Up in the booth, the commentators kept their voices steady as the chess match unfolded on the field.
"Tom Brady is showing exactly why he's special," Russell Neveda said with a touch of awe. "He baited the Jets middle linebacker, Zhao Dong, into selling out for the sack. Brady used himself as bait, opening a clean lane for his halfback. That's high-level football IQ."
His partner, Wells Michael, nodded with a grin. "Thankfully, the weak-side linebacker stayed disciplined and limited the gain to just four yards. The defense still has a chance here."
"Second down and six," Neveda reminded the viewers. "The Jets can't afford to get fooled again."
---
Second down. Patriots ball at the 24-yard line.
New England swapped out a wide receiver for a tight end—lined up outside like a flex end, shaded wide of the tackles. Brady gathered his huddle, his presence calm, his voice confident, then sent them back to the line.
The Patriots were still showing I-formation.
In his helmet, Zhao Dong heard the last words of tactical guidance before the cut-off.
"Be sharp, Zhao. They ran it last time, so odds say this one's play-action. Watch the tight end, the flex end, the wideouts. All of them are live."
Zhao Dong adjusted the formation accordingly, barking quick instructions as the seconds ticked down. His stomach knotted—Brady was already inside his head.
---
"Set!" Brady shouted.
The ball snapped.
The I-formation screamed "run," but everyone in the stadium knew better. Brady had burned them once already.
"I predicted your prediction," Neveda said wryly from the booth. "That's the heart of second-down football—layers of mind games."
Zhao Dong shot forward, keying on Brady again. He read handoff—sold out to crash the pocket.
Bang!
He got his hands on Brady again, driving him into the turf—only to realize too late he'd fallen for the same trick.
The fullback bulldozed through the gap Zhao Dong left wide open, the halfback charging right behind. By the time the weak-side linebacker brought him down, New England had advanced another five yards.
"Unbelievable!" Neveda's voice cracked. "They ran the same exact concept—and it worked again!"
From the sideline, Head Coach Edward buried his face in his clipboard.
---
Zhao Dong pushed himself up off the turf, his eyes narrowing. Across from him, Brady stood tall, smirking—mockery shining in his gaze.
The Patriots huddled quickly, their teammates swarming Brady with slaps on the helmet.
"Tom, you're making him look like a rookie out there!" one lineman barked, grinning.
"Keep at it, Tom!" another added.
The roar of celebration only deepened Zhao Dong's scowl. His eyes were ice now.
Twice fooled. Twice baited.
It was clear—Brady wasn't just playing quarterback. He was playing puppet master.
---
Neveda's voice carried frustration from the booth. "Tom Brady just turned psychological warfare into yardage. He's got the Zhao dancing to his rhythm. What happens now on third down?"
"Third and one," Wells Michael muttered grimly. "At the 29-yard line. New England only needs a yard to move the chains. This is dangerous."
---
Third down, 29-yard line.
Brady broke the huddle, and once again the Patriots lined up in the I-formation.
The crowd groaned in disbelief. Even the Jets home fans clenched their teeth.
"Are you kidding me?" Neveda said, nearly shouting. "The I again? Is Brady toying with Zhao Dong?"
"This is outright provocation," Wells Michael snapped. "The Zhao is a global star, and Brady—at this point in his career—hasn't earned the right to mock him like this. This is personal now."
---
On the field, Zhao Dong studied the formation, his thoughts racing.
Run? Pass? If he guessed wrong a third time, Brady would humiliate him on national TV.
The media would torch him. His critics—the ones who sneered at the idea of a Chinese linebacker leading an NFL defense—would laugh until their throats went dry.
"Zhao," the voice of the Jets' defensive staff echoed in his headset before it cut off. "Third-and-one. Expect a quick pass. Watch the tight end on the release. Have the strong-side linebacker stay glued to him."
But Zhao Dong wasn't sure anymore. Was that what Brady wanted them to think?
---
The Patriots lined up. The Jets defense tightened, every man stacked close to the line, daring Brady to run.
Zhao Dong set his stance. His gut churned with unease.
Brady's too clever. Too damn clever. What if he flips the script again?
"Set!" Brady's voice rang out, sharp as a siren.
The ball snapped.
Bang. Bang. Bang. The trenches exploded in chaos once more.
Zhao Dong burst forward, eyes darting left and right, searching for the true play. Even as his legs drove forward, his eyes stayed locked on Brady—cold, calculating, waiting for the move that would define the down.
Just as Zhao Dong's right foot planted on the offensive line, his eyes caught the halfback slipping left. The Patriots' offensive line flowed with him, bodies shifting like a wall.
Screen pass? The thought snapped into Zhao Dong's mind.
A classic: quarterback dumps it short, the halfback takes it, and the line shields the defense long enough to break free.
But something didn't add up. Brady hadn't turned his body left. That was his blind side. His shoulders were square, retreating—too clean for a dump screen.
No… he's setting up strong side.
Zhao Dong changed direction instantly, bursting to the left—toward Brady's right side. His eyes locked on the far sideline.
And there he was. The Patriots' star wideout, Bayer Johnson, breaking free with blazing speed. Brady's arm cocked high, his right hand rising with the football.
"Strong side pass!" Zhao Dong barked.
---
"Sure enough, Brady's looking right," Russell Neveda called from the booth.
Johnson separated, leaving the corner trailing. Brady lofted a rainbow—thirty yards downfield, hanging in the air like a dagger.
But the pass drifted inside. Brady had spotted the Jets' safety crashing from deep. That adjustment forced Johnson to cut his route back toward the middle.
Which also meant—straight toward Zhao Dong.
"Not good!" Brady muttered under his breath as soon as the ball left his hand. He'd seen Zhao Dong peel off his rush and chase the play.
---
The football arced down, the spiral spinning tight. Zhao Dong sprinted, muscles firing like pistons. Johnson was two strides ahead, leaping at the landing point.
The Jets' defense swarmed—corner behind, safety closing in, and Zhao Dong charging from the inside. Three-on-one.
Johnson left his feet, arms stretching to cradle the ball.
Zhao Dong launched too, his right arm swinging out, fingertips clawing for the spiral.
"Up for grabs!" Neveda shouted.
Smack!
Zhao Dong's left hand clipped it first, popping it skyward.
---
He hit the turf hard, but his eyes never left the ball. Like snagging a rebound off the glass, he rose, boxed Johnson out, and snatched it clean.
Interception.
"Yeah! Zhao picks it off!" Neveda's voice nearly blew the mic.
The Meadowlands exploded. Sixty thousand fans roared, the sound rattling the rafters like thunder.
---
Zhao Dong tucked the ball and broke forward, but Johnson was on him immediately, wrapping him up. Zhao Dong twisted, pitched the ball sideways into the hands of his cornerback running parallel.
The return was alive.
The corner surged five yards before being buried under a pile of Patriots. The play was over.
---
"Beautiful! Just beautiful!" Neveda bellowed. "The Jets flip the field—sixty-one yards on the change! They're at the Patriots' 19-yard line, already in striking distance of the red zone!"
Wells Michael chuckled into his headset. "One first down, and you've got a chip-shot field goal. But with this crowd behind them, they'll want the touchdown."
---
On the Patriots' sideline, shoulders slumped. Two key injuries already had morale sagging, and this blown drive twisted the knife. Brady's interception wasn't just a turnover—it was a gut punch.
Meanwhile, the Jets' fans were in full frenzy. The stadium shook with noise, the cheers pounding like a drumbeat that wouldn't stop.
Zhao Dong jogged off, helmet tapping his teammates' as the Jets' offense took the field.
This time, he lined up at tight end, ready to make his mark on the other side of the ball.
---
(End of Chapter)
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