The game raged on.
Lincoln pressed, passed, probed—but Crenshaw North's wall refused to crack.
At the back, Javion stood like concrete molded into flesh. Every charge, every darting run, slammed into him and broke apart.
His presence anchored the chaos, turning wild pressure into a shield that Lincoln couldn't pierce.
Even the crowd seemed to feed off his defiance.
Every time he intercepted a run, their voices rose, rolling like thunder across the bleachers.
His cleats carved trenches into the frostbitten turf, his breath fogging heavy in the winter air.
Lincoln's players tried, again and again, but each attempt was devoured by the same immovable wall.
It felt less like they were playing against a defender and more like they were throwing themselves at the gates of a fortress.
The clock ticked. The cold gnawed deeper.
Then—
Prrrriitttt.
The referee's whistle cut the air.
Halftime.
Lincoln trailed, 1–0.
…
