Andrew and the rest of the Bruins were in the visitors' locker room. Halftime would last twenty minutes before the third quarter began.
Visitors' locker rooms were always functional. Cold and undecorated. Just enough for a team to come in, rest, make adjustments, and return to the field. Long benches, metal lockers, and whiteboards for the coaches.
Andrew went to sit on one of the benches.
Steve, Amari, Andrus, and the rest of the offense settled near him. Some took off their helmets. Others merely rested their elbows on their knees, still breathing heavily from the first half.
The trainers moved quickly among the players, checking bruises, ankles, shoulders, small cuts, and any discomfort that could worsen in the third quarter.
Andrew was checked more than once, "Any discomfort?"
"No," Andrew replied, shaking his head.
"Shoulder?"
"Fine."
"Ribs? Knee? Ankle?"
"Everything's fine," Andrew said again.
The trainer looked at him as though he did not entirely believe him.
Andrew merely raised an eyebrow, "There's nothing wrong with me. Seriously."
After that, Chow and Rip approached the offense. Each unit had its coaches gathered around it. There was no time for long speeches, nor was there any need to manufacture drama. UCLA was ahead by more than thirty points. The plan was working almost perfectly.
The defense had allowed only two field goals, an excellent performance, while the offense had torn Arizona apart.
The coordinators only reviewed a few minor details. There was no major tactical discussion, and the players had some free time to talk among themselves.
Andrew took a long drink of Gatorade, lowered the bottle, and looked at Steve, Amari, Shaq, Fauria, Johnathan Franklin, Jake Brendel, Andrus, and the rest of the offense.
Then he stood, and the murmur around him faded almost immediately.
"You already know the plan, but I want you to understand something," Andrew said in a serious tone, looking at them one by one: Shaq, Andrus, Fauria, Johnathan, Jake Brendel, the center and leader of the offensive line...
"No fighting, understood?" Andrew added after a few seconds.
Several of them gave slight nods.
Steve was one of them, although his expression made it clear that he did not like the idea very much.
The game was already heated. If they continued increasing the margin, Arizona's players would likely start a fight out of pure frustration.
Andrew noticed, and that was precisely why he continued, "We're going to keep calling aggressive plays, and we're going to keep adding to the score. They're going to hate it, and there's a very good chance they'll try to start a fight. Don't give them that."
No one said anything, but they all understood what it meant.
In football, once a team had already secured the victory, continuing to attack as though the game were tied was considered disrespectful. An unwritten rule. Something in poor taste, viewed as an unnecessary way of humiliating the opponent.
Tonight, UCLA was going to cross that line on purpose.
They had Mora's approval. The starters would not remain on the field until the final second of the fourth quarter, but what happened in the third would make it clear that they had no intention of slowing down or controlling the clock despite the large lead.
Andrew took a step toward Steve and looked directly at him, "If they shove you, walk away. If they insult you, laugh. If they hit you late, leave it to the referee. If they want to fight, let them fight by themselves."
Then he looked at the rest, "We're going to humiliate them with football. Nothing else."
The words landed heavily. It did not sound like a warning. It sounded like an order.
"We have the important game next Saturday," Andrew continued. "No one is missing Oregon because of something stupid in this easy game. I don't want anyone ejected, so no one fights."
This time, everyone nodded more seriously.
The logic was too obvious to argue with. If they lost to Oregon, they could say goodbye to their chances of playing for the national championship. For any college football player, reaching that game was the ultimate dream.
There was no bigger stage. No more important spotlight. It was where careers became legends and where a program could change its history forever.
UCLA had only one national championship in its entire history. What would it be like if they won another after more than fifty years? It would be historic.
They already had one loss. They could not afford another, or their chances would become incredibly slim.
They could not allow themselves to face the Ducks weakened because of a pointless fight in a game they had nearly won already.
"What if they hit us?" Amari asked.
He did not say it out of fear, but with practical seriousness. He wanted to know how he was supposed to respond if an Arizona player lost his mind and crossed the line.
"You shove him away to get him off you. They won't punish you for defending yourself if it's clear you didn't start anything. But don't throw a punch back. Don't grab his helmet. Don't turn self-defense into a fight," Andrew replied.
In the NCAA, for a player to be ejected, he normally had to do something fairly obvious and serious. A shove to get someone away from you was usually not enough. The real problem could begin if an Arizona defender threw a punch and the UCLA player returned it.
Everyone nodded again.
The message had been made even clearer than when Mora had told them earlier.
Not long after that, halftime came to an end. Everyone grabbed their helmets, stood up, and began leaving the visitors' locker room one after another, following the tunnel back toward the field.
Outside, Arizona Stadium was still loud, but it no longer sounded the same.
It was not completely silent. They were the home team, it was prime time, and everyone knew the entire nation was watching.
They were also a ranked team with a great offense, and in football there was always that belief, no matter how desperate, that an impossible comeback could begin with a single play.
But the energy was different. There was less confidence and more frustration on the fans' faces, many of them sitting with their arms crossed.
When Andrew returned to the field, the boos were just as loud as before, but they no longer carried the same intention. At the beginning of the game, the stadium had wanted to intimidate him. It had wanted to make him nervous. Now they were only booing him out of helplessness.
UCLA began the third quarter with possession.
Although Arizona had possessed the ball at the end of the second quarter, that did not matter. The Wildcats had started the game with the opening offensive series, so possession after halftime belonged to the Bruins.
After the kickoff, Andrew walked onto the field calmly, completely unfazed by the noise, the whistles, and the insults raining down from the stands.
[Well, Kirk, it looks like Pritchett still isn't heading to the bench,] Brent commented.
Kirk nodded beside him, not particularly surprised, [Although the lead is comfortable, Arizona runs a fast-paced offense. It was likely that Mora would keep the starters in for at least one more possession to make sure there wasn't an early response.]
What Kirk had said earlier had only been a possibility. That was why he was not surprised to see UCLA's starters still on the field.
What did surprise both him and Brent was the way UCLA came out.
There were no conservative Franklin runs, nor were there short passes designed to slowly move the chains.
There was no intention of draining the clock.
The Bruins' offense came out as though they were still on the opening drive of the first quarter: fast, aggressive, and with absolutely no desire to slow down.
In only five plays, they were already at Arizona's twenty-seven-yard line.
The tempo was high. Far too high for a team leading by thirty-one points.
It looked as though they wanted to keep extending the score.
Even so, it still seemed justified. Perhaps Mora wanted to take advantage of the emotional blow from halftime. Score quickly, extinguish any spark of hope, and only then sit the starters.
On the next play, Andrew took the snap and handed the ball to Johnathan.
The running back found a gap up the middle, absorbed the first contact, spun around, and escaped what looked like a certain tackle. Then he broke through the second level of the defense and accelerated into the open field.
No one reached him in time.
[UCLA TOUCHDOWN!] Brent exclaimed. [First touchdown of the night for Johnathan Franklin! And the Bruins keep punishing an Arizona team that still seems unable to find an answer!]
The stadium dimmed a little more.
Johnathan barely celebrated. He simply dropped the ball after crossing the goal line and high-fived his teammates when they came over to congratulate him.
But then something happened that changed the murmur inside the stadium.
UCLA's kicker did not come onto the field.
Brent took a second to react, [They're going for two…] he said in surprise.
Kirk studied the formation and let a brief pause pass before speaking, [Yes, it looks that way. I understand this has become part of UCLA's identity this season, but with this kind of lead, on the road, and after everything that was said during the week, going for two here is going to upset a lot of Arizona fans.]
UCLA had already turned the two-point conversion into something of a trademark. With Andrew reading defenses, running, throwing, and making decisions in fractions of a second, the play had a level of efficiency that no other team could imitate with the same confidence.
But using it as a weapon was one thing.
Using it with this score was another.
They were already up 43–6.
If they kicked the extra point, the score would become 44–6. If they went for two, it would become 45.
The mathematical difference was minimal. Going for two in this situation seemed unnecessarily risky.
In other games, if UCLA scored four touchdowns, they might attempt one or two two-point conversions. Maybe three on an especially aggressive night.
But here they were going for their fourth straight one, with the game nearly decided after that touchdown.
The message seemed clear.
Arizona understood it immediately.
The defensive players lined up angrily. Some slapped their own helmets.
Many on Arizona's sideline stared toward UCLA's bench with clenched teeth.
Andrew took the snap.
Arizona's defense attacked with fury, but also with disorder and mistakes caused by that anger.
Andrew lofted the ball to Steve, who managed to separate from his defender. He caught it in the end zone.
Conversion successful.
The scoreboard changed again.
Arizona Wildcats 6 — UCLA Bruins 45
"YEAH!" Steve shouted.
The celebration came out louder than intended, and he slammed the ball against the turf with more force than necessary. He did not point at anyone, turn toward ZonaZoo, or look for the eyes of Arizona's defenders.
He simply celebrated with a smile.
For the officials, it was not enough to warrant a flag. The nearest referee watched him for barely a second, alert in case he said something or made a direct gesture toward the Wildcats.
But there was no clear provocation. No obvious taunting. Just a player celebrating a conversion with far too much energy for such a crushing lead.
For Arizona, however, it was something else.
Several defenders remained still, breathing heavily, their shoulders tense and their hands resting on their hips. One of them clenched his jaw and took a step toward Steve, but a teammate grabbed him by the arm before he could do something stupid.
"Let it go," he muttered.
From the home sideline, Arizona's backups watched the scene with anger. Some shook their heads. Others shouted things that disappeared beneath the boos raining down from the stadium.
Steve ignored both the boos and the insults coming from the stands. He simply high-fived Amari, who was walking over to congratulate him on the catch.
What they were accomplishing was not easy, even if it was beginning to look unsportsmanlike. Four successful two-point conversions against a ranked opponent was a massive achievement in itself.
Andrew, for his part, had released the pass and, the moment he saw the conversion was good, turned around without celebrating at all.
He simply walked toward the visitors' sideline with the same calm he had shown when stepping onto the field.
Somehow, that made it even more infuriating.
As he walked, he noticed the stares coming from Arizona's sideline. Many of the backups were not content to simply watch him.
They began shouting at him.
"Classless, freshman!"
"You think you're tough?"
"Oregon's going to humiliate you next week!"
The coaches were not exactly looking at him with sympathy either, but at least they tried to silence their players. Some obeyed. Others kept throwing comments from the sideline, too frustrated to restrain themselves.
Andrew turned his head slightly.
He said nothing.
Andrew simply extended his right hand and opened and closed his fingers a couple of times, imitating someone who talked too much.
Then he continued walking toward UCLA's sideline.
That brief gesture was enough to make the opposing sideline erupt even more.
Several Arizona players stepped toward the field. Others raised their arms, looking directly at the line judge.
"Are you serious?!"
"That's taunting!"
"Throw the flag!"
Andrew glanced at them from the corner of his eye, a barely visible smirk on his face. 'The double standard…' he thought.
Even some of the coaches demanded that the official penalize him for unsportsmanlike conduct.
The line judge ran a few steps toward Andrew and pointed at him firmly, "Nineteen! That's it! No more. One more gesture and it's fifteen."
Andrew slowed half a step when he heard the warning, "They start it, I make one tiny gesture, and I'm the one you warn?"
The official did not seem particularly interested in his complaint, "I saw your gesture. I didn't hear what they said."
Andrew let out a small, humorless laugh, "Football is more alive than ever, huh?"
He believed the NCAA was far too strict about everything related to sportsmanship. He understood that there had to be limits. It was not about allowing serious insults or excessively mocking gestures. But football was still a contact sport, competitive and filled with adrenaline and pride.
They were not gentlemen having tea.
The NFL, at least by comparison, seemed to allow that side of the game a little more room to breathe. It still punished taunting when it was obvious, of course, but it allowed more emotional friction and body language.
In college, by contrast, everything seemed to be under a microscope.
"Don't push it," the official said, cutting off any possible response. "One more and it's fifteen."
'What difference would it make?' Andrew thought.
With that score, even if they penalized him, giving Arizona fifteen yards would not change much.
But if a player received two penalties of that kind in the same game, the rules allowed for an ejection. And although an ejection for taunting would not necessarily keep him out of the next game, it would still be an unnecessary blemish that was easy to avoid.
A fight would be worse, since that actually could cost him the next game.
Andrew kept walking.
Arizona's offense managed to come away with a field goal, but once again failed to reach the end zone.
At this point, it already seemed pointless.
They moved quickly, yes. Their offense still had rhythm and could still cross midfield with relative ease. But whenever they reached opposing territory, they seemed to lose clarity.
On top of that, their defense kept returning to the field without much rest, growing more exhausted each time and being exposed to the suffocating tempo of Andrew and his offense.
With a thirty-six-point deficit, the lack of morale was also beginning to weigh on them.
Andrew knew this would be his final drive of the night. The backup would come in afterward.
It was his last opportunity to surpass Drew Olson.
The previous touchdown had belonged to Johnathan. Andrew had only handed him the ball, so it did not count toward the quarterback's statistics.
The offense began to move.
[The Bruins are still playing as though the score were seven to six,] Brent commented.
[That's going to upset a lot of people,] Kirk said. [But there's also something we need to understand: Pritchett is one passing touchdown away from breaking UCLA's all-time record. Mora probably wants to give him that opportunity before sitting him.]
It was an opportunity to make history, although the context made it complicated since the opponent was already beaten.
The Wildcats' defense knew it. Somehow, that made it worse. UCLA did not merely want to crush them. They also wanted to break a record while doing it.
Every player seemed more tense than the last. The linemen struck the ground before the snap. The linebackers shouted signals with too much aggression. The defensive backs stared at UCLA's receivers as though every route were a personal insult.
On the next play, Andrew took two steps back as the ball reached his hands, and that was when he saw Steve.
He planted his foot and threw.
The ball traveled about twelve yards through the air. Steve raised his hands and caught it, taking contact almost immediately, but he did not go down. He twisted his body and crossed the goal line before two defenders tackled him.
[Touchdown, UCLA!] Brent shouted. [Rice catches the pass from Pritchett and gets into the end zone! And this is history, Kirk! Andrew Pritchett-Tucker has just surpassed Drew Olson's mark!]
The broadcast cut to Andrew, who merely raised one fist with a smile in Steve's direction.
[Thirty-five passing touchdowns this season,] Brent continued. [A new all-time UCLA record.]
Kirk let a second pass before adding, [Drew Olson had a great season, but this is something else. We're watching a true freshman rewrite UCLA's record book before November. I'm sure this won't be the only record Pritchett holds by the end of the season.]
Andrew had made history.
But the feeling changed quickly because UCLA's kicker did not come onto the field.
Again.
The offense stayed out there for the two-point conversion.
Brent let out a short, incredulous laugh, [Oh, come on... these guys are going for two again. Do they want Arizona's players to explode with rage?]
The camera showed Arizona's sideline. Coaches with their arms spread wide and backups shouting from the bench.
[This is no longer just part of their offensive identity,] Kirk finally said. [At the beginning of the third quarter, you could argue that they wanted to eliminate any chance of a response. But now, with this kind of lead, after breaking the record, going for two again is going to feel disrespectful.]
[If they convert it, that would be five successful two-point conversions in the same game,] Brent added. [Kirk, there are games with more than ten touchdowns where we don't see a single two-point conversion.]
[Exactly,] Kirk replied. [That's what makes this so strange. It isn't common, and it isn't used this way.]
On the field, Arizona's defenders planted themselves in front of the goal line as though that play mattered more than the entire game.
It was no longer about the score.
It was about pride.
They could not be the team UCLA converted five straight two-point attempts against in a single game. They could not be shown on national television as a defense incapable of stopping even a two-yard play when everyone in the stadium understood what was emotionally at stake.
Fischer breathed heavily, his eyes fixed on Andrew.
An enormous anger burned in his chest, but beneath it there was also a bitter sting.
Maybe he should not have stirred things up before the game. Maybe he should not have said that Andrew would not finish the night comfortably on the sideline.
Head coach Rodriguez was shouting something that disappeared beneath the noise, but his expression said enough.
Do not let them keep mocking us, and do not allow the fifth.
Andrew lined up in shotgun, "Set... hut!"
The ball reached his hands.
Arizona's defensive line exploded forward with brutal force. For the first time all night, Andrew had to admit it: they had collapsed the space well. There was no passing window. At least, he could not see one.
But Arizona had forgotten something.
He could run too.
Andrew tucked the ball and burst toward the right, aiming for the corner of the end zone.
Fischer reacted immediately and chased him at full speed.
They reached the edge almost at the same time. Andrew accelerated one more step, lowered his shoulder slightly, and leapt toward the line.
Fischer launched himself, but it was not a clean tackle.
He lowered his head too far. The crown of his helmet came first, like a spear, directly toward Andrew's lower body.
Andrew did not process it in that instant. He did not even care. He only felt the impact, lost his balance in the air, and landed inside the end zone, rolling across the turf once, twice, three times, dirt sticking to his uniform.
[Pritchett keeps the ball!] Brent shouted. [He runs toward the corner! He dives for the goal line...!]
The stadium held its breath.
[Conversion successful! Andrew Pritchett-Tucker gets in under his own power, and UCLA converts its fifth two-point attempt of the night!]
A yellow flag appeared almost at the same time, landing near the line.
[There's a flag. I think this is going against Arizona. Look at the contact from Fischer. He lowers his head, leads with the crown of the helmet, and hits Andrew low. That's the kind of dangerous contact officials do not want to see.]
The replay appeared on the screen, confirming Kirk's words.
Andrew, meanwhile, was already back on his feet. He dropped the ball weakly onto the ground and spread his arms inside the end zone, palms facing upward, looking toward ZonaZoo.
As if asking what else they wanted.
The student section erupted in boos, insults, and waving arms, with many of them giving him the middle finger. Nothing new since Andrew had first stepped onto the field.
"Bullshit!"
"Classless!"
"Get off our field!"
A few empty plastic cups and pieces of ice began falling from the front rows. They did not travel very far, but it was enough for security personnel to immediately look toward the stands and become alert.
With his back to him, Fischer got to his feet furiously and went after Andrew. Another defender who had been covering Amari in the end zone did the same.
But Joseph Fauria was nearby and stepped in immediately.
UCLA's tight end planted himself firmly between Andrew and Fischer, extending one arm to block the linebacker's path.
"Back off," Fauria said in a warning tone.
Fischer shoved him in the chest.
That was the first spark. Within seconds, everything descended into chaos.
Andrus came in from one side. Vadal from the other. Jake, Shaq, Amari, Steve, and Johnathan also stepped in immediately. UCLA's offense formed almost a wall around Andrew, not to fight, but to make sure no Arizona player could reach him.
"Back up!" Andrus shouted, shoving a defender only hard enough to create some distance.
"Come on, big baby!" Steve said with a grin, clenching his fists.
Amari grabbed Steve by the shoulder almost instantly, "No fighting," he reminded him, his reflexes already alert in case someone threw a punch.
Steve clicked his tongue, but stayed still and stopped provoking them.
Arizona's players, however, were already too heated. Some came in shoving. Others screamed insults from only inches away.
The officials rushed in from every direction.
"Back up! Back up!"
"Separate! Separate!"
[This is getting out of control,] Brent said, raising his voice as the cameras captured the scrum in the end zone. [After that conversion, tempers have finally boiled over.]
[The good thing is that UCLA's players are only stepping in to protect their quarterback. So far, I haven't seen any punches from their side.]
The camera then cut to Andrew, who had already walked out of the end zone.
While the scrum formed behind him, Andrew was already moving away from the chaos that had erupted because of him.
He did not stay to argue or anything else. He simply walked calmly, taking off his helmet as he went. Then he looked up at the stadium scoreboard.
Arizona 9 — UCLA 53
[There's Pritchett-Tucker,] Brent said, with a mixture of disbelief and fascination. [He's walking away from all of it. He takes off his helmet and looks at the scoreboard while his teammates and Arizona's players shove each other behind him.]
Kirk let out a brief, humorless laugh, [That image is going to be everywhere tomorrow, Brent.]
"What is wrong with Andrew?!" Phil blurted from the stands.
They were in the visitors' section, alongside the little more than three thousand UCLA fans who had traveled to Tucson to support the Bruins. A small blue island in the middle of a red ocean that, early in the game, had tried to survive amid boos, insults, and hostile stares.
Now it was different.
UCLA's section had erupted. Many of the students who had made the trip were shouting, jumping, and waving their arms as though they had just won a bowl game.
Some were even beginning to throw the provocations back toward the Arizona stands, pointing at the scoreboard, laughing, chanting Andrew's name, or raising their hands as though they too were asking what else Arizona wanted.
"I don't know…" Claire said, staring at the field with a frown. "It looks like he took this very personally."
"That was so dangerous!" Cam exclaimed, bringing both hands to his face. "What if he gets hurt?"
Fischer's tackle had been desperate. There had been an intent behind it that, even from the stands and without seeing the replay in detail, had felt wrong. Far too aggressive for a game that had already been decided.
Fortunately, Andrew did not appear to be injured. His walk was normal and calm.
That was part of what made it so strange.
They were not used to seeing him like this.
They did not have the best view from the visitors' section, but they had seen enough. Andrew approaching opponents after plays. Making that hand gesture toward Arizona's sideline. That celebration aimed at ZonaZoo.
And, of course, UCLA refusing to take its foot off the gas and attempting two-point conversions as though they were in a close game or trying to mount a comeback.
It was running up the score, the unsportsmanlike practice in which a winning team continues scoring aggressively even after the outcome of the game has already been completely decided.
There was no other way to describe it, and Andrew seemed perfectly aware of what he was doing.
They were happy that he had kept his word, of course. They were relieved that UCLA was winning so decisively. Part of them even enjoyed watching Arizona Stadium slowly fall silent after everything that had been said before the game.
But seeing him so determined to destroy his opponents on the field...
It was different.
"His alter ego is finally coming to light," Manny said, with a tone far too solemn for the situation.
Gloria looked at him immediately, "His alter what?"
"You know…" Manny searched for the right words, as though he were explaining a Greek tragedy. "Like Kobe's Black Mamba. That part of an athlete that doesn't care about being liked. It only wants to destroy the opponent."
"That sounds intense coming from someone who collects Star Wars action figures," Phil commented.
But no one laughed much because, somehow, Manny had a point.
In every game they had watched him play throughout his life, Andrew had always been competitive, focused, and dominant. Even ruthless with the score when the game allowed it.
But he did not usually provoke people.
Not with that almost cruel calm.
"It reminds me of that Palisades game…" Haley murmured to herself. "The one they won eighty to nothing."
Alex, who had heard her, nodded slowly. She remembered it too.
That time, a player on the opposing team had mocked his parents.
Since Palisades had weaknesses on defense, Andrew had allowed himself to play safety as well. As a dual-threat quarterback with great speed, long strides, and elite field vision, he could patrol from sideline to sideline from that position as though the entire field belonged to him.
He recorded interceptions and tackles. He dominated both offense and defense, crushing the opponent without giving them even a chance to score a single point.
"I honestly don't know which is more humiliating," Alex murmured. "That or this."
The difference was the stage.
That had been high school. There had not been millions of people watching on national television. Nor more than fifty thousand people inside the stadium. There had not been well-known commentators narrating every play either.
But they had also been younger kids. Perhaps, precisely because of that, the psychological impact of that eighty-to-nothing defeat had been even more brutal for the boys who suffered through it.
Jay snorted, arms crossed, without taking his eyes off the field, "So what?" he said flatly. "They brought it on themselves."
Claire looked at him, "Dad…"
"No," Jay cut her off, raising one hand slightly. "If you're going to spend the entire week talking, saying the kid hasn't faced a real defense, that you're going to hit him for four quarters, that he won't finish the game comfortably on the bench... then you don't get to cry when he answers back."
"Do your talking on the field, not off it," Mitch said, nodding.
Claire looked at him in surprise.
She had not expected Mitchell to agree with that. He was usually the first one to worry about consequences and appearances.
Although, now that she thought about it, perhaps the strange thing was that she did not agree.
"Answering them doesn't mean humiliating them in front of the entire country," Cam said, this time not fully taking Andrew's side.
Cam had played college football. Not at Andrew's level, of course.
Cam had played for Illinois, a university in the Big Ten, one of the highest levels of college football. He had played center, the offensive lineman responsible for snapping the ball to the quarterback at the start of every play.
He had been a starter during his final two years.
That was no small accomplishment. Not at a Power Five school. But that was as far as he had gone.
He had not been selected in the Draft. He had not played professionally. His name had not been etched into Illinois' record books. To most people, he had simply been one of many good college players who had respectable careers and then moved on with their lives.
Andrew, on the other hand, was already somewhere else entirely.
Even before setting foot at UCLA, he had already reached a level Cam had never come close to.
A five-star prospect. A generational recruit. The kind of player entire universities reorganized their plans around. Now, only halfway through his true freshman season, he was a starter, a Heisman favorite, the owner of historic records, and the star of one of the most-watched games in the country.
Cam had been a respected player.
Andrew was a national story.
But the point was that Cam understood the world of college football. He knew a game like this was more than just a score. Recruiters were watching. Analysts. Coaches. Families. Young players trying to build careers.
A single game could shape reputations.
It could destroy confidence and change how a team was viewed for the rest of the season.
That was why, even though Andrew was his son, even though part of him wanted to stand up and shout with pride like the rest of UCLA's fans, another part of him could not help looking at Arizona's players and feeling some sympathy.
Cam loved football, but he had never possessed that kind of competitive cruelty.
That desire to crush someone over a single statement.
Jay, on the other hand, did not seem to have any problem with it, "This is football," he said, never taking his eyes off the field. "We're not playing with dolls."
Cam looked at him indignantly.
"Exactly. It's a man's sport," Gloria said immediately, pointing toward the field with one hand. "If you provoke a man, then you don't cry when he answers you like a man."
Haley watched him in silence.
For the first time all night, she did not think about how impressive he was. She thought about how terrifying he could become when someone managed to piss him off, even just a little.
On the visitors' sideline, Andrew finally sat down. He placed his helmet beside him and draped a towel over his shoulders, just as he had promised.
The scuffle had already been broken up.
Rodriguez, without stepping fully onto the field, had moved as close as the officials allowed him to so he could shout at his players to back away and calm down. His face was red with fury, but not only because of UCLA.
He was also furious with his own players. Because they had lost control.
Fortunately for the Bruins, no UCLA player was penalized.
Steve and the others had followed Andrew's words in the locker room. Arizona was not as lucky.
Fischer was ejected.
Not only had he committed a dangerous foul against Andrew on the conversion, costing his team fifteen yards. Afterward, when tempers were already boiling, he tried to throw a punch at Fauria.
That was the end of it.
The officials did not need anything more.
Other Arizona players, who had shoved too hard and shouted from too close, received stern warnings.
As for Andrew, he had gotten away with it. He knew that.
His celebration had been provocative, no matter how ridiculous it might sound that spreading your arms and looking toward thousands of people who had insulted you for hours could result in you being penalized.
Fifteen yards for a gesture.
Ridiculous, but possible.
He had been lucky. The fight that broke out immediately afterward forced the officials to focus on the more serious issue.
Since Andrew had not taken part and had calmly walked away, perhaps they had let the gesture slide because they already had too many other problems to manage.
The rest of the third quarter and the entire fourth were played by the backups. At last, the tension eased a little.
Only a little.
UCLA finally began managing the clock and stopped playing aggressively.
Then, in the middle of all the commotion, Andrew noticed a camera pointed at him.
He was sitting on the bench with a towel draped over his shoulders, his uniform stained with dirt and his helmet resting beside him. For a second, he looked directly into the lens.
Then he gave a thumbs-up. He smiled faintly, as though he were the most upstanding citizen in the entire stadium, and winked.
The clock reached zero.
Arizona Wildcats 9 — UCLA Bruins 66
With that, the noise inside Arizona Stadium finally dissolved into a strange mixture of boos, murmurs, and footsteps leaving the stands.
[It's over in Tucson,] Brent said, his voice serious, knowing this game had become more than just a result. [UCLA crushes Arizona on the road. Sixty-six to nine. An absolute beatdown by the Bruins in the Wildcats' own stadium.]
The camera showed UCLA's players coming onto the field to exchange postgame greetings. Some shook hands. Others hugged. Most of them were smiling, although Mora was already making sure no one celebrated too much in front of Arizona's players.
[What a change,] Brent continued. [Just a few weeks ago, the last time UCLA faced a similarly ranked opponent, it was an extremely close game. Today, against the twenty-fourth-ranked team in the country, inside a hostile stadium, the Bruins did not merely win. They dominated from beginning to end.]
Kirk nodded, [Yes, Brent. That speaks to the growth of this team. The level UCLA is showing right now is impressive. It isn't just Andrew Pritchett-Tucker, although he will obviously take all the headlines after breaking Drew Olson's record and throwing five touchdown passes. It's the entire team.]
The broadcast cut to UCLA's defense.
[We have to talk about the defense,] Kirk continued. [This team allowed more than twenty points against Rice in the opening game of the season. Today, against an Arizona offense that had been producing at a very high level, they allowed only nine points. Three field goals. Not a single touchdown.]
Brent allowed the statistic to speak for itself, [Excellent work by Jim Mora and defensive coordinator Lou Spanos.]
[Now,] Kirk added, lowering his voice slightly, [we also have to say this: the way UCLA won this game is going to generate a great deal of controversy.]
The game alone would already have been watched by millions of people on ABC.
But after everything that had happened, it was almost certain that many people would label UCLA unsportsmanlike.
Andrew, already heading toward the visitors' locker room, was not thinking much about that.
His mind was focused on taking a quick shower, meeting with his family for a few minutes, and then heading home.
Halloween would be the following Wednesday, but college students were not going to wait until the middle of the week for the biggest parties. The real Halloween weekend was that night, Saturday, October 27.
Westwood would almost certainly be alive.
The problem was that Andrew was not an ordinary college student.
He had flown to Arizona the day before. He had just played a game, with all the physical and mental strain that came with it. Between the locker room, leaving the stadium, traveling to the airport, and the flight back, he would not arrive in Los Angeles until around two or three in the morning.
For any other student, that hour could still be part of the night.
For Andrew, it was not especially appealing. Even so, he knew the parties would still be going. He had invitations.
Probably too many.
He did not know whether he would go. He was tired.
At most, perhaps he would meet up with his friends for something quieter.
It would also be interesting to see Leonard, Howard, Monica, Paige, Rachel, and the others react to the game.
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