Nathe07
patreon
MD - Chapter 92: Summer Tournament IV
🕑 Added 2025-04-05 23:36:19 +0000 UTCAndrew's team was already lined up on the field. The offensive formation of the seven players was as follows:
Edward was the Quarterback, protected by two offensive linemen—one at the center of the line and the other on the right side.
Behind him was Andrew, slightly to Edward’s left, ready either to run the ball or catch a short pass.
Finally, there were three Wide Receivers: Noah split wide to the right, the rat-faced kid lined up on the opposite side, and number 44 positioned on the right edge of the line, supporting with blocks or short routes.
On the green team’s side (defense), there were also seven players on the field:
Two defensive linemen were lined up directly in front of the black team’s linemen.
The most eye-catching was, without a doubt, number 77: Arik Armstead.
With his towering height and dominant build, he looked like a college-level player infiltrated among teenagers.
Behind them, a linebacker floated attentively, ready to read the play—whether it was a run or a short pass.
Two cornerbacks played man-to-man coverage against Noah and #81, respectively.
Further back, a deep safety patrolled the backfield, prepared to react to any long pass attempts.
The seventh defensive player was a hybrid, rotating depending on the offensive formation: sometimes rushing, sometimes supporting in coverage, or anticipating running plays.
Even though it was a 7-on-7 tournament, the full field was in use, with a few specific modifications to adapt to the format, such as:
The end zones were shorter. Each drive started from the opposing team’s 40-yard line, shortening the field to reduce possession time.
There were no special teams or kicks—everything was direct offense.
Andrew, in his position behind the quarterback, lowered his center of gravity slightly, bending his legs and arms.
His eyes, hidden behind the dark visor, locked onto Arik Armstead.
‘What is he doing here?’ he thought, unable to stop himself from asking.
Andrew knew—since you could say he came from the future—that Arik had been recruited by Oregon, a university with a top-tier program, far better than San Diego's. He was one of the most sought-after defensive players right now.
‘Maybe the thousand dollars are worth it for him,’ Andrew thought.
Arik could be on vacation here and just decided to have some fun—just like Andrew—and the money certainly wouldn’t hurt.
He wasn’t entirely sure. The only thing he knew was that having Arik on the other side was a real threat. If his blockers didn’t step up… Edward wouldn’t stay on his feet for long.
Although… maybe that was a good thing for him. Edward would resort to the easiest option: a short pass to his running back to avoid getting crushed by Arik.
The referee walked to the center of the field and placed the ball on the green team’s 40-yard line.
In this tournament, there were no kickoffs like in regular games.
Each team started its offensive possession directly from the opponent’s 40.
Fewer interruptions. More action.
First down.
‘Damn it…’ thought Edward.
A few steps in front of him, his two offensive linemen were trying to look focused, but it was obvious they were tense—way too tense.
The problem had a name and a number: Arik Armstead. Number 77.
He was lined up right in front of them, like a machine waiting for the command to charge.
Edward knew. His line wasn’t going to hold for long.
Why did they have such bad luck facing this beast?
The original plan he had discussed with his teammates was a medium to deep pass, if possible. Something that would make him shine—of course, he didn’t say it quite like that.
But now… he was starting to doubt.
'What if I don’t have enough time to throw? What if I get crushed? What if I get injured because of Arik and miss part of this season?'
The doubts started flooding his mind, and he couldn’t help but glance over at his teammate—number 21. It was the easiest and safest throw.
At that moment, Edward heard some shouting from a section of the stands not too far away.
"Let’s go, Arik! Make them fly!"
"Crush them, 77!"
"Show them why every college wants you!"
A dozen teenagers—Arik’s schoolmates and friends—filled one of the sections closest to the sideline. Loud, excited.
There were both guys and girls, wearing team shirts, holding improvised signs, and recording everything on their phones.
Edward was under center, hands extended to receive the ball, but he said nothing. The referee, a few meters away, watched him intently.
He didn’t speak up, but brought the whistle to his mouth with a slight stern look.
A silent warning.
It was time. He couldn’t stall any longer.
“Set... HUT!” Edward finally shouted.
The ball snapped into his hands, and as if someone had released the brakes on a freight train, Arik exploded forward with brutal power.
In less than three seconds, the center was already on the ground, and the other blocker had been violently shoved to the side.
Arik charged toward Edward, who paled at the wall of muscle bearing down on him.
His receivers were just beginning their routes, and they were well-covered by the cornerbacks.
He wasn’t a quarterback with pinpoint accuracy or supernatural vision.
There was only one option left. The most logical, and the one everyone expected.
“Take!” Edward yelled, slightly turning and releasing a short pass to number 21.
Andrew caught it effortlessly. At the same time, he turned his body, lowered his stance, and started advancing.
The crowd roared—not for Andrew or Edward—but for Arik, who had demolished the offensive linemen in under three seconds.
And Arik didn’t stop. Now he was charging at Andrew with terrifying speed for someone his size.
He lunged like a beast going after its prey.
Andrew didn’t back down. He didn’t spin, dodge, or flee.
Everyone thought—Arik included—that number 21 had crapped his pants and this was the end.
Andrew waited half a second. Just that. That was his margin.
And just as Arik got close enough, Andrew planted his cleats into the turf, subtly twisted his torso, and extended his free arm in a stiff arm.
A stiff arm is an offensive move in football where the ball carrier extends their arm to make contact with a defender and push them away. It's used to break tackles or gain extra yards.
However, Andrew didn’t perform a normal stiff arm. This one was far more savage.
His hand struck the top of Arik’s helmet, pressing down with force and surgical timing, using the giant’s momentum against him.
Arik’s head snapped downward violently. And in a split second, the defender—standing over 6'5" and weighing more than 220 pounds—crashed face-first into the turf.
The stadium went silent. Not out of respect, but because no one could believe what they had just witnessed.
Andrew didn’t stop. He accelerated, sprinting past the fallen body without even looking back.
And in the stands, Howard’s camera captured everything—including the gasps of disbelief, and other shots like the crowd’s reaction: hands over their heads, and a couple of teens covering their mouths, unable to react.
On the field, the rest of the green team’s defense froze. Watching Arik fall had shattered their focus, if only for a few seconds.
But that was all Andrew needed.
One of the linebackers reacted late and tried to close the angle, but Andrew cut sharply to the right without losing speed.
Another defender—the hybrid—tried to close in from the sideline, but Andrew changed pace with a subtle feint that threw him off balance.
Now he was alone. The end zone just a few yards away.
And then, right before crossing the line, Andrew stopped.
Literally, one step before it.
He turned his head slightly. A few yards behind him, the last defender was still on the ground, trying to get up.
The others were watching from different parts of the field, unsure if they should even chase him, he was just one step away.
Everyone in the stands still had their eyes on him, stunned by the entire play.
And Andrew smiled. Not a friendly smile.
A smug one.
A cocky grin aimed at the entire green team... and especially at Arik.
Then, with absolute calm, he took a simple step forward.
He crossed the goal line unhurriedly. Then he extended his arm and let the ball drop gently, allowing gravity to do the rest.
The stadium fell silent for a second. A complete void. And then a roar erupted from different sections of the stands like a long-held explosion.
"Did you see that!?"
"He took him down! HE TOOK DOWN ARIK!"
"Who the hell is number 21!?"
The crowd burst into shouts of pure disbelief. Some parents stared at each other, mouths open, and everyone had the same question: Who was number 21?
From the stands, Howard, camera in hand, kept recording with a grin.
"Be grateful you’re witnessing the birth of an urban legend, muggles," he murmured to himself as he filmed all the reactions.
"Mmh, nice pause and that disdainful smile—totally what the alter ego would do," Leonard nodded with a smile. It matched the character sheet they had created.
Seeing it in person, with the reaction of hundreds—maybe even thousands—was far more thrilling than he had ever imagined.
From an exclusive area at the side of the field, shaded by a white canopy protecting them from the blazing sun, Brady Hoke remained standing, unmoving.
Arms crossed, he didn’t take his eyes off number 21.
Without turning, Brady raised his voice toward one of his assistants, who was sitting just a few feet away with a folder on his lap.
"Who’s number 21 on the black team?"
The assistant, a bit nervous at the coach’s tone, quickly opened the folder and flipped through the pages in a hurry.
"Here it is..." he muttered. "McLovin Yasuo Yamagata. Running back. Sixteen years old. American mother, Japanese father. Says he lived in Japan until a year and a half ago… and he’s mute."
A strange silence followed.
Brian raised an eyebrow. Darnell, couldn’t help but smile slightly at the bizarre and peculiar name. And Willa clicked her tongue, amused.
"McLovin Yasuo Yamagata... seriously? That has to be a fake name, Brady," Willa said with a mocking smile.
The assistant nodded in resignation.
"Probably. A lot of people signed up online. It was an open process, without too much verification… We wanted to encourage participation, not scare it off with too much paperwork," said Brady.
"And what if he’s older? Didn’t you ask for a school ID or some kind of document?" Darnell asked.
"Yes… we did. All players had to upload a scanned copy of their current school ID and a digital signature from one of their parents or guardians," the assistant said, flipping through another page of the printed form.
Brady frowned and took the paper from the assistant.
There it was: a blurry image of a student ID from a supposed exchange school in Japan, with the name McLovin Yasuo Yamagata, a photo featuring dark sunglasses, and an institutional seal that looked… generic.
"You didn’t actually review this, did you?" Brady murmured—more a statement than a question.
The assistant remained silent. The answer was obvious.
"So there’s no way to confirm if he’s 15 or 20," Brian commented, arms crossed.
"Yes," the assistant admitted. "But he doesn’t look older. And it’d be strange for someone with a more developed body and skill level to go through all this trouble with a fake identity just to… what? Humiliate teenagers?"
Brady folded the form and placed it back in the folder.
"We’ll let this game finish. And when it’s over, we’ll call him over to clarify his identity."
He paused, then added more firmly,
"If he’s a teenager and this is just some stupid prank, I don’t care. He can stay. Kids do dumb stuff to get attention. But if it turns out he’s older and competing with an unfair advantage, I won’t allow it. He’ll be expelled from the tournament on the spot."
Andrew was walking back from the end zone with a calm, almost carefree stride.
As if what he’d just done was a walk in the park.
He had no idea that his secret identity was now under scrutiny. But right now, his eyes were on the field. Everyone was watching him.
His own teammates, baffled by his level of play.
The green team, silent, still processing what had just happened.
And beyond them, on the sideline, players from other teams waiting for their turn—including talents like Derek, Davante, Andrus—all watching with expressions of awe, curiosity… and alertness.
Andrew stopped walking for a second.
His eyes, hidden behind the visor, lifted toward the stands on the right side of the field.
There they were—Arik’s friends and teammates, the same ones who had been shouting with excitement just minutes earlier.
Now, they were silent.
He slowly turned his head toward them in an almost theatrical motion.
Then, with a mocking gesture, he brought his gloved hand up to his ear, as if saying, "What happened? Why aren't you cheering now?"
The provocation was immediate.
In the stands, several of the guys clenched their fists, while others muttered a low “bastard” under their breath.
But the one who didn’t hold back was a girl from the group—light brown hair tied in a high ponytail, wearing Arik’s school team jersey, with a bold and extroverted presence.
"You arrogant jerk!" the girl shouted from her seat, standing up. No one mocked her boyfriend.
"You think you’re special just because you beat him once? That was pure luck, you’re a nobody!" she added, trying to move down the stands as if she genuinely intended to confront him face-to-face. Two of her friends grabbed her by the arms, trying to de-escalate the situation.
“Calm down, calm down!”
“It’s just a tournament!”
“You’re going to cause a scene!”
“He started it!” she yelled, pointing toward the field, while Andrew was already walking back as if nothing had happened at all.
After the touchdown, there was still one play left: the point-after conversion. In this kind of tournament, there were no extra point kicks.
Instead, teams had a chance to run a conversion play from a specific yard line:
From the 3-yard line = 1 point.
From the 10-yard line = 2 points.
The entire black team huddled in a semicircle to make the decision: go for 1 point or 2?
Though really, everyone’s eyes were on number 21.
Noah couldn’t take his eyes off Andrew. Who the hell was this guy?
Andrew made several hand signals.
"What’s he saying?" Edward asked, wearing a puzzled expression, looking at Noah.
"He says… we’re going for the two-point conversion," Noah replied.
“We have the lead. Better to play it safe. Let’s not risk it just for show,” said Edward, and everyone agreed—except Andrew.
Andrew looked at him. Just for a second. Then he gave a faint sneer of contempt and, without saying a word, took his position at the three-yard line.
“Set… hut!” Edward called, and the ball was snapped to his hands.
Arik once again broke through the quarterback's protection, but this time Edward reacted—the distance was short. Just three yards. He quickly threw it to Noah, who was running a short route from the right.
Clean catch. One foot in. Extra point. 7 to 0.
Edward and the others celebrated. Everyone except Andrew, who calmly walked to the sideline.
The crowd couldn’t deny their disappointment—they had been expecting another showdown between Arik and number 21.
The green team’s offense failed to score a touchdown. Malik, number 96, led the defensive unit with authority. He made a couple of key tackles, barked out instructions, and moved across the field with the swagger of someone who knows they’re dominating.
And when fourth down came without enough progress… turnover. Change of possession.
What the crowd had been hoping for finally happened. Andrew and Arik were back on the field. A new, likely clash incoming—everyone believed Edward would pass it to number 21 again, since there wouldn’t be enough time for another play, or else Arik would flatten the quarterback.
“Crush him, baby!” shouted the brown-haired girl, bloodthirsty for revenge.
“Set… hut!” yelled Edward as he received the ball.
This time, Arik broke through the quarterback's line faster than before. He was clearly out for blood, and if Edward didn’t throw it to Andrew, he was going to be crushed to satisfy Arik’s thirst for payback.
With even less time than before, Edward passed it to Andrew—just as everyone expected.
Andrew caught the ball and saw Arik already charging at him. Only a few yards between them.
'If I try a stiff arm like before, he’ll destroy me…' thought Andrew, knowing a player like Arik wouldn’t fall for the same trick twice.
Instead of running straight, Andrew slightly leaned his torso to the right, moving his shoulder as if to dodge in that direction.
Arik took the bait. He committed hard to his left, trying to cut off the angle. But it was a fake.
Just as the collision seemed inevitable, Andrew planted his left foot firmly, shifted all his weight onto it, and spun with such clean brutality it looked unreal.
A change of direction. A juke—precise and perfect.
A juke is a body feint (usually with the torso, shoulders, or hips) paired with a quick cut to deceive the defender.
Arik, a high-level high school player, was used to detecting fakes, reacting to false moves, and reading body language in motion… and yet, he got fooled.
Andrew’s juke got him completely. It was executed flawlessly.
Arik stumbled forward, off-balance. His legs couldn’t follow the twist, and his upper body tried to overcorrect, which only made things worse.
His feet tangled, and he collapsed to the turf like a sack of cement—while Andrew kept running.
The stadium held its breath for a split second.
Then it exploded.
“Did you see that?!”
“He broke him! He broke him!”
“He destroyed his hips!”
“Number 21, be my dad!”
Andrew kept a firm stride toward the end zone. Only one defender stood in his way—and he dove for him.
Andrew waited. And just as the defender reached out, Andrew subtly twisted his body, raised his right arm, and delivered a clean stiff arm. The defender’s helmet slammed into the turf.
Andrew took two more steps, crossing the line. Touchdown.
