I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter 55: Emergency
The old game footage rolled, grainy and unforgiving. Jon leaned forward, elbows on his desk, eyes narrowing as his team stumbled through play after play.
It was painful to watch.
West Valley had steamrolled them.
Not because his team lacked talent, Jon realized, but because they lacked composure. Coordination. Heart.
They cracked the second things got hard, Jon thought grimly, watching a defensive lineman miss an easy tackle because he lost focus. Another clip: a wide receiver giving up on a route when he could've fought for the ball.
West Valley wasn't that much better athletically—but they played like a pack of wolves.
Fast, ruthless, relentless.
Jon clicked pause. He stared at the screen, then replayed a key moment: Our quarterback panicked under pressure and lobbed a ball right into enemy hands.
Pick-six. Crowd exploding. Players' heads dropping.
They didn't just beat our team, Jon thought. They broke them. The realization lit a slow, dangerous fire in Jon's veins.
Not this year.
He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his messy black hair. This year, they had him. And Terry. And a team that had been humiliated enough to want revenge like air in their lungs.
Jon scrubbed through the footage, his mind already mapping out possibilities. West Valley's defense blitzed heavy in the first half, then fell back into zone when they were ahead. They're aggressive early, but predictable once they think they've won.
He could use that.
Short passes to tire them out. Quick reads. Delay their momentum until it snapped under its own arrogance.
Jon caught himself smiling. Not the cocky smile he used to tease Alex or Terry. No, this was something deeper. Sharper.
Friday night wasn't just a game. It was payback. It was about proving that our team didn't break last year—they bent. And when they snapped back, it was going to hurt.
He looked over at Ghost, who had finished eating and was now sitting by the door, tail flicking lazily.
Jon chuckled under his breath. "You're gonna have to watch the house for me this Friday night, little man," Jon said, grabbing a notepad. He jotted down a few thoughts—nothing elaborate, just quick instincts:
Fast starts, punish overconfidence.
Short, high-percentage throws.
Keep emotions high, but heads cool.
Play like a wolfpack.
Jon leaned back again, tapping his pen against the pad. Tomorrow, he'd bring this energy to practice. Not barking orders—he wasn't the coach or the quarterback—but setting the tone. Focused. Relentless. The way West Valley thought they were.
He glanced at the clock. Still early evening. Still enough time to get in some extra conditioning—push a little harder while the others rested.
Jon stood up, grabbing a hoodie from the back of his chair. Ghost meowed indignantly at being left behind, but Jon just smiled and scratched him behind the ears.
"I'll be back soon," he promised. "Then you can sit on my head if you want."
Ghost gave a reluctant purr and padded over to curl up on Jon's pillow.
Jon slipped out of his room, hoodie pulled over his head, headphones slung around his neck. The house buzzed quietly—Gloria's distant humming, Jay flipping channels, Manny no doubt reading or plotting his next dramatic performance.
But for Jon, the world had shrunk. There was only one date marked in red in his mind now.
Friday night.
Payback.
And he was going to make damn sure West Valley remembered his name.
Jon pulled his hoodie on, grabbed his car keys, and was about to open the door when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out and saw the caller ID: Phil Dunphy.
Jon frowned. Phil never called unless something was up—or unless he wanted to rope Jon into one of his "bonding adventures."
Still, something in Phil's voice when he answered made Jon pause. "Jon, buddy! I need your help. It's urgent. Get here as soon as you can," Phil said, oddly serious.
Too serious.
Jon straightened up. "What happened?" But Phil had already hung up.
Jon didn't waste another second. He tossed the keys into his hand, jogged to his car, and peeled out of the driveway. His mind raced with possibilities—something with Haley? Luke? Claire? Maybe Phil tried to fix something again and the house was flooding?
When he pulled up to the Dunphy house, the place looked... normal. Lights on. No smoke. No sirens.
Phil opened the door the moment Jon reached it, wearing his signature too-wide smile.
Jon stepped inside cautiously. "You said it was urgent," he said, looking around. "What happened? I was expecting an emergency."
Phil patted Jon on the shoulder with a kind of solemn pride. "It is an emergency," he said gravely. "An emergency... of the heart."
Jon groaned internally. Of course. This wasn't about life or death. It was about Sam.
"Phil," Jon said, voice flat, "I appreciate it, but really, I'm fine."
Phil gave him a look that suggested Jon had just confessed to being a robot incapable of feelings. "No, no, no," Phil said, wagging a finger. "Denial is the first stage. Or maybe it's anger? I keep mixing them up."
Before Jon could protest further, Phil darted into the kitchen and reappeared carrying something like it was the Holy Grail.
A dusty, old wooden box. Jon blinked at it as Phil proudly called it as his old Break-Up kit.
Phil placed it ceremoniously on the coffee table and opened it with a flourish. Inside were an array of items that looked like they'd been packed somewhere between 1997 and 2002.
Cassette tapes labeled 'Love Jams Vol. 1–5.' There were also instructions labeled 'How to delete mixtapes made for your ex.'
A dog-eared instruction booklet titled "How to Win the Breakup (By Surviving It First)." And, at the bottom, a stack of crumpled, fading photos of a teenage Phil and Claire posing awkwardly under terrible 90s hairdos.
Jon sat down heavily on the couch. Not because he wanted to—because he no longer had the energy to fight this. He watched as Phil eagerly thumbed through the items, holding up each one like it was a priceless artifact.
Jon barely held back a laugh when Phil seriously tried to hand him a checklist titled "Top Ten Signs You're Ready to Date Again (You'll Know When You See a Unicorn)."
As Phil kept pulling out one ridiculous item after another, Jon sat back and thought about how maybe, in a weird way, this was good.
He had been fired up after watching that brutal footage, ready to punish his body even more. Truth was, after today's practice, he was running on fumes.
Phil's chaotic attempt at emotional triage was probably the only thing stopping him from doing something stupidly exhausting.
Phil, meanwhile, seemed to realize the Break-Up Kit wasn't having the profound healing effect he'd hoped for. He scratched his head, looked around conspiratorially, and then clapped his hands.
"You know what's even better than a break up kit?" Phil said brightly.
Jon raised an eyebrow.
Phil pointed toward the backyard.
"Trampoline time."
Jon blinked. He glanced outside, where in the far corner of the yard sat a large trampoline. Battered, slightly lopsided, but still very much alive.
Phil smiled at him with the innocence of a Labrador retriever about to play fetch. "Come on," Phil said. "Nothing clears the soul like bouncing as high as your hopes used to be."
Jon snorted despite himself, shaking his head. "Only you, Phil."
But when Phil opened the sliding door and beckoned like a proud magician unveiling his grand trick, Jon couldn't help but stand up.
Maybe some jumping wasn't the worst idea after all.