Invisible To Her Bully (Jessa and Noah) novel Chapter 183

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

**Chapter 183**

**Jackson**

As we assembled for what felt like the final drive of our season, my heart thudded in my chest with such ferocity that I feared it would burst through my pads.

**RIDGEVILLE-9**

**CLEARWATER-14**

The fourth quarter was ticking down, less than a minute remaining.

A safety had given us a glimmer of hope—two precious points, a gift from whatever football deity had deemed Clearwater’s quarterback unworthy, forcing him into a sack he never should have taken in the first place.

But even with those two points, we were still behind.

It was close, but close wasn’t enough.

A touchdown was our only salvation.

We broke from the huddle, standing on Clearwater’s ten-yard line, the student section erupting in chaos, the band attempting to rally us with a cacophony of off-key notes, cheerleaders chanting “RIDGEVILLE” for what felt like the thousandth time.

But none of that noise mattered at this moment.

All that existed was me, my teammates, the ten yards of turf ahead,

And a clock that was mercilessly draining away.

“Trips right, 42 jet fade check,” I commanded, my voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through my veins like a wildfire. “Keep an eye on the backside blitz. Carter, don’t let 52 take a breath.”

Noah grunted in agreement. “He’s mine.”

We jogged toward the line, the world narrowing into a tunnel of focus.

Their safety shifted left, corners gripping tightly in man coverage. Linebackers crept closer, poised to pounce on anything short.

I scanned the field, trying to shake off the weight of the crowd’s roar, the pounding in my ears, and the burden of being crowned Homecoming king still resting heavily on my shoulders from halftime.

Ten yards.

Just ten yards stood between us and victory.

“Blue eighty!” I shouted. “Blue eighty! Set… hut!”

**Chapter 81**

The ball slapped into my hands,

and I dropped back, my cleats digging into the turf. One, two, three steps—my pocket was forming.

I glanced right.

Covered.

Left.

Blanketed.

Middle.

Our tight end was shoved off his route, no opening, no chance.

I felt the pocket begin to collapse around me, pressure creeping in from the edge, my right tackle losing ground.

Time warped—slowing down and speeding up all at once.

No one was open.

But then, just for a fleeting heartbeat, I spotted it.

A sliver of opportunity—a crease between their defensive end and linebacker, both charging upfield as if they expected me to remain stagnant and force a risky throw.

I didn’t hesitate.

I took off.

The crowd’s roar shifted in pitch—confusion morphed into hope, escalating into a deafening crescendo that made my vision blur at the edges.

Ten yards away.

I cut inside, narrowly evading a diving hand that brushed against my hip. A desperate grab at my jersey missed, fingers slipping off the fabric like water.

Seven yards.

The linebacker recovered, barreling toward me, eyes zeroed in on my chest.

I lowered my shoulder and charged straight at him.

We collided.

Pain shot through my ribs, but my legs kept driving forward. He wrapped me up, but too high. I twisted, spun, stumbled, somehow managing to stay on my feet.

**Chapelles**

Three yards.

I heard Noah shouting something behind me—pure panic, noise, and unwavering belief.

I pushed forward, cleats tearing into the turf, lungs screaming, heartbeat drowning out the crowd.

The pylon flashed in my peripheral vision.

I reached out.

Crossed the line.

The world erupted.

The referee’s arms shot up, and I didn’t need to hear the words.

Touchdown.

–

For a heartbeat, everything went silent, a blinding light enveloping me as if my mind had short-circuited.

Then Noah barreled into me from behind, grabbing my helmet and shaking it with uncontainable excitement.

“THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT!” he yelled, his voice booming right in my face.

I laughed, gasping for breath, shoving him back playfully. “Knew you had my block.”

“Always,” he replied, grinning so wide it was almost ridiculous.

The band erupted into our fight song. Students screamed in jubilation. The bleachers shook with the force of enthusiastic pounding. Somewhere amidst the chaos, I could hear Mariah’s voice, shrill yet furious in a good way.

Coach didn’t smile—he rarely did—but he punched the air in triumph once.

We kicked the extra point.

16-14.

What followed were the longest twenty-something seconds of defensive play I had ever endured, but our defensive backs held strong. One incomplete pass. One desperate checkdown tackled in bounds.

The clock hit zero.

Game.

Over.

We had claimed victory at Homecoming.

The field was soon engulfed.

Students leaped over the railings. Cheerleaders rushed toward us. Parents embraced their children, as if they had all played a part in this moment.

Someone smacked my helmet from behind with such force that my ears rang.

I stumbled, laughing, half-bent over with my hands resting on my knees.

“You okay, King?” Reyes shouted, clapping my shoulder pads with enthusiasm.

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, it’s starting,” he yelled back. “Game-winning rushing touchdown, Homecoming king—this school’s never going to stop talking about you.”

“Shut up and go find your mom,” I retorted.

He laughed and disappeared into the crowd.

I was soon grabbed by at least six more people—students, parents, even a kid from the freshman team. Everyone wanted to share their thoughts.

“Great run, Jackson!”

“Big words, Lombardi,” she murmured.

“Big truth,” I shot back, our eyes locking in a moment that felt electric.

We stood there, the noise around us fading into a distant roar, the stadium lights casting a golden glow over everything, making it feel surreal. My hand slid from her wrist to the small of her back, fingers resting there as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

I could feel her breathing, quick but steady.

“You killed it tonight,” she said suddenly, her voice gentle. “Not just the touchdown. The way you led the team. The way you controlled the game. You’re not just some popularity king, you know. You’re… good at this.”

“Is that your way of saying you like watching me play?” I asked, a teasing lilt in my voice.

She smirked, a playful glint in her eyes. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late,” I replied, warmth spreading through my chest at her words.

I glanced back down at the faint mascara mark.

Then I took her hand, lifted it, and pressed it against my chest where the mark was, her fingers splayed over my number.

“There,” I said. “Much better.”

Her lips parted into a small, involuntary smile. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yet you’re still holding on,” I pointed out.

“Maybe I like the view,” she shot back, a spark of mischief in her eyes.

Nearby, someone wolf-whistled. Reyes yelled, “GET A ROOM, KING!” from across the field,

and a few teammates laughed.

I shot him a middle finger without releasing her hand.

She laughed, her joy bright and infectious.

“Told you,” she said. “Stupid crown or not, they’re going to be talking about this game for a while.”

“Let them,” I said, my gaze fixed on her. “I know who I’m walking out of here with.”

She leaned in just a fraction, our foreheads almost touching.

“You better,” she whispered, her breath warm against my skin.

And then I kissed her.

Not long. Not dramatic. Just enough to erase the lingering awkwardness from halftime. Enough to replace the memory of Tori’s mascara on my jersey with something that held real meaning.

When we pulled back, she was smiling in that way that made my ribs feel too tight in the best possible way.

“King of the game, huh?” she said softly.

“Only if you’re my queen,” I shot back, my heart racing.

She groaned playfully. “That was so cheesy.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, “but you liked it.”

She didn’t respond.

Instead, she rose up on her toes and kissed me again.

And there, under the stadium lights, with the crowd still celebrating around us and the scoreboard frozen at 16-14, I realized something profound:

The crown didn’t matter.

The title didn’t matter.

The win did—but not in the way I had expected.

What truly mattered was this.

Her hand on my jersey.

Her laughter against my mouth.

Her rolling her eyes at me as if I were both impossible and entirely hers at the same time.

King of Homecoming?

That was the title she had given me without uttering a single word.