Lance met Bateman's eyes with a determined gleam.
"The starting team thinks they can easily crush us. They are the golden boys, with bright futures and promising careers ahead of them."
"But they've forgotten one thing—this is sports. Anything can happen. Until the game is over, the outcome is never certain. This is football, a game where the power of teamwork can shift the entire momentum."
"Yes, maybe their individual skills are better than ours, but when it comes to understanding tactics and analyzing our opponents, we're not necessarily behind. That's the key to changing the game."
"Hey, Batman, if we're starting this, then we've got to see it through to the end. Maybe we won't go pro, maybe we won't get the chance—but this is our youth, our life. We should write our own ending."
"Whether we wallow in regret or burn brightly without holding back, the choice is ours."
"So let's enjoy it."
Lance extended his right hand.
Bateman couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement. He had almost given up. He had been running alone, seeing no clear target or direction, doubting why he kept pushing through his senior year.
But now, he understood.
Maybe all of this was simply to give himself closure, to put an exclamation mark on his youth, and then move on from football into the next chapter of life.
For him, this scrimmage was the last chance to give everything he had.
Bateman looked at Lance, placed his right hand over his, and smiled.
One hand, then two, and soon all eleven hands were stacked together as the team roared in unison.
"Roar! Roar! Crimson Tide Roar!"
Their fighting spirit was ablaze.
Then Lance pulled Bateman closer, lowering his voice. "They're all focused on me right now. Everyone's expecting us to start with a ground game."
After all, they were the Crimson Tide. The starting team had opened with a run play through Jacobs, but it hadn't worked well because they knew each other too well. The defensive unit recognized the play immediately.
Bateman blinked. "So what do we do?"
Lance grinned. "You're the quarterback. You should be asking yourself that."
Bateman felt a bit sheepish.
Lance patted his shoulder. "How about a fake pass to throw them off? Believe in yourself. After the snap, act like you're setting up for a quick short pass to shake them. Then, if you see an opening, don't hesitate—make the pass. If not, don't panic. I'll be moving to your right. Just toss it to me."
The handoff between the quarterback and running back isn't always direct. Sometimes there's a slight gap and a soft toss. It's a basic move that adds variety to the offense.
After all, if the running back takes the ball from the quarterback directly every time, the defense will easily anticipate the play and shut down the run without worrying about other threats.
Bateman quickly caught on. "A feint."
While Bateman wasn't the most gifted player, he was diligent, reliable, and well-rounded.
Bateman immediately thought ahead. "So, do you want to clear the field or create chaos?"
"Chaos. Since they're already expecting us to run, we need to stir things up and win in the confusion." A sharp gleam flashed in Lance's eyes.
The offense lined up.
In football, each play has a 40-second window between downs to allow the offense to reset and strategize. Legendary quarterbacks like Peyton Manning often read the defense in the last ten seconds and adjust the play, catching the defense off guard.
Bateman wasn't Manning. He wasn't planning any last-minute adjustments, but he was fully focused, scanning the defensive formation.
Just as Lance had said, the defense was pressing forward aggressively. They clearly didn't believe Bateman would pass, especially not deep, so they packed the front to create a numbers advantage.
Breathe.
Bateman steadied himself, his focus locked in.
Lance did the same.
Lance observed, taking in the defensive alignment, searching for patterns amid the chaos, pinpointing a weak spot. In his mind, he visualized a three-dimensional map of the field, plotting the perfect escape route.
For Lance, this wasn't unfamiliar.
Over the past three weeks, Lance had been relentlessly training in the system, utilizing the Adrian Peterson template to hone his skills.
Now was the moment to apply them in real life.
"Set, hut!"
Bateman's voice rang out, and Lance's tightly coiled muscles snapped into action. He pushed off the ground, sprinting at full speed—not toward Bateman, but on a diagonal path to the right.
His target—
The gap between Humphrey and Allen.
At the same time, the entire offensive line pushed the defensive line to the right, and Lance could see the space he aimed for slowly closing as defensive players flooded in like a crashing wave.
But then— They didn't fully commit.
Especially Foster.
Clearly, they had been thrown off by Bateman's feigned quick pass. Just as they were about to surge forward, the defense slammed on the brakes, caught off guard by the unexpected pass attempt. Not only did the linebackers hesitate, but the defensive line's pressure faltered too.
It was only a split second.
Half a second?
Maybe less.
Bateman spun around, with barely any time to properly survey his options. A quick glance, and he turned toward Lance's side.
Lance: Damn.
In his peripheral vision, Lance saw Allen's eyes and movements shift.
Bateman's fake had been too rushed, too obvious. His movements were too quick, revealing his intentions. Allen, ever sharp, caught on instantly. Despite some resistance, his reaction time was lightning-fast—
Lance.
Allen's sights were locked onto Lance like a predator honing in on prey.
Lance kept waiting for Bateman's pass, his speed not yet fully unleashed. He adjusted his steps, though he could sense Allen closing in. There was no time to change the play now.
A pause, a pivot.
Standing near midfield on the right side, Lance turned to face Bateman, who threw the ball. Lance reached out, cradling the football into his arms.
Push.
Lance's legs exploded with power, muscles propelling him off the ground as he surged forward.
Ahead of him, the shrinking gap was chaotic and crowded.
But in Lance's eyes, there was a brief, fleeting window.
Acceleration. Power. Launch—
From his left, a figure came crashing toward him with arms outstretched.
It was Allen.
Lance remained calm, collected.
One more step forward.
One more push off the ground.
As Allen loomed larger in his vision, Lance timed his move perfectly and leaped.
He soared.
Allen was left stunned. He had Lance in his sights, ready to wrap him up, but in the blink of an eye, Lance leaped right out of his grasp.
Damn.