Here we go again. I couldn't stay away. This story - 3rd and Long - has been an brewing idea for a long time. I thought of it before Restrictor Plate, but Restrictor Plate took hold of me and, well, you may have read that one. I do love that story...

There are few things I love more than football. My grandpa taught me to love football as a kid, and then I went to the University of Tennessee and - GO VOLS! The phrase "I can't. Tennessee is playing." comes out of my mouth a lot this time of year...

And so, here we have 3rd and Long. In football, finding yourself in a third and long situation isn't desirable. You get four chance - or downs - to make it 10 yards (or more). With each 10 yards, you receive a first down. After the third down, if you find yourself in a fourth down position, you have a choice to make: punt, kick a field goal, or try to convert the down. If you try to convert, but don't get the down, you turn the ball over. So, third and longs aren't the best place to find yourself.

This story is AU and AH. It is also slightly inspired by Friday Night Lights. Tami Taylor? Life goals, y'all. I didn't want to set the story in Mystic Falls - I felt like their football team was maybe too good? - and I grew up vacationing in the Outer Banks of North Carolina so I figured, why not? It's a place I know and love. While First Flight IS the high school in the area, I have no idea how good their football program is, if they even have a football program. I'm just borrowing their name.

I'll wrap up this intro and let you get to chapter one. It's football time in Nags Head, y'all!

Disclaimer: I don't own Vampire Diaries. Or Friday Night Lights. Or First Flight High School.

Damon Salvatore paced a sandy path along the length of the bleachers, his hands laced behind his back. The muddled crew assembled before him, dressed in mismatched athletic wear, watched him with critical eyes. A huddle of men nearby watched, too, waiting, all dressed in team t-shirts.

"First Flight High School's football program has a longstanding tradition of mediocrity," he began. "Calling this program mediocre is being generous. Your record over the last three years is 3 and 27. The only thing impressive about that is the fact that you are riding a 24 game losing streak."

He turned on his heel and began pacing in the opposite direction. All eyes were on him, his audience captive. He had that ability – to draw someone in, to hold a crowd. He also knew how to make a speech.

"Your dedication to mediocrity ends now," he continued. "I don't care what position you played last year. I don't care how many yards you ran or how many tackles you made or how many hours you spent in the weight room." He stopped and looked over the crowd of teenagers. "Although, from the looks of it, hours in the weight room aren't something you have been especially dedicated to." He resumed pacing.

"I don't care if you were first string or if you never played a game. I don't care who your parents are or what you think you are entitled to. I certainly don't care how Coach Crawford did things. From this moment on, every single one of you is at square one. Every single one of you is on equal footing. You will earn your place on this team. You will earn your position.

"I have watched hours of game tape. You have no idea what it means to play as a team. You have no discipline. You don't know what it feels like to win. You don't know how to win. You don't know how to lose, either, despite your lengthy resume of losses. Let it be known, right now, that I will not tolerate poor sportsmanship. There will be no fingers pointed, no blame placed, no helmets thrown.

"I run a tight ship. If you are on time for practice, you are late. You will show up. You will watch game footage. You will work hard. You will learn what it means to not only be a team, but be a man. You will attend your classes. You will do your homework. You will pass your tests. You will write your essays. On the days of home games, you will wear your home jersey. On the days of away games, you will wear dress pants, a button down, and a tie. The shirt will be tucked in. If you do not own a tie or a dress shirt or dress pants, we will help you acquire them. You are not only representing this school, and this town, but yourselves. Sloppiness will not be tolerated.

"In turn, I will work hard for you. I will be here, not only as a coach, but as a mentor, a friend, and a counselor. You can count on me. I expect to be able to count on you. From this moment forward, First Flight High School's football team is on the rise. Do you understand?"

There was a general mummer of agreement. He stopped pacing and faced his team.

"I said, do you understand?"

"Yes, sir!" the group replied in unison, some of them already sitting up a little straighter.

Damon took a moment to survey the group before him. They weren't the caliber of athletes he was used to working with. First Flight High School was not the school district he was used to working with. The stadium, locker room, and weight room weren't up to the standards he was used. He would have to make due.

"Seniors, stand up." Seven players stood, almost timidly. Damon nodded once. He had suspected issues with player retention. "Have a seat. Juniors, on your feet." This time, eighteen young men stood. Damon surveyed them for a moment. "Sit down. Sophomores?" Three players, one small in every sense, one tall and gangly, and one stout but lacking in confidence judging by the sag of his shoulders, stood. Damon memorized them. He would watch them today and determine if they belonged on the JV team. "Have a seat. Any freshman?" No one stood.

"Yo, Coach!" called out a voice. Damon looked for the source. A cocky kid who had stood up with the juniors was sitting forward, waiting for a response.

"Name?" Damon replied.

"Will Turner," the kid replied. "But you can call me Flash. Everyone else does. 'Cause I'm so fast, you know what I'm sayin', Coach?"

"I will be the judge of how fast you are," Damon replied, his eyes on the young man. He knew who Will Turner was. The kid was a standout on film, one of the few bright spots on the team. He also had an attitude that Damon intended to adjust. "And you will not address me as 'yo.' Try that again." Turner smirked.

"Why?" he replied. "I gots your attention, now. I just wanted to ask if you really believe you can come up in here on your Texas high horse and turn this shit around?"

"On your feet!" Damon demanded. Turner just looked at him. "On your feet, now." Still smirking, Turner stood.

"Now what?" he wanted to know. "Want me to dance?" He did a little jig, drawing whoops and a round of applause from his teammates.

"Front and center," Damon ordered, pointing to a spot in front of the bleachers. Turner started to meander down from the top of the bleachers. Damon shook his head. "Pick it up, Turner. We don't walk around here. We hustle. You want me to call you Flash? Earn it." Turner glared, but he did speed up his progress. He stopped when he reached the spot Damon identified.

"A'ight. I'm here. What you want, Coach?" Damon put a hand on his shoulder.

"Someone tell me who this guy is," he said to the team.

"That's Flash!" someone called out. "Fastest fool in the Outer Banks!" The majority of the team cheered their agreement. Turner tried to dance another jig. Damon gripped his shoulder, stopping him mid-step.

"Wrong answer," Damon said. "Someone else." To his surprise, the stout sophomore raised his hand. "Stand up." The boy rose to his feet slowly. "Your name?"

"Leonard Jackson, sir," the boy answered. Damon nodded once.

"Mr. Jackson, do you know this young man?" Using his grip on Turner's shoulder, he turned him towards Jackson.

"Yes, sir," Jackson answered. "That's Will Turner."

"We have already established that," Damon said. A few players snickered, but fell silent when Damon cut his eye at them. "Jackson, what else can you tell me about Mr. Turner, here?" The boy shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"Well, Coach, like he said, he's fast. Real fast."

"You know it!" Turner exclaimed, pumping his fist. Again, a few of his teammates whooped. Again, they fell quiet at Damon's sharp glare.

"What else, Jackson?" Damon could tell the boy was nervous.

"Well, sir, if you don't mind my saying… He's… Well, he's a bit of a jackass." There was a collective intake of air from both the team and coaches.

"Who you call a jackass you bait shop punk?" In the same moment, Turner lunged forward with the intent of a fight as the team whooped and a chant of "fight! fight!" rose up. Damon jerked Turner back to his side.

"You! Calm down!" he ordered. Turner kept struggling. Damon tightened his grip on him. "Sit down!" he barked to the team. "And shut up!" To his surprise, they listened, falling quiet and making their way to their seats. "Jackson, join Turner and I up front, please." Jackson looked nervous, but picked his way down the ancient bleachers as fast as he could manage.

"Yes, Coach?" he asked. Damon took a moment to study the boy.

He had the build of a lineman, big and strong. His deep tan and the streaked hair told Damon the boy spent a lot of time outside. He had a feeling the kid's budding muscles weren't made in the weight room, but rather helping out at the family business which, it seemed, had something to do with bait.

"How did you spend your summer, Jackson?" he asked.

"I helped out at my daddy's marina, sir," Jackson answered. "Mostly with keeping the bait stocked and stuff, but I helped with the charter catches at the end of the day, too. In fact, I promised him I'd be home in time to help tonight." Damon nodded.

"That marina – Oregon Inlet?"

"Yes, sir." Damon knew the place. It was the biggest marina on the east coast.

"It's hard work, working at the marina?"

"It can be," Jackson answered. "I don't mind it much. I like the boats and all." An idea struck Damon that was better than what he had in mind initially.

"Jackson, what position did you play last year?"

"I didn't," he answered. "I wanted to, but I broke my arm the week before practice started and couldn't play. I know I'm just a sophomore and should probably be on the J.V. team, but the J.V. coach said I was big and that you needed a lineman, so he sent me to your team." Damon nodded.

"He might be right, but I will be the judge of that," he said. "You play any other football?"

"Some Pop Warner as a kid and then I joined the middle school's team when I was in seventh grade."

"Fair enough," Damon said. The crowd looked on curiously. "Now, I want you to tell me why you don't like Turner, here." Jackson swallowed hard.

"Coach, I don't mean no disrespect, it's just… Flash is a bit of a bully, you know? He's arrogant and thinks he's better than everyone else, just 'cause he's the only one on the team who is any good and he won a state championship in track last year."

"That's 'cause I am the only one on this team that's any good!" Turner burst out. All eyes turned to him and he seemed to realize what he said, his eyes widening. "I mean, you know, I just… I got named to the all-district team last year, even though we didn't win no games. And I did win that championship, like Bait Boy said. First one in school history, and all that. That's all I mean by that."

"You backpedal any faster, Turner, and you are going to pedal right off that bike," Damon informed him. "Now, it's your turn. Why don't you like Mr. Jackson?" Turner looked at Damon and Damon saw the vulnerability before the boy covered it up.

"I don't not like him," he said. "I just know he works in that stinkin' bait shop instead of hangin' out at the beach or Fat Boyz like everyone else. And at school, he always got his nose in books about philosophy and shit. That's weird, man." Damon made a mental note of Jackson's interest in philosophy, as well to figure out what Fat Boyz was.

"First of all, watch your mouth," Damon chastised. "That goes for the whole team. Consider this your warning. If I continue to hear foul language, we will institute more drastic measures. Secondly, Turner, Jackson, from here on out, you two are going to be best friends." Both Turner and Jackson turned sharply to Damon.

"Coach, listen…"

"Sir, I don't think…"

"This is a football team," Damon said, cutting them off. "A team. Even if we don't win a single game this season, I intend to lose as a team. Being a team starts with figuring out how to get along with one another, accept one another. You two don't like each other. You may never like each other. But, you are going to respect each other. If you, Turner, are the running back I think you can be, you are going to want Jackson to respect you. Because there is a very good chance Jackson is going to be on your offensive line. He is a hell of a lot more likely to block for you if he respects you. Understood?"

"Yes, Coach," both boys mumbled. Damon considered it a small victory.

"We are going to start this bonding by running some laps together," he told them. "Five laps around the track. Go." Both boys stood there. Damon raised an eyebrow. "Did I stutter?"

"That's a mile…" Jackson started.

"Ain't we supposed to be trying out for a football team or something?" Turner asked.

"Consider this step one," Damon replied. "Jackson, five laps. Turner, make it eight."

"Eight?" Turner exclaimed. "Oh, hell..."

"Language!" Damon cut him off. Turner raised an eyebrow.

"You just cussed," he pointed out. "Makes you a bit of a hypocrite, don't it, tellin' us we can't cuss and then you go around droppin' bombs?" Damon considered him for a moment.

"When you are a grown man, you can say cuss words too," he informed him. "But right now, you are a boy with an attitude. Ten laps, go."

"Ten! Man, no, you can't keep…"

"I'll make it twelve," Damon warned. "Five laps to bond with Jackson, three to make up for your earlier antics, and two more because you are still standing here." He and Turner glared at one another for several moments.

"Come on, Flash," Jackson muttered, starting towards the track. Turner spared Damon one last look before following him. Damon waited until they were on the track and moving at something besides a shuffle before turning back to his team.

"Let that be a lesson," he informed them. "The cornerstone of this football team will be respect. Respect your teammates, respect your coaches, respect yourself." He motioned for his coaches to join him. "You know these guys, but I am going to re-introduce them to you. First up, Coach Salvatore, offensive coordinator."

Several members of the team cheered as Stefan stepped forward and gave the team a salute. Damon caught his eye for a moment and gave him a nod. He knew Stefan was a favorite coach and teacher at the school. He also knew the team as a whole was a bit miffed that the younger Salvatore hadn't been named head coach when their longtime coach was forced into retirement, but they didn't know Stefan had orchestrated it to work out that way.

"Moving on, we have Coach Saltzman, defensive coordinator." There were a few more cheers as Ric Saltzman stepped forward and bowed. Damon continued his coaching introductions, introducing Enzo Cooke, special teams, Matt Donovan, quarterback coach, Tyler Lockwood, defensive line and strength coach, and Mason Lockwood, offensive line and wide receiver coach.

"These men have given me the run down on each and every one of you who played for this team last year," Damon continued. "They have also had the pleasure of spending the last week with me, learning how I run things." There was an underlying ripple of animosity towards Damon among the coaching staff, not necessarily because they didn't like him, but because they hadn't bought into his coaching style or his plan to turn the team around yet. He turned to check on the progress of Flash and Jackson. Flash was going strong, but Jackson was struggling, clearly out of shape. Damon made a promise that he would be running an easy mile within the month.

"Now, lets get down to business," he said. "We are going to start by running some simple drills, so I can assess your athletic ability. I want you count off, one through six." He pointed to a gangly redhead in the front row. "You start."

"One!"

"Two!"

"Three!"

"Four!"

"Five!"

"Six!"

"One!"

"Two!"

He nodded along as his team counted off, unaware of the petite brunette storming his way.

"Jason Craig!" a voice demanded. "What do you think you are doing?" Damon spun on his heels, ready to ream out the person who dared to interrupt his first practice of the season. He faltered as his eyes fell on a petite brunette, hair long and flying, her big brown eyes blazing. He noted how her dress, entirely appropriate for school, somehow still hugged every curve, and how her long legs disappeared into a pair of heels.

"Ms. Gilbert, you is lookin' beautiful today!" called out one of his players.

"I like that dress, Ms. Gilbert," another one added. "Good color and all, you know?" Damon snapped to his senses as the brunette narrowed her eyes.

"Who just spoke?" he asked. There was nothing the two offending boys could do to keep their identity anonymous as their teammates pointed fingers. The group had already figured out that Damon wasn't someone to mess with. "Names?" he barked.

"Cole Jennings."

"Jarrod Patterson."

"Jennings, Patterson, five laps. Hit it." They two stood without a word, descended the stairs, and started towards the track. "Pick it up!" They moved into a jog. Satisfied, Damon turned to the brunette. "Can I help you?"

"Yes," she informed him, hands on her hips. "You can release Jason Craig from practice. In fact, you are going to have to, if you want him to play for you this season." Damon raised his eyebrow again.

"May I ask who you are?"

"Elena Gilbert, English teacher," she informed him. She jerked her thumb towards the team. "Mr. Craig is supposed to be in my classroom, writing his final essay, an essay he managed to skip when it was given on the final day of summer school. He either comes with me and writes his essay now, or I fail him." Damon turned back to his team.

"Jason Craig, stand up." A boy with dreadlocks, someone he recognized from the group of seniors, stood. "Where are you supposed to be right now?"

"Making up my essay in Ms. Gilbert's room," he admitted.

"And why aren't you?"

"Well, today is the first day of football practice, Coach…" Damon shook his head.

"Not for you," he informed Craig. "You go with Ms. Gilbert. Write that essay. Do a good job on it. And then, when you are done, come see me. If I'm not still on the field, I will be in my office." Craig didn't move. "Go!"

"Yes, sir," Craig said, scrambling. Elena looked at Damon.

"Thank you," she said with a nod. "Of course, he still has to pass the essay to pass my class."

"He better make sure he does, then," Damon replied. Again, he noted how beautiful she was. He shook his head slightly. "Anything else?"

"That will be all," she said as Craig approached. "I'm sorry to interrupt," she added as an afterthought.

"It was a justifiable interruption," Damon replied. Elena turned to Craig.

"You, come with me," she ordered. She barely cleared the boy's shoulder, but somehow commanded the scene, steering him towards the school and away from team. Damon brought his attention back to his team with some difficulty.

"Where did we leave off with counting?" he asked. A blonde boy raised his hand.

"Me. I was five." Damon nodded once.

"Pick up from there." The team started counting off again. Damon leaned toward Stefan who was still standing beside him. "Check each and every one of their GPAs," he muttered. "If it's below a 3.0, send them to me."

"They only need a 2.0 to be eligible," Stefan muttered back. Damon shook his head once.

"Not on my team."

Coach Damon is kind of hot, right? Maybe? He's going to be fun to write, I think. But Elena? Elena is SUPER fun for me to right. And challenging... Stay tuned.

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