Invisible To Her Bully (Jessa and Noah) novel Chapter 169

**Hearts Written in Silent Rain by Ava Bloomfield**
**Chapter 169**

**Noah**

As the third quarter ticked away, the opposing team’s offense capitalized on a glaring lapse in our coverage, pushing the score to 21-14. A collective groan rose from our section of the stands, while the Clear Springs fans erupted in a cacophony of cheers, their jubilation echoing like thunder through the stadium.

On the sidelines, a restless energy coursed through my muscles, a coiled spring ready to unleash. Every time our offense took the field, I channeled that energy, digging in harder, hitting harder, and driving my opponent off the line as if he had personally offended my family.

Midway through the third quarter, during a timeout, I couldn’t resist the urge to steal a glance at the stands.

There she was—Jessa. Standing tall, her hands gripping a foam finger tightly, her eyes locked onto the field with an intensity that made my heart race. I could see her lips moving, perhaps whispering prayers or curses—maybe a mix of both—as Mariah, in her usual fiery spirit, animatedly yelled at the referees, her frustration palpable.

A surge of determination welled up inside me. I wanted to do something for her, for them, for everything we were fighting for on that field.

As the fourth quarter approached, the clock was mercilessly ticking down. We were still trailing by seven points, and the tension in the air was almost electric.

Coach gathered us on the sideline after we managed to stop their offense. With just 2:10 left on the clock, it was our moment to seize the game.

He turned his gaze to Jackson first. “You good?”

Jackson nodded, his focus unwavering, the quintessential look of a quarterback ready for battle etched on his face.

Then Coach’s eyes shifted to me. “Carter.”

“Yeah, Coach?” I replied, my heart racing.

“This series is on both of you. Keep him upright. Make your blocks. Stay disciplined. We’ve practiced that heavy package enough that you know what to do if I call it.”

Heavy package. The report-eligible package. My heart raced at the thought.

“Yes, sir,” I affirmed, determination flooding through me.

We jogged back to the huddle, the crowd on their feet, the entire stadium buzzing like a hive of bees, anticipation crackling in the air.

Jackson called the first play—a short pass followed by a run. We gained precious yards, the chains moved, and the crowd erupted into a deafening roar.

On the next play, it was second down and long, and as we huddled again, the pounding of my heart felt like a drumbeat in my ears, even through my helmet.

Jackson locked eyes with me. “You ready if he calls it?”

I swallowed hard, the weight of the moment pressing down. “Yeah.”

He smirked, a flash of mischief in his eyes. “You better be. I’m not explaining to Jessa why you dropped my perfect pass.”

I snorted, the tension easing slightly. “Shut up.”

Then, through the headset, I heard Coach’s voice relay the call to Jackson.

Trick formation. Jumbo look. Me reporting as eligible.

My pulse skyrocketed.

We broke the huddle cautiously, trying to keep our strategy under wraps.

I jogged over to the referee as we had practiced, informing him of my alignment. He nodded and signaled it, his arm slicing through the air.

Clear Springs didn’t seem to fully buy it; I noticed their safety shift, but their front line still braced for a run, their stance betraying their expectations.

We settled into position, Jackson under center this time. My knuckles dug into the turf, feeling the earth beneath me.

The stadium noise faded into a dull roar, a backdrop to the moment unfolding.

“Blue eighty! Blue eighty! Set-hut!”

I exploded off the line, delivering a hard jab to my defender as if we were executing a sweep, then I faded off him toward the flat.

For a fleeting moment, I was unmarked.

Then the ball soared through the air.

I watched it leave Jackson’s hand, and time seemed to slow to a crawl.

The spiral descended toward me, perfectly placed, chest-high. My hands closed around it, the wet leather slapping against my gloves.

“Go!” someone yelled from behind me.

Adrenaline surged through my veins like a freight train.

I tucked the ball under my arm and turned upfield.

I wasn’t the fastest guy on the team, nor the flashiest. I was the one who threw my body into the fray so the speedy players could shine.

But in that moment, the field opened up before me.

A linebacker lunged for my legs, and I leaped over him—not gracefully, but enough to clear the obstacle. Their safety misread my speed, taking a poor angle, and I cut inside him, shoulders burning, heart pounding fiercely.

The crowd erupted into a frenzy. I could hear their screams, the pounding of feet in the metal stands, the band starting to play and then abruptly stopping, caught up in the chaos.

The end zone loomed closer.

Five yards.

Three.

I crossed the line, barely registering it until the referee’s arms shot up beside me, signaling a touchdown.

For a heartbeat, I stood there, breathless, the ball still clutched tightly in my hands, my mind lagging behind the reality of what had just happened.

Then the moment exploded into chaos.

Jackson barreled into me from behind, shouting something indistinguishable but filled with raw excitement. My teammates piled on, helmets colliding with mine, hands pounding my pads in celebration.

“Big man with wheels!” someone shouted, laughter ringing out.

“Let’s go!” another voice chimed in.

“Hell yeah, Carter!” someone else added.

The scoreboard flickered and changed to 21-20.

Without missing a beat, Coach signaled for us to go for two.

The two-point play was a straightforward power run. Our running back plowed through behind me and the left guard, pushing us ahead to 22-21.

We had taken the lead.

The stadium erupted into sheer madness.

Our defense held strong during the final desperate drive from Clear Springs. Their last pass hit the turf, sealing our victory.

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