Saturday, July 21, 2012

7:28 a.m.

Steve's room was dim. The blinds were completely shut, not letting a single ray of morning light in.

His breathing was calm, steady. Inhale, exhale.

His posture in bed, straight, neat, far too orderly for someone like him.

Until the peace was suddenly shattered.

The door burst open, letting the hallway light spill inside.

"Wake up, princess!" Andrew said, far too energetic for that hour.

He didn't hesitate. He walked straight to the blinds and pulled them up without the slightest bit of consideration.

Daylight flooded the room instantly, falling directly across Steve's face. He frowned and, purely on instinct, pulled a pillow over his head.

"Ugh… let me sleep," Steve muttered, covering his face. "It's Saturday…"

Andrew watched him in silence for a moment. Then he turned and walked toward the door.

"Your choice. I'm heading to the field at ten to train. I already texted the group, Amari and Jordan are going."

He paused briefly, resting his hand on the doorframe.

"Just letting you know. Your choice."

And with that, he stepped out, closing the door behind him.

The room never returned to darkness. The sunlight stayed.

Steve pulled the pillow off his face and stared at the ceiling for a few seconds.

"Son of a bitch… you know exactly what to say to motivate…" he muttered, his expression leaning more toward a smile than annoyance.

It had been just over a month since he'd moved and started at UCLA.

One month.

And it already felt like hell.

He knew there would be an adjustment, of course. But not like this. Not this fast. In his head, June and July were still vacation. A window, even if a short one, to breathe after everything.

But no.

None of that existed here.

At first, when he, Andrus Peat, Amari, Jordan, and the rest of the freshmen arrived, the pace had been more manageable. Physical evaluations, campus adjustment, first sessions with the playbook, him working with the wide receivers coach.

Andrew, next to all of them, looked like a veteran. And in a way, he was. He'd been inside the system since January, and with how obsessive he was, he was more than settled.

But by July, the pace changed. The level jumped overnight.

Four days of intense training, mandatory: Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday.

At exactly 6:00 a.m.

UCLA's conditioning coaches were there. Mora too. Not showing up wasn't an option.

On top of that came another key decision: getting ahead on credits during the summer.

Many freshmen, including Steve and Andrew, were taking classes to lighten the load during the main semester. When the season arrived in September, they'd need every possible hour focused on football.

It was an investment.

A sacrifice now to breathe later.

The day didn't end there. From 2:00 to 4:30 p.m.: film room and playbook study.

First the entire offensive unit with Chow, then split by position, quarterbacks, wide receivers, running backs, each group refining specific details.

And then, from 4:30 to 6:30 p.m., the most important part: player-led workouts.

No direct coach involvement, the NCAA didn't allow it, but with an intensity that was anything but informal.

Steve had a clear advantage.

He had started earlier. Back in May, he had already asked Andrew to teach him the playbook. And on top of that, they had something no one else did: years of chemistry playing together.

Andrew knew exactly where he was going to be.

Steve knew exactly when the ball would come out.

But even that guaranteed nothing.

A starting spot was far from his. In fact, a freshman wide receiver starting in his first year of college was rare.

Steve knew that.

But the situation at UCLA, at that position, was interesting.

The offense used three starting receivers.

Three opportunities.

Well actually, only two.

The WR1 spot wasn't up for debate.

It belonged to Shaq Evans, a senior. Great physique, experience, command of the system, and a chemistry with Andrew that had already started to show during the May Spring Game. He was the deep-route receiver, the primary target.

But the other two spots, WR2 and WR3, were open.

Jerry Johnson and Darius Bell came in as the projected starters based on experience and past production. They were the established names from last year. But with a new staff, a new system, and, above all, new talent coming in, nothing was guaranteed.

The competition was real.

That's where they came in. Three freshmen, all four-stars, all high-level talents:

Steve — top 5 WR in the 2012 class

Amari Cooper — top 8 WR in the 2012 class

Jordan Payton — top 15 WR in the 2012 class

In Steve's mind, the real competition wasn't Jerry Johnson or Darius Bell.

They were there because of experience. One a junior, the other a senior. Solid production, sure, but nothing that intimidated him. He saw them as steady players, carried more by time in the system than by a high ceiling.

It wasn't arrogance. It was competitive awareness. Andrew had told him the same thing, and he knew those two better than anyone.

His real rivals for a starting spot were Amari and Jordan. Same star level, same mindset.

Player-led practices during the week were technically optional, but in reality, they weren't. No one wanted to be the one who skipped. Coaches and teammates noticed. It was part of the culture.

But Saturdays weren't mandatory.

Out of everyone who trained during the week, less than half showed up on Saturdays. Fifteen, maybe twenty players at most.

The ones who wanted something more.

Steve noticed that Jerry and Darius didn't show up on Saturdays.

Amari and Jordan did.

That's why Andrew told him they were going. His direct competition. If they were going, he couldn't stay in bed.

Steve exhaled through his nose, sat up abruptly, and ran a hand over his face.

In the kitchen, Andrew was making breakfast for both of them. Nothing fancy, just larger portions. Basic, measured food. He wasn't a chef, not even a particularly skilled cook. Just functional.

As he moved between the pan and the counter, he thought about the day. That Saturday's practice wouldn't be especially long. From 10:30 to 12:30. Barely two hours. Controlled intensity, no heavy contact.

So why get up so early?

Because before stepping onto the field, there was another part just as important.

With Steve, they usually spent between an hour and an hour and a half studying the playbook on their own. After that, the rest of the day was practically free.

For a Saturday, that rhythm was enough. He was no longer in that near-obsessive state from the first months, where every free minute went into the playbook. Now he was more relaxed in that sense.

Besides, the system was starting to tilt, subtly, in his favor.

Chow wasn't going to reinvent his offense from scratch. That wouldn't make sense. His identity as an offensive coordinator was already proven and clear. But what he was doing were small adjustments, concepts that fit Andrew better, ways to amplify what he already did well.

That, even if it seemed minor, tipped the balance even further.

After the Spring Game, the competition had stopped feeling like one.

In practice, the job was his.

Officially, nothing would be said until after fall camp in August. Mora would keep the "open competition" narrative going as long as possible.

But behind closed doors, the difference was obvious.

Between his natural fit in Chow's system, his work ethic, and the contrast with someone like Hundley, talented, yes, but less polished for a pure pro-style, the balance was heavily tilted.

Andrew finished setting everything on the kitchen counter, absentmindedly aligning the bowl, the toast, and the glass. Then he sat on one of the high stools, rested his forearms on the surface, and started eating calmly: whole-grain cereal with milk, a couple of slices of toast, and still-warm scrambled eggs.

He took a few unhurried bites, picked up his phone, unlocked it with an automatic motion, and started scrolling. He wasn't looking for anything in particular.

Until a headline stopped him. He opened the full article:

[Sports Illustrated]

Andrew Pritchett-Tucker Makes History, Wins Gatorade Male Athlete of the Year for Second Straight Year

By Pete Thamel — July 14, 2012

Los Angeles — Andrew Pritchett-Tucker had already done enough to secure a place among the greatest high school athletes of all time. On Saturday night, at the annual Gatorade awards gala held in Los Angeles, the Mater Dei quarterback took that recognition one step further.

Pritchett-Tucker was named Gatorade Male Athlete of the Year for the second consecutive year, becoming the first athlete in history to achieve it.

The award, which recognizes the top male high school athlete across all sports nationwide, has historically been one of the highest honors in American high school athletics. Winning it once already places a player in an elite category. Repeating it had no precedent.

"It's very difficult to put into context what we're seeing," said an analyst present at the gala. "It's not just production, it's not just winning. It's consistency, impact, and dominance at the highest level of high school sports."

During his senior year at Mater Dei, Pritchett-Tucker led one of the most dominant runs in recent high school football history, finishing his career with multiple titles and numbers that unanimously positioned him as the top prospect of his generation.

But beyond the numbers, it was the sense of inevitability that ultimately defined his case. Every game seemed to unfold under his control.

Now, with his transition to UCLA already underway, the focus inevitably shifts to the next level.

…

Andrew finished reading the article and couldn't help but form a slight smile.

He had done it.

The ceremony had been the week before. A formal gala, suits, lights, cameras. He had gone with his parents. Elegant, almost too much for what people usually associated with high school athletes, but it no longer felt strange to him. It was his second time there.

And this time, he had made history.

Being named Gatorade Male Athlete of the Year was already something reserved for very few. Repeating it… that simply wasn't something that normally happened. By nature, the award tended to rotate between sports. It wasn't common for someone to win it two years in a row.

That's why, before starting his senior year of high school, Andrew had set that as his goal.

It wasn't enough to be the best.

He had to be so dominant that there would be no other choice.

He set his phone down on the counter and went back to his breakfast, still carrying that faint, contained smile.

"Why the smile?" a sleepy voice muttered.

Steve appeared from the hallway, hair messy, eyes half-closed, and dropped onto the stool across from him.

"Talking to your girlfriend? Did the playbook finally turn into a person?"

Andrew looked up, his brows tightening slightly. "Shut up and eat your favorite cereal."

Steve grabbed the bowl, looked at it for a second, and twisted his mouth. The whole-grain cereal, with its dull color, looked more like cardboard than anything else.

He sighed.

He was used to it. That didn't mean he liked it.

They ate while talking about nothing in particular. After that, they took a bit of free time and, as had become routine, ended up sitting in front of the TV with the playbook open again, studying.

Around 10:15, they left the apartment. They arrived at the field a few minutes early.

The session was solid. There weren't many of them, eighteen in total.

Most were freshmen: Steve, Amari, Jordan, Andrus, and Thomas, the latter a tight end who had also played with Andrew at Mater Dei.

There was also Paul Perkins, a four-star running back, and Vadal Alexander, an offensive guard, a five-star who had surprised everyone with his last-minute decision.

For months, he had seemed destined for LSU, but ultimately chose UCLA at the last moment. In part thanks to that, UCLA managed to secure the No. 2 recruiting class in the rankings.

Even so, Andrew wasn't entirely satisfied.

Out of a roster of over a hundred players, eighteen felt like too few.

He couldn't force anyone, of course. Even though the starting job was clearly leaning toward him, he was still a freshman. There was respect, that was unquestionable. He had earned it on the field. But he still wasn't that kind of leader who pulls an entire locker room along through presence or voice. Not yet.

Still, it wasn't bad. Fewer people meant more reps and a better rhythm.

From the group that showed up, the truly established players on the roster were Xavier and Shaq.

Xavier was exactly what you'd expect from him. Pure discipline. Two years away on a Mormon mission, and he had come back with an even stronger mental structure.

For someone like that, training on a Saturday wasn't an extra effort, it was easy. Besides, after that time away, he needed to regain competitive rhythm. His physique helped, he was a genetic freak, but what really sustained him was his work ethic.

Shaq was different.

He had nothing left to prove. He was the primary receiver.

And yet, he was there. Not out of obligation, but by choice.

Part of it was competitiveness. Part of it was awareness.

He knew three new receivers with real talent had arrived. He didn't see it as fear, but as competitive pressure. He understood something simple: his place as WR1 wasn't secured by what he had done, but by what he continued to do.

And above all, by his connection with his quarterback.

Because at the end of the day, targets weren't assigned by written hierarchy. If Andrew trusted another receiver more, the ball would go that way.

The days passed. August finally arrived, and with it, Fall Camp.

Now there were no more player-led practices with flexible pace. Everything was official, coach-led, with progressive physical contact and a constantly evaluated depth chart.

The depth chart was, essentially, the team hierarchy. Starters, backups, and rotations. Who played and who didn't.

In the first week, Andrew led the first team without much surprise. In the second, the intensity increased.

They had their first major scrimmage.

Andrew was the starter.

By Monday, August 20, three weeks had already passed, the most important stretch of camp.

That day, around five in the afternoon, the entire team was gathered. Sitting, in silence, with that low murmur that appears when everyone knows something important is coming.

Up front, the staff. Several with notebooks in hand.

It was the moment they would officially announce the starters.

Mora stepped forward and didn't drag it out.

"Offense…"

The murmurs settled.

"Quarterback: Andrew Pritchett-Tucker."

A light murmur followed. Nothing excessive. No one was surprised. It was expected.

Andrew simply gave a small nod, arms crossed. A few seats away, Hundley clicked his tongue softly.

"Wide receiver: Shaq Evans."

Another round of nods.

"Wide receiver… Amari Cooper."

This time, there was a slight reaction.

Amari smiled, not bothering to hide it.

"Wide receiver… Steve Rice."

Steve clenched his fist briefly, controlled. 'Yes!' he thought.

Mora didn't say WR1, WR2, or WR3. That wasn't how it was done. What mattered was the order in which he named them. Shaq as the primary deep threat.

Amari on intermediate routes, more versatile.

And Steve on short routes.

Mora continued, "Tight end: Joseph Fauria."

No surprise there.

Thomas, a few seats away, kept his usual poker expression. He had known from the start his position was tougher with someone like Fauria ahead of him.

"Running back: Jonathan Franklin."

Another clear name from the beginning.

Then came the five offensive linemen. Among them, Andrus Peat and Vadal Alexander. Two freshman. Technical, physical, and ready ahead of schedule.

'Five freshman…' Andrew thought, slightly surprised.

Counting himself, that made five first-year players in the starting offense. Very rare.

It was going to draw attention once it got out, especially with preseason rankings about to be released.

The major absence on the offensive line was Greg Capella. A senior with talent and experience. But a series of concussions during camp had sidelined him for the first games.

Then Mora named the starting defense without much pause. When he finished, he lowered his notebook.

"That's all. Over the next two weeks, we prepare with this group for the game against Rice."

He looked at his players and concluded:

"You're dismissed."

Chairs started moving almost at the same time. Murmurs, short comments, the occasional pat on the shoulder. 𝗳𝗿𝐞𝕖𝘄𝗲𝕓𝗻𝚘𝚟𝕖𝐥.𝚌𝕠𝕞

"Wait for me a few minutes, man. I'm going to the bathroom," Steve said to Andrew, who nodded.

When he got there, Steve closed the door and made sure no one else was inside. As soon as he confirmed it, he couldn't hold it in, he clenched his fist and jumped explosively, letting out a contained "Yes!"

The moment his feet hit the ground, he broke into what was, essentially, an improvised celebration. His feet bounced in small hops, his arms moving without much coordination, as if his body didn't quite know how to channel all of it.

He finished with a few steps backward, Michael Jackson, style, and ended by throwing his fist upward with one last burst.

It had been worth it.

Skipping vacations since June. Waking up early every day. Even Saturdays. Even Sundays. Going over the playbook again and again. Going out to catch passes when it was no longer about fun, but about precision and repeat.

All of it had paid off. He would play the first game as a starter. Saturday, September 1. Against the Rice Owls. About two weeks away.

He let out a quiet chuckle.

Funny. A university with his own last name.

He walked out of the bathroom more relaxed and, alongside Andrew, they started heading back home on foot.

When they arrived, they both stopped almost at the same time in front of the building.

There was a car parked there they recognized instantly.

Claire's.

And there was movement.

Haley was there, standing, giving directions. And beside her, getting several suitcases out of the car, were Monica and Rachel.

Rachel, especially, had a lot of luggage and bags. It looked like she had packed her entire life into a single trip.

Andrew and Steve exchanged a glance, but they weren't surprised.

Haley had already told them weeks earlier that she would be sharing an apartment with them. Rachel had been accepted into the same fashion school as her, and Monica into a culinary academy near Westwood.

A curious turn of events. And that wasn't all.

They would also be neighbors. In the same building.

Ever since Andrew had moved there, Haley had loved the place. It was modern, well located, and new, so there were still several units available.

Among them, a three-bedroom apartment. Perfect for the three of them to each have their own space. Not cheap, but with three incomes, it was manageable.

In the end, Andrew and Steve were paying more as just two.

Still, it wasn't entirely perfect for Haley and Rachel. They had a 30 to 40-minute commute to FIDM, depending on traffic. But Haley had a car, which made it manageable.

For Monica, on the other hand, it was ideal. Her school was about ten minutes away by public transport.

With help from her parents, Haley had signed the lease on August 15. In fact, Andrew and Steve had already helped with the move, carrying boxes up along with the rest of the family.

"Two beautiful girls New Yorkers living right across… the dream," Steve murmured beside Andrew, quickly fixing his hair before walking over. "Howard must be dying of envy."

Andrew glanced at him sideways.

"I'm not including Haley because she's your cousin, even though she's pretty," Steve added immediately. "Codes."

Andrew didn't respond. 'I didn't say anything…' he thought.

He looked back toward the car. For a brief moment, he felt something strange, hard to define. A fleeting sensation, almost imperceptible. He gave a slight shake of his head, as if brushing it off.

"Let's help," he said finally.

And together with Steve, he started walking toward them.

-------------------------------------------------

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