The shrill sound of Jordan's alarm pierced the silence of his bedroom. He groaned, rolling over to swipe at his phone. Five more minutes, he thought, as he buried his face back into the pillow. But the nervous energy buzzing in his chest wouldn't let him rest. The game was two days away, and the pressure was only growing heavier.
Coldwater Wildcats versus Riverside Raiders.
The rivalry was known all over town. This wasn't just another football game; it was the game. Losing to Riverside wasn't an option—especially not for Jordan. With every passing minute, the knot in his stomach twisted tighter. His dad's words echoed in his mind, as if they'd been tattooed there: "You better be ready."
Jordan pushed himself out of bed, his muscles sore from the grind of last night's practice. He could feel the pressure building with each step, each glance at the clock, each reminder of how close Thursday night was. The Wildcats' season opener, against Riverside of all teams. And the scouts? They'd be there. They'd be watching him.
The mirror above his dresser reflected back a face that looked more worn than it should for a seventeen-year-old. Dark circles lingered under his eyes, and his usually easy-going smirk had been replaced by a tight-lipped expression of stress. Jordan splashed water on his face, trying to shake the fatigue from his system, but the weight on his shoulders remained.
Downstairs, the familiar clinking of dishes told him his mother was making breakfast. The smell of bacon filled the air, but it didn't stir his appetite. His father's voice drifted from the living room, mixing with the constant hum of the sports channel he always watched before work.
Jordan didn't want to face him. Not now. Not with Thursday looming over everything.
"Morning, son." His dad's voice greeted him the moment he stepped into the kitchen. Mitch Rivers sat in his favorite recliner, his eyes glued to the TV, but Jordan knew that tone all too well. His father was about to launch into another pep talk—one that was less about motivation and more about reminding Jordan of the expectations placed on him.
"You watching tape from last season?" Mitch asked, not looking away from the screen.
Jordan hesitated, already knowing the conversation wouldn't end well. "Yeah, I'll get to it after school."
Mitch's eyes flickered over to him, as if scanning for the truth. "After school? You think Carter's just watching tape after school?"
Jordan clenched his jaw. The comparisons with Riverside's star quarterback, Ryan Carter, were never-ending. His dad had never met the guy, but it seemed like he knew every statistic and highlight Carter had ever produced.
"I'll get to it," Jordan muttered, grabbing an apple from the counter. He wasn't hungry, but it was something to keep his hands busy.
Mitch sighed, leaning forward in his chair. "Look, Jordan. I know you don't like hearing it, but this game? It's big. Bigger than any you've played before. The scouts aren't coming for just anyone. They're coming to see if you can hold your own against Carter. You've got one chance to show them what you're made of."
"I know, Dad," Jordan replied, sharper than he intended.
"You sure about that?" Mitch's voice followed him out the door as he slung his backpack over his shoulder. "Because Thursday's not the time to figure it out."
Jordan paused in the doorway, the weight of the conversation pulling him down. His father's expectations were always there, looming like a shadow, and they felt heavier every day. He could feel his dad's eyes on him as he walked out, but he didn't turn back. If he did, he might crumble.
School was no escape.
At Coldwater High, football dominated everything. The hallways buzzed with talk of Thursday's game. Students wore their Wildcats gear proudly, and every conversation seemed to end with someone saying, "Think we'll beat Riverside?"
Jordan moved through the halls, his mind a thousand miles away. He'd barely made it to his locker when someone slapped him on the back. It was Chris Rodriguez, wide receiver and Jordan's best friend since elementary school. His easy grin was plastered on his face as usual.
"Big day tomorrow, QB1," Chris said, opening his locker beside Jordan's. "You ready to give Carter a show?"
Jordan forced a smirk, though his stomach churned. "Yeah, man. As long as you're not dropping my perfect passes, we're good."
Chris laughed, but the edge in Jordan's voice didn't go unnoticed. "Hey, about last night… you know those drops were on me. I wasn't locked in. But we've got this. We always do."
Jordan nodded, though he wasn't as convinced. He glanced over Chris's shoulder and spotted Emily Harper walking down the hallway. She was carrying a stack of textbooks, her long brown hair falling loosely over her shoulders. Jordan's heart skipped a beat when their eyes met, and she offered him a small smile.
"Hey, Jordan," Emily said, her voice soft, but confident. "Big game tomorrow. Everyone's talking about it."
"Yeah," Jordan replied, his throat suddenly dry. "Hoping to make it a good one."
"You will," she said with a nod, her eyes meeting his. "I know you will."
Chris elbowed him playfully the moment Emily walked away. "Bro, she's so into you."
Jordan shook his head, though a faint smile crept onto his face. "Nah, man. She's just being nice."
But the truth was, Emily had been on his mind as much as football lately. He'd liked her for years, but with the pressure of the season, he couldn't bring himself to make a move. The timing never seemed right. Or maybe he was just too scared to add another layer of pressure to his already heavy load.
After school, football practice was the same grind as always.
Coach McGill had them running drills, pushing harder than ever. The stakes were clear. Riverside wasn't just any opponent—they were a powerhouse. And Ryan Carter was the kind of quarterback who made headlines, not just locally, but statewide.
Coach McGill pulled Jordan aside near the end of practice, wiping the sweat from his brow with a towel. The older man's eyes were as sharp as ever behind his sunglasses. "Rivers," he said, his voice low but firm, "I know you're feeling the weight. But you gotta carry it. No one's gonna lift it for you."
Jordan nodded, though his chest felt tight. "I know, Coach."
"Do you?" McGill raised an eyebrow. "You've got the talent. You've got the arm. But that's not enough. Talent won't win Thursday's game. You gotta play smart, lead smart. The team follows you. If you fall apart, they fall apart."
Jordan felt the knot in his stomach twist even tighter. "I won't fall apart."
McGill's eyes softened for a moment. "Good. 'Cause I need you at your best. We all do."
The whistle blew, signaling the end of practice. The team gathered around McGill, their faces dripping with sweat and determination. The weight of the game was palpable in the air, as heavy as the humidity clinging to their skin.
"Tomorrow's the day," McGill said, his voice cutting through the noise. "Everything we've worked for. Don't think about anything else but that field, and what you're gonna do when the lights come on. It's all about focus."
As the team dispersed, Jordan lingered behind, staring out at the field. In less than 24 hours, this place would be packed. The bleachers would be full, the crowd roaring. But it wouldn't be the noise he'd hear.
It would be the pressure. The weight of the town, the team, his father—all of it pressing down on him.
Back at home, Jordan sat on his bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to block out the anxiety twisting inside him. His phone buzzed. A text from Chris lit up the screen: We got this, bro.
Jordan stared at the message, feeling the weight of those words. He typed back, Yeah, we do. But deep down, he wondered if he was convincing himself or just Chris.
Sleep didn't come easy that night. His mind replayed every possible scenario for the game, every pass he'd throw, every hit he might take. But no matter how much he played it out in his head, one question remained:
Was he ready?