"I didn't mean to do it! I didn't mean to do it!"
The Giants' run blocker scrambled to his feet, panicked. Seeing Zhao Dong charging at him like an enraged bull, he backpedaled in terror and ducked behind his teammates.
"Zhao, cool it! It was an accident—just an accident…" A couple of Giants players threw up their hands, trying to shield him.
Too late. The Jets stormed across the line, shoving the Giants back. Helmets clashed, tempers boiled over, and it looked like a brawl was about to explode.
Beep! Beep! Beep!
The referees sprinted in, whistles screaming, trying desperately to wedge themselves between the two teams. But there were too few of them, and adrenaline was running too high.
Then it broke loose.
Benches emptied, fists swung, and the stadium shook with chaos. Jets players were throwing shoves, Giants players were barking back, and the crowd roared as if they'd been waiting all week for this fight. Even in the stands, tempers flared—fans cursed, shoved, and spilled beer like it was part of the game plan.
Security poured in, dozens of them, forcing bodies apart until the melee finally sputtered out.
Thankfully, everyone was in pads and helmets. Nobody was seriously hurt—just a whole lot of rage, scratches, and wasted punches on face masks. Zhao Dong's haymakers thudded uselessly against helmets; he wanted blood, but couldn't rip a lid off mid-fight.
Separated at last, the two sidelines kept jawing, exchanging curses as security held the line.
The head referee huddled his crew, then announced the ruling: offsetting unsportsmanlike conduct on both teams—but the Giants were slapped with an additional 15-yard penalty for the dangerous trip.
The ball was moved up from the 16-yard line to the 31.
Jets fans erupted in cheers. Giants fans booed.
---
On the Jets sideline, Edward, the head coach, rushed over with the staff, faces pale.
"Zhao, are you good?"
"I'm fine." Zhao Dong shook his head, eyes still blazing. "But these bastards are looking for trouble tonight. This isn't over."
Thor Mager, the offensive lineman nicknamed Thunder God, slammed his helmet with a fist. "They're not even a real New York team! Giants left the city back in '57. They don't deserve this town. Just smash 'em, and we'll kick them right out of New York."
He wasn't wrong. The Jets were the city's heart now. The Giants had history, but Zhao Dong and his crew were rewriting it.
Lion, another veteran, leaned close. "They're coming for you, Zhao. Be sharp."
Zhao Dong just nodded, strapping his chin guard.
---
The Jets' offense jogged onto the field. Edward had slotted Zhao Dong in as fullback—at least, that's what the Giants thought.
In truth, it was misdirection. The halfback was the decoy. Zhao Dong was the real weapon.
Both sides lined up. The Jets in a classic I-formation: center Thor over the ball, quarterback Paul Welling one yard deep, Zhao Dong offset to the left, halfback trailing behind.
"Set… HUT!"
Thor snapped the ball back. Paul Welling faked the handoff to the halfback, who burst left as if running outside zone. The Giants' defense immediately flowed that way, crashing toward the halfback.
But the ball? It never left Welling's hands.
With sleight of hand, he tucked it into Zhao Dong's side as the big man stepped forward like nothing had happened.
The defense bought it. Their linebackers and linemen shifted left, chasing the ghost run.
By the time they realized the fullback still had the rock, it was too late.
"Not good!"
Panther Ringer Howard spun around, eyes wide, just in time to see the ball cradled in Zhao Dong's arm. He lunged back across the field, but Zhao Dong had already broken through the middle, blowing past the center linebacker untouched.
"Ball! Ball!" the Giants' middle linebacker screamed, pointing frantically. But Zhao Dong was already into second gear, thundering toward daylight.
"Ohhh, it's in Tyrannosaurus' hands!" Russell Neveda's voice cracked with excitement in the booth. "He just slipped past the cornerback—he's across the forty-five!"
"My God!" Wells Michael shouted. "The Jets just ran a perfect misdirection—feint left, hammer right—and it worked to perfection!"
On the turf, Zhao Dong was a locomotive at full tilt. He left the linebacker in his dust, shook off Howard's desperate dive, and faced the next wave: a corner, a linebacker, and a safety closing in.
He dipped left, cutting into space. The Giants' defense overcommitted, five bodies collapsing to the left side.
Among the five or six defenders closing in, two of them were as nasty as the Panthers' enforcers—they had their eyes locked on Zhao Dong, ready to go low and dirty if they got the chance.
"Can he get through?"
Tens of thousands of Jets fans rose to their feet, fists clenched, hearts in their throats.
And then, just as the Giants' defense collapsed in, Zhao Dong fired the ball.
A quick horizontal pass from the 53-yard line, zipped all the way to the right sideline.
At the Giants' 48-yard line, wide receiver Tom Hanks hauled it in and took off.
A cornerback was hot on his heels, half a step behind, sprinting with everything he had. But Zhao Dong's throw had ripped the Giants' defense apart like a can opener—the coverage was broken.
Tom snagged the ball clean, planted, and immediately felt the corner closing. At the last instant, he juked hard to the side. The defender whiffed, crashing into nothing but air.
Now there was daylight. Nothing but open field stretched between Tom and the end zone.
The safeties and linebackers, all pulled left by Zhao Dong's fake, were too far out of position. They scrambled desperately, but they were never going to catch him.
Touchdown.
Tom sprinted across the goal line and spiked the ball into the turf with a thunderous thud. The stadium erupted.
"OHHHH!"
Jets fans went berserk, their roars drowning out everything else. The Giants' home field had just been hijacked and turned into a Jets party.
"Damn it!" Panther Ringer Howard cursed, glaring at Zhao Dong with fire in his eyes.
---
In the booth, Russell Neveda nearly lost his voice. "Unbelievable! The Jets score a touchdown on their very first play from scrimmage! What a statement start!"
Wells Michael shouted over him, just as wild: "First, they sell the run left, then Zhao flips it into a pass—absolute brilliance! That's back-to-back misdirection calls, and both worked to perfection!"
Russell laughed. "And don't forget—Zhao Dong isn't just a runner. He's like a point guard out there, controlling the field. With his size, vision, and short-to-midrange passing, he looks like he could line up as a quarterback tomorrow."
"He's got it all," Wells agreed. "Calm under pressure, high football IQ, and the physical tools. He's proving he's more than just muscle."
---
As the offense jogged off, Zhao Dong clapped Tom on the shoulder.
"Tom, hell of a grab. Keep making plays like that, you're on your way to being a star."
Tom beamed. "Zhao, that was your pass. You put it right on me."
Thor Mager, never missing a chance to stir the pot, yelled from behind them. "Tom, you're in the top ten for touchdowns now! Drinks on you!"
Tom laughed, nodding. "Fine, I'll treat you guys tomorrow. Count on it!"
The kid had speed, no doubt top-tier in the league. His hands were reliable too. Experience was the only thing he lacked—but tonight, he was proving he belonged.
Unfortunately, the extra point went sideways. Kicker Hans Clingham shanked it wide right, leaving the Jets with a 6–0 lead.
Thor shouted from the sideline, grinning ear to ear, "Hans! Coach Philip says he's gonna rip out your brain and stuff it back down your throat!"
Hans winced. "Damn it, Thor—can you keep it down?" He ducked his head, avoiding Edward's glare, and buried himself in the crowd.
Missing a chip-shot extra point was the most embarrassing thing in football. No rush, no excuse. Eighteen feet wide, ten feet high—and he flat-out missed.
---
Next came the defensive series. Zhao Dong strapped back in at middle linebacker, barking orders.
The Giants came out in shotgun, clearly looking to attack through the air.
"Single-gap!" Zhao Dong yelled, adjusting the front. He wanted Lion to blow open the A-gap and give him a clear shot at the quarterback.
The ball snapped.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Bodies collided like trucks on the line. Lion roared forward, smashing the left guard and cracking open a seam. Zhao Dong shot through it like a cannonball.
The Giants' quarterback backpedaled, eyes darting. His first read—star wideout Leopard Reynolds Ruhl—was still blanketed. No window.
Zhao Dong closed fast.
Panic set in. The QB dumped it toward his tight end, rushed and off-target. The ball hit the turf. Incomplete.
The whistle blew. The Jets' defense had held.
---
In the booth, Russell Neveda chuckled. "That's what Zhao Dong does—his closing speed is elite. When Lion clears the way, quarterbacks have seconds, maybe less."
Wells nodded. "That's why he got to Tom Brady twice last week. If you don't build a fortress in front of him, you're done."
Russell leaned in. "And here's the thing—this league has a hard salary cap. You can only afford two, maybe three stars. But Zhao Dong plays like three different stars rolled into one. Offense, defense, special teams—he impacts every unit."
"That's the nightmare," Wells said with a grin. "In the NBA, you can dodge that by paying luxury tax and stacking superteams. Here? No luxury tax. No loophole. You can't pay your way out of Zhao Dong."
Russell laughed. "And that's exactly why the Jets might own this league for years."
(End of Chapter)
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