The Colts moved the chains three straight times, grinding their way to the Jets' 56-yard line. Then Peyton Manning struck—dropping a perfect 31-yard rainbow over the top, splitting the Jets' coverage.
Star wideout Harris Norman hauled it in, shook free, and sprinted another 14 yards into the end zone. Touchdown, Colts. The extra point was good.
14–7.
The RCA Dome erupted—buzzing like a live wire. Colts fans were on their feet, and the home team's confidence spiked.
---
"Coach, put me in." Zhao Dong stood on the sideline, helmet in hand.
Since the Jets had failed to replace the star-level defensive lineman they'd lost after Zhao Dong defeated the Three-Eyed Monster Venis, their defense wasn't as intimidating as last year. Sitting on the bench while his unit struggled was eating at him.
But head coach Edwards shook his head, motioning for him to stay seated.
Zhao Dong spent the rest of the first quarter on the bench, watching the game unfold.
By the end of the quarter, the scoreboard read 17–17.
---
From there, scoring slowed. Without Zhao Dong on the field, the Jets' offense lacked punch. Manning kept the Colts moving with precise throws, tacking on points through field goals when drives stalled.
Midway through the second quarter, Edward finally called Zhao Dong's number.
Even so, football isn't a one-man game—and Zhao Dong, for all his physical gifts, couldn't single-handedly swing the momentum without the right opportunities.
The Colts' firepower showed again. Manning threw another dart for a touchdown in the second quarter, flipping the score. At halftime, the Colts led 27–20.
The Jets managed only a field goal in that frame. Their offense sputtered; their defense bent under Manning's relentless pressure.
---
The second half was more of the same. The Jets struggled to sustain drives, while Manning dissected their coverage. Zhao Dong fought hard—at one point picking off a Manning pass—but the gap was too wide.
With just 36 seconds left, Manning threw his fourth touchdown of the night. The Colts' extra point made it 41–28. A 13-point lead. Ballgame, right?
---
Not in the NFL.
No matter the score, players fight until the last second—anything less and the fans will let you hear about it.
Edwards called his final timeout, huddling his offense for one last push. This time, he rolled the dice—putting Zhao Dong at wide receiver.
---
The strong-side wide receiver, to be exact.
If a quarterback's left-handed, the left side's the strong side. If he's right-handed, it's the right. Weylin Paul was right-handed—meaning Zhao Dong would be lined up on his quarterback's throwing arm side.
The Jets' WR corps lacked star power. Edwards was gambling on Zhao Dong's size, hands, and fresh legs. He knew Zhao Dong's conditioning could hold up even playing both offense and defense.
At this point in the game, that might be their best weapon.
---
The offense broke the huddle. Zhao Dong took his spot—a yard off the right tackle, tight to the sideline.
It didn't take long for the Colts to notice.
"Not lining up at tight end? Wideout?" Colts head coach Adam Lomas narrowed his eyes.
He ran through the matchups in his head. Zhao Dong had already given them problems at tight end and as a linebacker. Now, split out wide, who in his secondary could handle him?
The answer was obvious—no one.
It was like throwing a dominant power forward into a backcourt matchup on the hardwood. Zhao Dong had the size to bully them and the speed to outrun them.
Lomas grimaced. The only saving grace—there was under a minute to play. Maybe they could survive one more drive.
---
On the field, the cornerback across from Zhao Dong looked like he'd just been handed bad news.
At 6'0" and 210 pounds, he was solid for a corner. But Zhao Dong dwarfed him—closer in build to a forward or big tight end, with a gear most corners couldn't match.
It was like being asked to check Shaquille O'Neal in open space.
From the stands, a chorus of hecklers let loose.
"Tyrannosaurus, pick on someone your own size!"
"Go block a D-lineman if you're so tough!"
"Yeah, real brave—bullying DBs!"
The boos rained down. Zhao Dong just tightened his chinstrap and stared down his man.
"Attack!"
Weylin Paul's voice cut through the noise, and the ball was snapped.
The offensive and defensive lines collided instantly, the sound of helmets and pads echoing across the stadium.
Zhao Dong exploded off the line, driving forward with long, powerful strides. The cornerback across from him didn't even try to jam at the line—he'd seen enough tonight to know better. Zhao had flattened tight ends and strong-side linebackers all game; trying to block him was suicide.
Instead, the cornerback dropped into tight pursuit.
Accelerate… accelerate again…
Within two seconds, Zhao Dong was past the 35-yard line. That's when a safety closed in from the side, teaming up with the corner to double-cover him.
In the backfield, Weylin Paul stayed calm in the pocket, eyes locked on Zhao Dong.
This was going to be a deep shot.
Paul's arm wasn't built for bombs beyond 40 yards—past that, accuracy and power both suffered. Even this would push his limit.
A Colts defensive end suddenly broke through the Jets' O-line, charging straight at Paul.
No more time.
Seeing Zhao Dong bracketed by two defenders, Paul knew he had to risk it. If he held on, he'd be sacked.
Swoosh!
The ball left Paul's hand, spiraling into the air—up into the glare of the afternoon sun.
---
"Here it comes!"
By the time Zhao Dong saw it, he was at the 55-yard line—exactly 40 yards from Paul.
But the sun was brutal. All he could make out was a tiny black speck dropping from the sky.
Worse, it was short—about 51 yards.
He planted hard, fought through the cornerback and safety, and sprinted back. Two quick steps, then he leapt, arms extended, trying to snatch it blind.
Poof!
The ball brushed his hands… and slipped away.
Immediately, three Colts defenders pounced toward the loose ball.
"It's over!" groaned the Jets sideline.
If it hit the ground, it was just an incomplete pass and the Jets would keep possession. But if the Colts grabbed it first, they'd take over—and the clock would all but end the game.
---
Zhao Dong didn't hesitate. As soon as his cleats touched down, he reached out with one massive hand, scooped the ball clean, and—without a pause—lobbed it high toward the Colts' end zone.
It was a perfect, back-shoulder rainbow, dropping seven yards ahead into open field. No defenders. Just green grass to the goal line.
The entire stadium gasped—nobody had seen it coming.
Now it was a race to the spot.
---
Zhao Dong spun and burst forward. His first step was lightning—Grant Hill quick. He slipped between the cornerback and safety like they were standing still.
All the Colts defenders had been keyed in on the loose ball at his feet, and they were a beat too slow reacting to the lob.
"Beautiful!"
"What a read!" the commentators shouted in unison.
The home crowd froze, stunned into silence.
---
The Jets sideline erupted into motion. Players who had started turning back for defense were now sprinting downfield to block.
Zhao Dong broke free, reached the landing spot without a hand on him, and plucked the ball out of the air.
Ahead, only a safety and a cornerback were closing in from the far side—but they didn't have the angle.
"It's over!" cried a fan in the front row.
Bang!
Zhao Dong crossed into the end zone, spiking the football with a roar.
"YEAH!" The Jets' bench went wild.
"Aaah!" groaned the Colts fans, the entire stadium exhaling in disappointment.
---
"Tyrannosaurus with his second touchdown of the night," Ziegler said from the booth. "He has been everywhere—offense, defense, you name it. What a performance!"
On the field, Zhao Dong found himself at the bottom of a celebratory dogpile—Thor on top, all 150 kilos of him.
"Get the hell off me!" Zhao Dong shouted, half-laughing, half-straining for breath. "You're crushing me, you maniacs!"
His teammates pulled him up, laughing as they slapped his helmet.
Score: 41–34, Colts still ahead by 7.
---
Special teams came out.
Edwards played it safe—called for the extra point. Risking a two-point try and a turnover return would be the nail in the coffin.
The kick was good. 41–35.
Six points down.
The Colts' offense took over at their own 20-yard line with 13 seconds on the clock.
The Jets would need a miracle.
(End of chapter)
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