Jordan Rivers stood at the fifty-yard line, the sun setting behind the bleachers as the first whistle of the season echoed across the field. The smell of fresh-cut grass filled the air, mingling with the faint scent of sweat and nervous energy. For Jordan, this was home—the field, the game, the ball in his hands. But as the quarterback of the Coldwater Wildcats, it wasn't just a game anymore. It hadn't been "just a game" for a long time.
Coldwater was a town where football was life. The Wildcats were more than just a team—they were the town's pride and joy. Every fall, the entire community packed into the stands under the Thursday night lights, ready to live or die by every play. The grocery store, the diner, the high school hallways—everywhere Jordan went, someone had something to say about the team's chances this year. "How's the arm, Jordan?" or "Think you can get us back to state?" It was always there, the weight of their expectations pressing down on him.
Now, staring across the field at his teammates, he felt that weight more than ever. This was his junior year. His year. If he played his cards right, the scouts might come calling. If not, well... the thought of that wasn't something he liked to entertain.
Coach McGill's voice cut through the moment. "Alright, bring it in, Wildcats!" The team huddled around the old coach, who looked every bit the part of the football lifer—worn cap, sunglasses perched on the brim, and a whistle hanging from his neck like it was part of him.
"Listen up. You know what time it is. This ain't the offseason anymore. This is the real deal. This is your season. You want it? You gotta take it. Nobody's gonna hand it to you. You're either gonna put in the work, or you're gonna get outworked. Simple as that."
Jordan knew the speech by heart. Coach McGill had been giving the same version since Jordan's freshman year, but tonight, something about it felt different. There was an edge to the coach's voice, a sense of urgency that hadn't been there before.
"Jordan," McGill said, looking right at him. "You ready to lead this team?"
Jordan nodded, but inside, a knot tightened in his gut. His father's voice echoed in his mind: It's your year, son. Don't let anyone take it from you.
The players broke from the huddle, and practice began in earnest. Jordan jogged back to the huddle, pulling on his helmet. Behind him, Chris Rodriguez, his best friend and star wide receiver, gave him a slap on the back.
"Let's go, QB1," Chris said, grinning. His dark eyes flashed with excitement as he adjusted his gloves. "This is our year."
Jordan smirked, but the weight didn't lift. Chris always had that carefree confidence about him, the kind that made everything seem easier. It wasn't that way for Jordan. Not anymore.
They lined up for the first play of the night. It was just practice, but Jordan felt like every throw, every snap, every decision was being watched and measured. Every mistake mattered.
"Alright, 32 Red, Z post, on one," Jordan called out, the play forming in his head as the players took their positions. Chris flashed him a quick nod as he lined up wide, ready to make his cut.
The snap came clean, and Jordan dropped back, scanning the field. Chris broke free, burning past the cornerback with ease. Jordan planted his foot and released the ball—a tight spiral cutting through the air, perfectly in sync with Chris's route.
For a moment, everything felt right. The throw was perfect. The connection was there. This was why he played. But just as Chris leapt to make the catch, the ball slipped through his fingers, thudding to the ground. The cornerback gave Chris a shove, talking trash as he jogged back to the line.
"Focus up, Rodriguez!" Coach McGill barked, pacing the sidelines. Chris gave a shrug, but Jordan could see the frustration on his face.
They ran the play again, then again, and again. By the end of practice, Jordan's arm felt like lead, and the knot in his stomach hadn't eased. There were glimpses of brilliance—perfect throws, deep passes, plays that made the team cheer—but there were just as many misses, just as many fumbles, and each one felt heavier than the last.
When the final whistle blew, the players gathered around Coach McGill, their breaths heavy, sweat dripping from their brows.
"You've got work to do," McGill said, pacing the huddle. "This ain't enough. Not yet. You're not ready for Thursday night, not like this. Jordan, I need you sharper. Defense, you're getting sloppy in the secondary. Chris, I don't know where your head's at, but you better find it before Riverside comes to town."
Jordan glanced at Chris, who just stared at the ground, still replaying the dropped catch in his mind.
"Hit the showers," McGill finished, walking off the field with a wave. "See you all tomorrow."
The team dispersed, heading for the locker room. Jordan lingered, staring at the field for a few more seconds. The sun had fully set, leaving the stadium illuminated only by the dimming lights overhead. In a couple of days, this place would be packed—parents, friends, the whole town. And all eyes would be on him.
As he walked off the field, Chris jogged up beside him, still pulling off his pads.
"You know that wasn't me out there," Chris said, shaking his head. "My bad on those drops, man. I'll lock in before the game."
Jordan nodded. "Don't worry about it. We'll get it right."
But as he said the words, he wasn't sure if he believed them. The pressure felt different this year. He could feel it building, like a storm cloud gathering over his head, and it was only the start of the season.
Back in the locker room, the smell of sweat and soap filled the air as the players joked and talked about the upcoming game. Malik Davis, their quiet but intense defensive end, sat on the bench near his locker, taping his wrists and listening to music. Malik rarely spoke unless it was on the field, but his presence was always felt. He played with a chip on his shoulder, something the rest of the team didn't fully understand but respected.
Jordan walked over to his locker, peeling off his damp practice jersey and slumping onto the bench. As he packed up, he overheard a conversation between two juniors from the offensive line, Tony and Brady.
"You hear about Carter?" Tony said, glancing toward Jordan but keeping his voice low.
"Yeah," Brady replied. "Riverside's QB? Kid's legit. They're saying he's got scouts already looking at him."
Jordan froze, trying not to let his face betray the sudden flash of anxiety.
Ryan Carter. His name had been floating around since last season. The Riverside Raiders' golden boy, another young quarterback with an arm that could allegedly "throw a ball through a barn door," as Coach McGill liked to put it. Jordan had never met him, but he'd heard enough to know Carter was competition.
Real competition.
"I heard Coldwater's gonna need a miracle to beat them," Tony added.
Jordan gritted his teeth. He shoved his cleats into his bag, trying to ignore the conversation. Miracle? That wasn't how he saw it. If Coldwater was going to beat Riverside, it wasn't going to be luck—it was going to be because he led them there. He didn't need a miracle.
He just needed to be better.
As Jordan headed home, the streets of Coldwater were quiet. The houses were dark, save for the occasional porch light, and the breeze had a faint chill. He drove through town, passing by the diner where he and Chris used to grab burgers after games. Passing the high school. Passing the empty stands that would soon be filled with fans.
He pulled into his driveway, turning off the engine and sitting in the car for a moment. The porch light was on, a sign his dad was waiting up.
Taking a deep breath, Jordan grabbed his bag and headed inside. The living room TV flickered with a sports highlight reel—his dad's usual routine. Jordan's father, Mitch Rivers, had once been the pride of Coldwater, a quarterback himself, destined for greatness. But his dreams had been cut short by a knee injury in college. Now, every Thursday night, every football game, it was like reliving those days through his son.
"How was practice?" Mitch asked, not looking away from the screen.
"Fine," Jordan muttered, dropping his bag by the door. "Same as always."
His dad finally looked over, eyes narrowing. "Fine's not good enough. You know Riverside's coming to town Thursday. You better be ready."
Jordan clenched his jaw. It was always like this.
"Yeah, I know," he said, turning toward the stairs. "I'm ready."
But as he climbed the stairs to his room, the doubt settled in. Was he ready? Everyone in town, his dad, his teammates—they all seemed to think he had something to prove.
Maybe they were right.
Because when Thursday night came, there'd be no more talk. Just football. And there would be no second chances.