The clock is ticking, and I'm supposed to be here, in this moment. But my mind keeps slipping. Not to the 49ers, who are clawing at our throats, but to the Snworb. The Snworb. Even the name conjures an uneasy hum in my chest. I see their defense, moving like smoke—no, like predators. Ickbe Chill, that joker in a headset, crafting chaos. And Jack Hueson? He's a spider weaving plays so sticky you don't realize you're caught until the whistle blows.

My double passer system... will it be enough?

"Coach?" a voice snaps me back. Percy Ybett is looking at me, ball in hand, waiting. The game is tied. The clock is running thin. My mouth forms the words—Shadow Spiral Mirage Flick—but my mind is still tangled in a web of what-ifs.

~~~

Fuß and Baal - football's arbiters - watch. They are present in every spiral, every snap. Fuß, the god of athleticism, frowns as he watches Ddob Towels' thoughts drift far from the field. "Towels abandons the moment," he says, his voice heavy with judgment.

Baal, god of strategy, nods gravely. "He forgets that all futures are built on the present. This transgression must be corrected."

~~~

I watch as Percy takes the snap and slings it to Fitzryan, as planned. Fitzryan pivots, the second pass coiling in his arm like a promise. But the wind picks up, fierce and sudden, twisting the ball into a wobbling mess. My heart sinks as it flutters into enemy hands.

An interception. A 49ers cornerback clutches the ball and charges downfield, leaving despair in his wake. Stony Brook Stadium explodes with groans and expletives, but I hear them only faintly. My stomach churns as I watch the tide turn, our first seed hopes slipping out of my grasp.

Even before the play ends, I'm checking the Snworb score on my LG G5. They've won, of course: 23-10 over the Bengals.

~~~

Far away, Fuß leans back, his frown easing into grim satisfaction. Beside him, Baal murmurs, "The gridiron is no place for divided minds."

Advance Regress