The Patriots' team doctor reached the fallen safety first. One glance and his face tightened. The abdomen was swollen, severe internal bleeding obvious. The player was unconscious, but his pupils weren't dilated, and he was still breathing with a faint carotid pulse.
"Clear the airway! Get oxygen on him—move! Get him to the hospital now!" the doctor barked.
The two trainers hurried to work, strapping on the oxygen mask and signaling for the stretcher. The doctor spun back toward the other body sprawled across the sideline—Newman Dakar.
His heart dropped.
The Man-Eating Shark's chest wasn't moving.
He pressed two fingers against the carotid artery. Nothing.
Bill Belichick knelt down, sweat dripping from his forehead. "Well? Is there still hope?"
The doctor didn't answer. Dakar's pupils were beginning to dilate, and his chest remained still. Without wasting a second, the doctor started chest compressions.
---
Back on the Jets' sideline, Zhao Dong had just sat down when Lions linebacker Hanks charged over.
"Zhao! Holy hell, you nearly killed him!" Hanks shouted, eyes wide.
Coaches and staff swarmed around, concern written on every face. The team doctor jogged in, checking Zhao Dong quickly.
"You hurt?"
"I'm fine." Zhao Dong puffed out his chest, then took two deep, strong breaths to prove it.
---
Up in the booth, Russell Neveda's tone was more measured, though the tension was clear.
"It looks like real trouble for New England. Safety No. 21 has been carried off after oxygen was administered, but Newman Dakar is still receiving emergency treatment on the sideline. Let's hope—let's pray—they're both okay."
His partner Wells Michael made the sign of the cross. "God bless those men. But Russell, that collision—my word. That was like a semi-truck hauling downhill at full throttle smashing into a car stuck at a red light. Dakar underestimated the sprinting Zhao, and he paid dearly."
Neveda crossed himself as well, shaking his head. "Zhao Dong looked small compared to Dakar's frame, but don't be fooled. That's no ordinary body. He's built like steel—took the most brutal hit of the season and jogged back to the bench as if nothing happened. We might be looking at the strongest man in NFL history."
Michael nodded eagerly. "And now Dakar has proven it with his own body—if even he couldn't stop Zhao Dong after a full-field sprint, then who can? A bigger defensive tackle? Maybe. But Russell, would you really want to try it?"
Neveda leaned forward. "If they just stand there waiting, like Dakar did, it's suicide. The only chance is to meet him earlier—before he builds that momentum. But even then, that collision might be even more violent. The defender risks his life, and Zhao Dong risks serious injury. My advice? Don't do it. Don't even try. He's like a Tyrannosaurus in steel armor. Stay out of his way."
---
Three minutes later, after relentless CPR, Dakar pulse flickered back. Relief swept through the Patriots' bench. Dakar was strapped to a stretcher and rushed to the hospital.
But the damage was done. Two defensive starters gone in one play. The Patriots sideline was silent, grim-faced players exchanging worried looks.
Belichick buried his face in his hands. He'd gambled with a special-teams tactic, flooding the kickoff squad with defensive starters to pin the Jets deep. Now his secondary was gutted, and his most feared pass rusher was gone.
The safety could be replaced. But Dakar? No substitute could replicate his presence. Without him, the Patriots' front four lost its bite, their pocket pressure vanished, and the Jets' quarterback would have all day to throw.
Belichick exhaled heavily. Across the field, his eyes locked on the Jets' bench. Zhao Dong sat there calmly, a monster wrapped in a calm frame—an armored Tyrannosaurus waiting for his next charge.
How were they supposed to stop him now?
---
Beep!
The referee's whistle signaled the restart. Both special teams jogged back onto the field.
Bang!
Jets kicker Hans Clingham booted the extra point straight through the uprights. 7–0, Jets.
The offense and defense switched. Zhao Dong tightened his chinstrap, jogged back out—this time lining up at middle linebacker.
Today, he wasn't just a returner. He was the defensive field general, the commander with the authority to shift formations on the fly.
There was a green, round label on the back of Zhao Dong's helmet—a mark that symbolized his role as the core of the defense. Inside the helmet was a receiver, one-way only. He could listen, but never talk back.
From the sideline, Head Coach Edward, the defensive assistant, and the defensive coordinator could call in plays and adjustments.
If Edward barked out "anti-run," the defensive coordinator immediately relayed the details, and Zhao Dong had to shift the formation on the fly.
But there was a catch. Ten seconds before the snap, the system automatically shut off. After that, it was all instincts, adjustments, and field command.
---
Zhao Dong lined up one yard behind the Lions' two massive defensive tackles—Herb Hanks and his partner. He stood dead center between them, the quarterback of the defense.
On the opposite sideline, Tom Brady called his Patriots into a huddle. He dropped to one knee, his voice calm but cutting through the noise.
"Tom, we gotta teach that damn guy a lesson," one of his teammates growled.
The others nodded. All eyes fell on Brady.
Brady gave a short, cold snort. "Leave it to me. I'll handle it."
---
The Patriots came to the line.
Zhao Dong narrowed his eyes. "I-formation? Going to the ground game?"
Brady stood one yard behind the center. A halfback lined up right behind him, and a fullback shaded to the right. A classic run look.
Then Zhao Dong's headset crackled alive one last time.
> "Zhao, watch the fake run, real pass. If the pocket breaks, shoot the gap fast. Also watch for misdirection—they might show strong-side motion but sneak the halfback weak. Lock your eyes on the ball."
Ten seconds left. The headset cut out.
Zhao Dong exhaled slowly. This was his first live game as middle linebacker. Training reps were one thing—this was another. Pressure pressed heavy on his chest.
He barked to his teammates, sharp and clear:
"Eyes on the pass! Weak side—watch that halfback breaking outside!"
He didn't care if the Patriots heard. They had no time to change now.
---
"Set!" Brady shouted.
"Kickoff!" Russell Nevida's voice boomed from behind.
The ball snapped.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Helmets cracked, pads collided—pure chaos in the trenches.
Hanks roared through the middle, blowing up the pocket. He drove the right tackle flat on his back, shoved the center off balance. The wall in front of Brady collapsed like paper.
Zhao Dong surged forward, seeing daylight. A lane had opened right to the quarterback.
Brady spun, extending the ball toward his halfback.
Real handoff—or fake?
If it was real, the halfback had the rock. If fake, Brady was setting up to throw.
Zhao Dong had already prepped the weak-side linebacker to contain the outside run. He made the call: ignore the handoff—go straight for Brady.
---
"Go get him!" Nevida roared.
Zhao Dong blasted through. Brady had just released the ball into his halfback's gut when Zhao Dong slammed him down.
"Yeah! Zhao with the sack—wait, no!" Nevida's voice cracked mid-cheer.
Because in that moment, the Patriots' fullback bulldozed through the same gap Zhao Dong had vacated. Behind him, the halfback powered through, ball tucked tight.
They hadn't gone wide at all. It was a straight shot up the gut.
Bang!
The fullback got crushed by Hanks, but it was enough. The halfback slipped through the line, hit open field, and rumbled forward before the weak-side linebacker wrestled him down.
Four yards. First down yardage cut. Patriots moving.
"Damn it!" Zhao Dong cursed, climbing off Brady. He realized too late—Brady had baited him. The sack was a trap. His hit had blown the gate wide open for the run.
When Zhao Dong looked back, Brady was already on his feet, smirking, eyes glinting with quiet mockery.
"Well done, Tom," one of the Patriots laughed, slapping Brady's helmet.
The offense huddled again, celebrating as they lined up their next play.
As Zhao Dong lingered nearby, one of New England's offensive tackles shoved him roughly aside.
"Get lost, rookie. Don't try eavesdropping on our calls."
Zhao Dong snorted, turned, and jogged back toward his defense. The weight of the mistake sat heavy—but the game was far from over.
---
(End of Chapter)
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