I Hate Football Players 3 | 18+

Chapter 65: Logan

"Let's go Dawgs!"

Coach Peterson's inspirational words left my mind as soon as my feet stepped onto the soft grass of Arizona Stadium. The early evening's air blew with a warm, dry breeze that carried the concession stand smells of hot dogs, nachos, popcorn, peanuts, and soft pretzels onto the edges of the field. A loud, but expected, chorus of boos and jeers greeted us when we took the field and I looked forward to the moment I turned the crowd noise into absolute silence.

Or even better, groans of complaint about Arizona's defense.

Arizona's 3-4 defense was just like Oregon's, three big guys on the line of scrimmage with four linebackers behind them, then two safeties that hung further back in zone coverage and two cornerbacks on the edges. The one exception of how they were different from the Ducks' defense, at least going off our film study sessions, was Arizona's left cornerback number 78, TJ Hall.

An All-Star player, TJ lined up both as a safety in the backfield and cornerback on the line of scrimmage. In either position, he was a step faster than the other backfield defenders. So I rotated Wes and Seth into the outside and slot receiver positions, then ran them as decoys who slapped hands with Arizona's corners and safeties for most of the first quarter of the game.

Pointless running around as distractions left both of my wide receivers impatient, out of breath, and pissed off at me. I largely ignored their gripes and frustrated grimaces in the huddle because Arizona's fourth linebacker put more pressure on my offensive line and me not to get sacked. That said, useless receivers meant our high-powered, trick-play offensive game grinded to a near-halt.

The first quarter was slow, methodical, and probably boring for anyone not directly involved on the field. The 'chip one yard at a time' approach worked to our benefit since we lulled the home crowd's enthusiasm down the longer we possessed the ball and grinded down their defense play by play.

Guess I'm taking a page from Jake Harrison's playbook.

Jamal, our main runningback, gained two yards gained as a rush, then I connected on a screen pass to my tight end Reese for four-yards before I rushed for the first down. None of these plays were my preferred style of play, but I grinded out my patience while Wes and Seth ran the steam out of 78's legs.

Wes and Seth's frustration showed the more huddles we gathered in, their tight-lipped expressions only tightened further until their wrinkled foreheads and gritted teeth reminded me of gargoyles.

"One slip," I reminded them at one point with a raised, gloved index finger before I set up another run play.

One step off 78's game was all I needed, but we never got one until halfway through the second quarter. Wes got an inside step up on him, the extra inches we needed. I set my foot stance, squeezed my right arm, flicked my wrists, then watched while the magic happened.

To be fair, after the twelve yard pass, Wes cranked his legs for another seventeen yards. I just stood back like a spectator, until 78 shoved him out of bounds then delivered another hit out of bounds. Wes got up with obvious words exchanged about the late hit, which earned us another ten yards for the penalty after the catch.

"Let's give 'em a trick," Reese griped out at that point.

"Weak side run, your turn Kade." I shook my head at Reese, then shifted my eyes to Kade, my fullback for today's game, who nodded.

My eyes shifted to number fifty-five, whose forehead glistened as beads of sweat trailed down the evidence that he'd shoved hard all game. "Darrius, left side fake out, set the right block with Reese, let Kade punch it through, six-oh and we'll take out the twelfth man."