Date: January 3, 1990 (Wednesday).
Location: Highland Park High School.
Event: The First Day of the Spring Semester / Off-Season Day 1.
**05:30 AM.**
The alarm didn't buzz. It clicked.
I hit the button on the gold stopwatch Dad gave me.
I sat up. I rotated my right ankle.
Clockwise. Counter-clockwise. Flex. Point.
*Nothing.*
No pain. No stiffness. No "Statue Mode" limitation.
For the first time since the Quarterfinal against Carter, I was whole.
Actually, I was better than whole. The "Mahomes Template" wasn't fighting against an injury anymore. I felt lighter. My joints felt loose, elastic. I felt like a rubber band pulled tight, waiting to snap.
I walked to the mirror.
The scrawny kid from Chapter 1 was gone. The "skinny-fat" phase was over.
At 5'10" and 165 pounds, I wasn't huge like a linebacker, but I was wired. Lean muscle. Veins in the forearms. The build of a shortstop who could hit home runs.
I put on my clothes: clean jeans, a plain white t-shirt, and my beat-up Nikes.
I grabbed the leather playmaker's notebook.
It was time to go to work.
***
The Parking Lot
**07:45 AM.**
Pulling into the Highland Park High School student lot was like driving into a dealership.
BMW 3-Series. Convertible Mustangs. A few Porsches.
And then there was us—the Cooper family U-Haul truck (Dad hadn't returned it yet) and my rusty pickup.
I killed the engine. It sputtered and died with a loud *bang* that echoed off the expensive sedans.
Heads turned.
I stepped out.
The conversations stopped.
It wasn't like the movies where the new kid gets bullied.
It was quiet. Calculated.
They knew who I was.
I was the kid from the "hick town" who walked into Texas Stadium and hung a loss on them.
I was the Kingslayer.
A guy in a varsity letterman jacket walked by. **Braden**, the Senior Quarterback.
He stopped. He looked at me. He looked at my truck.
"Cooper," he nodded. Not friendly. But respectful.
"Braden," I nodded back.
He kept walking.
"Fascinating," Sheldon said, climbing out of the passenger side with his briefcase. "The social hierarchy here is based on vehicular value, yet your status as a 'Conqueror' overrides the economic disparity. It is standard primate behavior."
"Just get to class, Sheldon," I said.
***
The Weight Room
**03:00 PM (Athletic Period).**
This was the moment.
The locker room smelled different than Medford. In Medford, it smelled like rust and Deep Heat. Here, it smelled like cologne and floor wax.
The team was gathered. About 60 guys.
They were big. They were well-fed. They looked like they had been lifting weights since they were twelve.
But they were leaning against the lockers, laughing, tossing a ball around. Relaxed.
Then George Sr. walked in.
He was wearing his new Highland Park windbreaker. He wasn't smiling.
He blew the whistle. *TWEEEEET!*
"Listen up!" George barked.
The room went quiet.
"My name is Coach Cooper. Most of you know me. Some of you played against me."
George walked down the line.
"I watched the tape of your playoff loss," George said. "You guys are big. You're fast. You're talented."
He stopped in front of **Preston**, the massive senior Tight End and Captain.
"And you are soft," George said.
The room froze.
"You lost because you got tired," George said. "You lost because when things got hard, you folded. That ends today."
He pointed to the door.
"Everybody on the field. Shorts and t-shirts. Quarterbacks, bring the balls."
***
The Exhibition
It was 45 degrees outside. The wind was biting.
"We start with routes," George yelled. "I want to see what you got. Receivers, line up. Quarterbacks, rotate in."
I grabbed a ball. It felt different in my hand today. The laces felt deeper. The grip felt absolute.
I stood in line behind the other QBs.
There was **Braden** (Senior) and a Junior backup.
Braden dropped back. He had a classic, coached motion. *Step, plant, throw.*
The ball spiraled nicely. Safe. Predictable. It hit the receiver on the numbers.
"Nice ball, Braden," the receiver yelled.
Braden looked at me. "Your turn, Freshman."
I stepped up.
The receiver was **Preston**. He was fast for a big guy. He was running a deep post—about 40 yards downfield.
I dropped back.
My feet felt light. The ground felt solid.
I didn't do the "Step, Plant, Throw."
I channeled the Template.
I drifted to my right. I didn't set my feet perfectly. I threw off-platform, twisting my torso, generating the torque from my hips and core, not just my arm.
*WHIP.*
The ball didn't just spiral. It *hissed*.
It cut through the January wind like it didn't exist.
It flew 45... 50... 55 yards.
Preston didn't have to slow down. He didn't have to speed up.
The ball dropped out of the sky and hit him in stride, right in the facemask. *SMACK.*
Preston stumbled, almost dropping it because the velocity was so high.
Silence.
I jogged up to the line.
"Next," I said.
***
The Freak Show
For the next twenty minutes, it wasn't practice. It was a demonstration.
George Sr. knew what I was doing. He called plays that let me loose.
* "Rollout Left." (I threw back across my body 30 yards on a rope).
* "Scramble Drill." (I juked a linebacker with a spin move that would have snapped my ankle two months ago, then flicked a no-look pass to the sideline).
The "Mahomes" gifts were fully online.
* **The Vision:** I could see the receivers breaking open before they turned their heads.
* **The Elasticity:** I could throw from arm angles that looked anatomically impossible—sidearm, three-quarters, over the top.
The Highland Park players weren't laughing anymore. They were whispering.
"Did you see that?"
"He didn't even set his feet."
"That's the arm that beat Carter."
I walked back to the huddle. Braden was staring at me. He wasn't mad. He looked... resigned.
"You didn't throw like that in the playoffs," Braden said quietly.
"I was hurt in the playoffs," I said, spinning the ball in my hand.
I looked at the receiver group. They were looking at me differently. Not as the "Coach's Kid." Not as the "Poor Kid."
But as the **Asset**.
I looked at George Sr. He was trying hard not to smile.
"Alright!" George yelled. "The arm talent is cute. But arms don't win championships. Legs do. ON THE LINE! MAT DRILLS!"
The groans started.
I sprinted to the front of the line.
My ankle was perfect. My lungs were full.
I hit the line.
"Ready, set, GO!"
I took off.
I wasn't just fast. I was explosive.
I finished the sprint five yards ahead of the nearest senior.
I bent over, hands on my knees.
My lungs burned—but they always did. The difference was, I recovered faster than anyone else.
I stood up. I wasn't winded.
"Let's go," I clapped my hands, channeling that Mahomes leadership. "We're just getting started! Keep up!"
The seniors looked at each other. They looked at the Freshman who was outworking them.
They stopped groaning. They got on the line.
**[Quest Update: The Takeover]**
* **Status:** Respect Earned.
* **Method:** Physical Dominance (The Reveal).
* **Team Morale:** Shocked.
* **Injury:** 0%.