabbed Chase with an elbow.
“That pass shouldn’t count—you threw it like two feet. I did all the work!”
They all laughed, the tension gone, only joy remaining. Chase soaked it in. This was everything he’d missed since Livermore Falls.
As they packed up and walked out to the parking lot, Miles nudged him. “So… was that a good enough win to get your lame ass to the dance?”
Chase paused, grinned, and felt a spark of boldness. “Yeah,” he said, separating from the group and pulling out his phone as he called Sophie.
