Friday, February 3, 2012
In the darkness of Andrew's room, the clock went off very early, around 5:20 in the morning. The noise, annoying but already familiar, repeated itself over and over until he finally reacted.
His eyes opened slowly. He stretched his arm toward the nightstand and shut off the alarm without thinking too much, sitting up in bed with an automatic motion. He turned on the bedside lamp and, barely fully awake, began to change. There was no doubt or real laziness in his movements. It was a routine he already had ingrained.
He left the room and stepped into the rest of the apartment. His new apartment, though it no longer felt so new. A month had passed since he moved in. It wasn't that long, but enough for everything to stop feeling foreign.
The place was completely silent. Nothing could be heard. Not even birds. The sky was still dark.
'Last day of the week, let's do it,' Andrew thought, barely yawning as he headed to the bathroom.
It didn't take long. He came out with his hair already styled, his face washed, and as awake as he could reasonably be.
Ready to make breakfast.
Why so early?
Because he had to be at UCLA at six in the morning, specifically at the team gym, where the racks, weights, and the rest of the equipment were. It was mandatory training for all members of the team.
Two hours. From 6:00 AM to 8:00 AM.
Then, around 8:30, he had his first class of the day as a college student. The semester had started in January, and the double life was no longer theoretical, it was real.
And his day didn't end there. After classes, in the afternoon, came the football study portion. Meetings with Chow, with Rip Scherer, the QB coach, film sessions, reading defenses, and learning the playbook terminology.
Hours inside the quarterbacks room, breaking down plays, understanding schemes, and correcting details that on the field happened in seconds but actually required hours of preparation.
Only after all that his day was free. In theory.
'Damn… this looks like an exploitative workday,' Andrew thought with a self-mocking smirk as he opened the fridge.
He woke up at 5:20 in the morning, Monday through Friday, and didn't return to his apartment until close to six in the evening.
Twelve hours, sometimes even more depending on the day.
Every single day, and that was considering he lived just a five-minute walk from UCLA. A huge advantage. He could've been in the dorms, sure, literally less than two minutes away, but that wasn't his thing.
He preferred this: living alone. Not sharing a room with a stranger. Here he could study in peace. Go over the playbook without interruptions. Use the massive TV his grandfather had given him to watch games, clips, and cuts that Chow and the coaches sent him, analyzing them at his own pace, rewinding plays, and understanding details.
The good part was that he liked his routine: physical training had always been one of his passions, that's why he even taught it on his YouTube channel. It had never really felt like a burden. And studying football, from a deeper, more analytical perspective, was something he had always enjoyed.
Although this was far more complex than what he had done in high school, without a doubt. Norm Chow's playbook had very complicated terminology.
So now it was simply much more intense and serious.
The downside were the classes in between. Because it wasn't just about attending. He also had to dedicate time to them afterward. Homework, tedious readings, and assignments. He couldn't fall behind.
Honestly, it had been a good decision not to go to Stanford.
How difficult would the academic side have been there?
He knew the answer.
Much more. They didn't give as many concessions there, not even to athletes. And on a day like his, where football wasn't just a part of it but the central axis of everything, it would've made things even harder.
Not because he couldn't do it.
He could.
There were players who had managed it. High-level quarterbacks who had performed both on the field and in the classroom, maintaining top grades in a demanding academic environment.
Andrew Luck was the perfect example.
Luck had an elite career at Stanford University. He had already declared for the April 2012 draft, and Andrew knew perfectly well he would be selected Pick no.1. And that, by itself, was absolute validation. Being the first overall pick meant you were the best prospect in the country.
On top of that, Luck won 2× Pac-12 titles, played in the Orange Bowl twice, one Fiesta Bowl, and was a Heisman finalist on two occasions.
Even so, he never managed to win it.
His final season, which had ended just a few weeks earlier, in January of that same year, had looked like this:
Andrew Luck's stats:
Completions: 288 / 404
Completion %: 71.3%
Yards: 3,517
TD: 37
INT: 10
Rating: ~169.7
Stanford finished with an 11–2 record, final ranking no.7 AP. They didn't win the Pac-12, they lost to Oregon.
He played the Fiesta Bowl in January and lost to Oklahoma State, 41–38. That was his final image in college.
A loss.
As for the Heisman, the ceremony took place on December 10, 2011. Luck finished in 2nd place. The Heisman is decided before the January bowls, taking only the regular season into account.
The winner was Robert Griffin III, with a simply extraordinary season.
In short, an excellent season. One of the few that quarterbacks at that level achieve. An incredibly high standard for Stanford.
Andrew could have gone to Stanford, become Luck's successor, and try to aim for something similar, even with a heavy academic workload.
But that would have taken away his margin.
Margin to be perfect.
For Andrew, it wasn't just about meeting expectations. Not even about being good. It was about squeezing every detail. Every minimal adjustment that could make a difference.
That required time: extra hours of film study, analysis, mental repetition… obsession, basically.
In an environment like Stanford, that time would be more divided. He would still be elite, but not exactly what he wanted to become.
He wanted to win the Heisman. It had been a dream for as long as he could remember. From before, back in Texas, when he was about to enter college, and now too.
And not just that.
He also wanted to win a national championship. Not to be one of the best, but to be the best.
Just as he had taken out and set on the counter everything he needed to prepare breakfast, the doorbell rang.
Andrew raised an eyebrow, walked to the door, and pressed the intercom button.
"Yes?"
There was a brief silence, and then a familiar voice, still half asleep.
"It's me."
"Come up," Andrew replied, recognizing the voice instantly.
He pressed the button to unlock the building door, and a few minutes later, there were two soft knocks at the door.
Knock, knock.
Andrew opened it, and there he was. His father, Cam, with a completely drowsy expression, eyes barely open, hair slightly messy. Nothing like his usual energetic, theatrical self.
"Hey, dad," Andrew said, a bit amused. "I told you you don't have to come."
Cam raised a hand, as if brushing it off.
"I'm fine…" he replied, his voice muted, far from his usual dramatic tone.
Clearly, he wasn't that fine.
Getting up at that hour was hard for him, and yet he still came.
Not every day, but often enough. Two or three times a week. He'd show up early, make him breakfast, and walk with him to the university.
A habit he had picked up without Andrew asking for it, but one he silently appreciated.
Cam already knew exactly what to prepare. He didn't need to ask. He moved around the kitchen with a bit of initial clumsiness, still waking up, but guided by automatic memory.
Andrew sat down on one of the stools, watching him.
"How's the adjustment to the team going?" Cam asked as he started making breakfast.
"Everything's great," Andrew replied without hesitation. "Starting is just a matter of time."
Cam smiled slightly.
That confidence. He knew it wasn't arrogance, more like certainty and cold analysis.
Andrew wasn't speaking only from his level of play.
It was, quite literally, a matter of time.
Between January and March there wouldn't be real on-field practices. By NCAA rules, it was the offseason. A controlled, limited period where contact was restricted and actual field work was practically nonexistent.
Even so, Andrew had several advantages because of his context and status.
But even setting that aside, there was a more important factor.
The staff change.
UCLA Bruins football had just installed a completely new system. New playbook, new terminology. That put everyone at the same starting point.
No one really had a prior advantage.
Everyone was learning from scratch. And that was where Andrew began to separate himself.
The main competitors at the quarterback position were clear.
The first was Brett Hundley. Probably the most threatening in real terms. A freshman, though in practice he would be a redshirt freshman for the upcoming season. A natural dual-threat. Speed, size, and improvisational ability. A very complete physical profile.
The second was Kevin Prince. The experience option. The one who had been in the program the longest. He was entering his fourth year. But even he had limitations. The system was new, and although he had prior exposure to Norm Chow, he had already failed to consistently execute that offensive style. Inconsistent, with a limited ceiling, and no long-term projection. He played more because of seniority than actual level.
In practice, the real competition was Hundley.
That was the point. Hundley was an obvious physical talent. But his weakness was just as clear: the Pro-Style.
Football IQ.
Andrew was the exact opposite.
While both were learning the playbook from scratch, starting in mid-December, Andrew didn't just memorize it as a series of plays. He broke it down piece by piece, analyzed it, and understood the logic behind every formation.
That difference started to show quickly.
Especially in the film room meetings.
When Norm Chow asked questions to the group, they weren't simple ones. Andrew always answered first, and correctly.
But he didn't stop there.
He started asking questions back. Not impulsively, nor to draw attention, but as a natural part of his own process of understanding. Adjustments within the play. Alternatives if the defense reacted differently. Other scenarios.
Situations that weren't on the surface of the playbook, but were inevitable in a real game. Things that, strictly speaking, weren't necessary at that stage of learning, but clearly revealed his level of football IQ.
Chow wasn't an expressive coach. He didn't openly praise or stop to reinforce what someone did well. His way of communicating was different. But there were subtle signs: a slight smile at the corner of his mouth, a minimal nod, or a brief pause before moving on to the next play.
After that, the shift came. The questions started being directed at him. More specific and demanding.
They were no longer general prompts to the group. They were scenarios designed to measure how far his understanding went. As if, implicitly, he was being separated from the rest. More was expected from him.
For Andrew, that was a good sign.
There was also something structural working in his favor. Beyond the coaches' public discourse, that constant idea that the competition was completely open, the offensive system wasn't neutral. It wasn't built for just any profile. It was a Pro-Style system.
Not for a pure improviser like Hundley, Johnny Manziel, or those more chaotic archetypes.
And physically, the gap wasn't as big as it might seem from the outside.
Yes, Hundley had tools. Maybe a bit more explosiveness.
But Andrew wasn't far behind.
He had been training since he was five years old, progressively and without interruption. He had built his body over more than a decade.
He wasn't an athletically limited quarterback. With only a one-year difference between them, the real gap was minimal.
In some aspects, Andrew was even ahead.
That's why he trusted that the starting job was just a matter of time. As long as he maintained this routine and level of performance, it was his.
A logical outcome.
99.9%.
Cam finished preparing breakfast and set it in front of him. Andrew started eating while, out of the corner of his eye, checking the clock.
He was on schedule.
"And what about classes?" Cam asked, leaning lightly against the counter, his tone already hinting at where the conversation was going. "Any friends or potential girlfriend?"
Andrew looked at him, already used to it. "You know me, dad," he replied calmly. "I go, listen to the professor, take notes, and that's it."
It was the truth.
College life, at least in that sense, wasn't quite what many imagined. Only a month had passed, but Andrew had barely formed any new connections. No friendships, no potential relationship.
Classes were different. Much more serious than in high school. The professor walked in, delivered the material, and the dynamic was completely different. There wasn't that constant noise, that light social atmosphere, or groups chatting among themselves like there had been in high school.
Here, everyone paid attention. Each person focused on their own thing.
And there was something else on top of that.
His fame.
He was recognized. Very recognized at UCLA. Every interaction he had carried a different weight, even with professors.
So he kept his distance and didn't try to build new friendships. He didn't need to. He was already satisfied with his current circle. He wasn't looking to expand it at that moment. He didn't have the time, nor the real interest.
The only thing he was missing was a girlfriend, sure, what happened with Jade had been a complete failure and ended abruptly. But even that felt unrealistic right now.
Cam sighed softly, understanding without needing to push further, and let the topic go.
Andrew finished breakfast, stood up, grabbed his things, and they headed out.
The streets were still fairly empty. The sky was just beginning to lighten.
The walk to UCLA was short.
They stopped at the entrance, and Cam hugged him. "Good luck today!" he said, now much closer to his usual self.
"Thanks, dad," Andrew replied with a slight smile.
"Do you want to come over for dinner tonight?" Cam asked as they pulled apart.
Andrew shook his head.
"I can't," he said. "I get out around six, and after that I still have to keep studying at home. Plus, I'm going to be pretty tired."
Cam made a small face, as if he had expected that answer, but didn't like it anyway.
Andrew noticed. "I'll stop by tomorrow afternoon," he added. "And we can have dinner on Sunday."
That was enough. Cam nodded, more satisfied, and said goodbye.
Andrew turned and walked onto campus.
The walk was short. It was still early, but UCLA was already starting to come alive.
He reached the training facility at 5:50. Ten minutes early. As always.
The gym was on another level. Much better than Mater Dei's. Bigger, better lit, and carefully designed. Rows of racks perfectly aligned, lifting platforms with enough space between each one, modern machines, and a large amount of plates.
The coaches were already there.
So were several players.
As soon as he walked in, the looks came naturally.
Andrew was already used to it. He was, quite literally, the only early enrollee in the group. There were freshmen, yes, but a year older than him. Technically, he hadn't even started his first season yet. That would only happen in preseason, when Steve, Andrus, and the rest of the class arrived.
For now, he was the new guy.
And quite a new guy.
Andrew didn't do anything special. He walked naturally, greeting whoever crossed his path, both players and coaches.
He set his things down and started warming up.
At exactly six, the workout began. Strength work first: squats, bench press, or deadlift.
Then more dynamic work.
The two hours passed, and at exactly 8:00, they were done.
Meanwhile, only a few stragglers remained in the gym, taking a bit more time to finish their routines, along with the coaches still moving between stations, organizing, checking, and wrapping up the session.
Sal Alosi, UCLA's strength and conditioning coach, held a tablet in his hand, reviewing the workout data.
Beside him, Jim Mora looked over. "How much is Andrew weighing now?" he asked.
"Two hundred and ten pounds. He's put on a bit since he got here, but it's clean mass," Alosi replied, expanding a graph. "He hasn't lost mobility."
Mora nodded slightly. "You can see it in his movement."
Alosi set the tablet down on the table. "He doesn't look like someone who arrived a month ago, let alone an early enrollee. He's got nothing to envy from Hundley… actually, if he keeps this pace, he's going to surpass him physically too."
Mora didn't respond immediately. "How's he recovering?" he asked after a moment.
"Good," Alosi said. "He doesn't drop off in the second half of the workout. He keeps the same pace and perfect technique. That's not common."
He remembered Andrew's lifts, the technique never breaking down, as if he had done that same movement thousands of times.
Mora crossed his arms. "And the load?"
"We're increasing it progressively, and he's absorbing it without any issues. We haven't had to pull anything back. And nothing gets past him, when you correct something, he fixes it on the next rep. He doesn't need to be told twice."
"He's not coming in raw," Mora said, his tone low but certain. "There's a reason they keep repeating that he's the best prospect to ever come out of high school."
Alosi simply nodded. It wasn't incomplete talent.
…
After showering, Andrew changed quickly and grabbed a simple snack, something light, just enough to recover energy without feeling heavy. As he left the building and headed toward the academic area, the campus had completely changed.
What an hour earlier had been silence and scattered footsteps was now constant movement. Students walking in different directions, conversations, doors opening and closing. UCLA was fully awake.
He walked into his first class without rushing, sat in his usual seat, and took out his things. For the next few hours, until 1:00 PM, the routine was different. More boring, but he didn't have a choice.
At 1:30, it was time for lunch.
The athletes' dining hall was, in that sense, a clear advantage. The meals were planned by UCLA's staff, designed to meet exactly what each player needed according to their diet. He didn't have to worry about cooking or calculating anything. Everything was done: proteins, carbohydrates, and fats.
He ate calmly, sharing a table with a few teammates, exchanging a couple of comments, nothing forced. Andrew didn't push conversations. He wasn't interested in being that extroverted leader who talked to everyone and won over the group artificially. He preferred it to be natural. If someone approached him, good. If not, that was fine too. He wasn't going to force connections that didn't happen on their own.
At 2:30, one of his favorite parts of the day began.
Meetings with Norm Chow and Rip Scherer.
At quarterback, there were five in total. Besides him, there were Brett Hundley and Kevin Prince, the main names, and two others who rounded out the group: Richard Brehaut, a junior, and Nick Crissman, a sophomore.
It lasted two hours.
First with Chow, where the focus was broader and more structural. Offensive concepts, reading defenses, adjustments based on formation and game situation. Then, more specific, with Scherer and the quarterbacks group. That's where everything became more technical.
At 4:30, they wrapped up.
Andrew stopped by the dining hall and grabbed his afternoon snack, also prepared by the university.
His day wasn't over. He went back to the QB room. While the rest started to leave, he stayed.
Until 6:30.
Another hour and a half.
It wasn't mandatory. No one asked him to do it. It was his decision.
He stayed in the facilities, reviewing the playbook, going back over concepts they had seen during the day, and watching more film with Scherer when he was available.
It was better to do it there.
He had access to everything. The coaches, the full material, and immediate corrections. In his apartment, he could study, sure, but he didn't have that instant feedback.
That made the difference. Out of all the quarterbacks, he was the only one maintaining that routine every day.
At first, some tried to stay with him. It wasn't unusual to hang around a bit after meetings. But one thing was staying thirty or forty-five minutes. Another was an hour and a half.
As the weeks went by, it became clear. Andrew wasn't doing it to impress anyone.
He was doing it because that's how he worked.
That afternoon, the film room was silent.
Only the low sound of the film playing and the soft tapping of Andrew's fingers against the table.
He had been like that for several minutes.
Eyes fixed on the screen, but not exactly watching it. He was processing. Simulating the entire play in his head.
Scherer watched him for a moment from the other side of the room.
'He's been like that for ten minutes,' he thought, surprised, but not entirely. He had already seen him enter that kind of mental limbo.
Scherer closed his folder, packed his things, and looked at him again.
"Andrew."
No immediate response.
"Andrew."
This time, he blinked, as if coming back from somewhere else, and looked at him.
"Yes, coach?"
Scherer made a slight gesture toward the exit. "That's it for today. Go home. Good work."
Andrew nodded, still coming out of that mental state. "Thanks, coach."
He packed his things and left the room. As soon as he stepped out, he found Chow leaning against the wall, as if he already knew Andrew would be the last one to leave, and at that hour.
"The last one out… again," Chow remarked.
Andrew let out a faint smile, saying nothing.
Chow gave a small nod. "Good job."
For someone like him, that was already a lot.
He paused briefly, then added in the same calm tone as always, "They're going to send you a few more clips tonight. Go over them. I want you to tell me what you see on Monday."
Andrew nodded without hesitation. "I will."
Chow looked at him for another second. "I know. Now go home, get some rest, eat something, and get back to studying," he said finally.
Andrew nodded, adjusted his backpack, and left the building.
Just a few steps away, the door behind him opened again.
Scherer stepped out of the room. He caught a glimpse of Andrew walking down the hallway, his figure fading into the crowd.
Then he turned toward Norm Chow. "You're overloading him."
"No," Chow said calmly.
Scherer frowned slightly. "Norm, he's the only one who stays an extra hour and a half every day after meetings. No one else does that. On top of everything else, he starts his day at five in the morning, strength training, classes, and then our sessions. And now you're adding more work for the night."
Chow crossed his arms, his expression unchanged. "He can handle it."
Scherer shook his head lightly. "I know. But there's a part you don't see in the numbers. The mental wear… that's not measured the same way. It doesn't show up on a sheet."
Chow watched him in silence for a moment, then shifted his gaze down the hallway where Andrew had already disappeared.
"This boy is incredible. I've never seen anything like him. I've never seen someone that young come into college with that way of thinking the game," Chow said.
Scherer nodded, agreeing on that point. It wasn't an exaggeration.
At that level, most players didn't study football that way, especially not right after arriving. The approach was usually different: adapt to the pace, learn the basics of the system, and play.
That was also why so many teams ended up relying on quarterbacks who improvised, ran, and solved situations outside the structure when the system wasn't enough. Not because it was the best way to play, but because it was the most accessible.
Chow turned his head and looked at him. "That's exactly why you need to stay on top of him. Make sure he doesn't push himself too far mentally. For now, I see him doing fine, but you're better than me at tracking that day to day."
He didn't say it like a suggestion.
It was an instruction.
Scherer nodded, with no real alternative. He knew Chow wouldn't reduce Andrew's workload if he kept responding well and staying proactive.
The quarterback coach was the closest point to the QB. Even more than the offensive coordinator. He was the one working with him every day.
The one who understood not just how he played—but how he thought.
Chow designed the system.
Scherer lived alongside the one who had to execute it.
In a case like Andrew's, that difference mattered more than ever.
Because it wasn't just about developing him.
It was about maintaining balance. Pushing him, without letting him go too far.
…
At home, Andrew dropped his things and went straight to the kitchen. He made something for dinner, and after that, his plan was already clear.
He sat down in the living room, turned on the TV, and loaded the clips that had been sent to him by email, probably from one of the staff assistants. To one side, he placed his iPad with his notes and the playbook open. Everything organized.
He made himself a coffee and got started.
He wasn't just watching passively. He paused and rewound to analyze. He compared what he was seeing with what he had written down.
That's how the night went. Until the clock hit 10:30 PM.
That's when he stopped.
Not because he was tired, but because that was also part of the routine. Sleeping well.
On Saturday, he woke up at six in the morning.
Even though it was the weekend.
Unlike his high school days, when the rhythm was more flexible, now he aimed to keep the same schedule all the time. Between seven and eight hours of sleep, always at the same hours.
Avoiding that typical imbalance of staying up later on Friday or Saturday and then having to force things on Monday.
Saturday was more relaxed.
He visited Jay, Gloria, and Manny in the morning, spent some time with them, and in the afternoon went to his parents' house, where he also ended up playing with Lily for a while. Those kinds of simple moments were some of the few times where he truly disconnected without even realizing it.
Sunday followed a similar pattern. More relaxed, but without completely losing the rhythm. That night, the whole family, Dunphy and Pritchett included, got together for dinner.
When the day ended, Monday came again, and with it, the routine.
That's how the days went by.
February passed with almost no variation. When March arrived, the rhythm began to shift slightly.
It was a transitional month.
Formal spring practice hadn't started yet. There were no on-field sessions with the staff, no full practices with helmets. But that didn't mean field work had stopped.
There was a gray area. Legally, coaches couldn't be present or organize sessions. But if players got together on their own, that was a different story.
Every team did it. Andrew was no exception.
Informal throwing sessions with the wide receivers began.
All the study started to show. Andrew was no longer thinking through every play from scratch. He was starting to feel the system.
Not just understand it.
Execute it with internal logic, and within that group, it was obvious. He was the one picking it up the fastest.
Finally, April arrived, and with it, Spring Practice.
The first real football at UCLA.
The NCAA allowed fourteen practices spread across the month, fourteen opportunities to start translating everything that had so far been theory, weight room work, and endless hours in the film room. It was time to get on the field, with helmets, pads, and coaches directing every detail.
That first, quieter and more methodical phase was over; now everything began to take visible form. In the afternoons, the team went out to the practice field.
Those fourteen practices weren't just repetition.
They were a filter.
They established the hierarchy.
Andrew fit in as if he weren't an early enrollee, but the natural next step.
Everything he had done in silence, the obsession with the playbook, the flawless routine, the extra hours when everyone else had already left, started to show. In drills, his execution was perfect.
In 7-on-7, he was in his element. He didn't force things, didn't improvise.
He simply made the play work.
And just like that, without anyone needing to say it out loud, April moved toward its final point.
The Spring Game.
An internal scrimmage, yes, but also the team's first public event. Traditionally, UCLA held it at the Rose Bowl, with a moderate attendance, around ten to fifteen thousand people, more of a day for loyal fans than a true spectacle.
But this time, it wasn't the same.
On Saturday, May 5, around midday, the Rose Bowl started filling up much earlier than usual. This wasn't just any crowd, it was a different mix.
Bruins fans were there, and with the new sense of hope, there were many more of them. There were also Andrew's fans, and of course, the press. ESPN had a presence on site, not with a full formal broadcast, but with crews filming, field reporters, and pre-produced segments.
The stands didn't show the usual wide empty gaps from previous years. Instead, there were full sections of people, constant noise, and Andrew jerseys with the number 19, he hadn't even officially debuted in the regular season yet.
This wasn't normal for a Spring Game.
In theory, it was an open competition. A scrimmage where quarterbacks rotated, where the staff evaluated, where everyone got their reps. In practice, the atmosphere told a different story.
There was no doubt in the air. No sense of let's see if the hype is real.
The Rose Bowl, at that midday hour, was already more than half full. The constant murmur of thousands of people, mixed with music and announcements over the loudspeakers, created an atmosphere that felt far from a simple open practice.
"This is insane…" Claire said, already settled in her seat, scanning the stands that kept filling up.
They were in a privileged section. Not just Andrew's entire family, Steve, Leonard, and Howard were there too, unable to take their eyes off the field, a mix of excitement and contained anticipation.
"And this is supposed to be a practice game," Haley muttered beside her, phone in hand, recording clips almost nonstop, as if she still couldn't fully believe it.
She knew exactly who her cousin was. She had seen packed stadiums in high school, none of that was new to her. But this was practice. An internal scrimmage. An event that, in theory, wasn't anything special. And yet, the Rose Bowl was alive, filled with people who had come just for him.
"It's not just a practice," Alex added, arms crossed, in her usual analytical tone. "It's the first real exposure with a crowd. From this point on, roles start to take shape. It doesn't define anything officially, but it positions things."
Haley scoffed, not taking her eyes off the field.
"Everyone knows Andrew's going to be the starter," she said with total certainty, as if it were obvious and not even worth debating.
Steve, beside her, gave a small nod. He had always trusted him, but since the Army Bowl, he had seen him differently. More focused, to the point where it was almost intimidating. It was a level of discipline he hadn't seen before, not even in him. So for Steve, the competition wasn't really a competition anymore.
"The Pritchett show is about to begin," Phil said enthusiastically, leaning forward in his seat.
"Pritchett?" Cam repeated immediately, turning his head toward him with a clearly displeased expression. "He's also a Tucker."
"Oh… yeah, right," Phil corrected quickly. Saying both last names was always a hassle for him.
Jay, a few seats over, let out a slight smile. "Admit it," he said calmly, "Pritchett sounds better."
Cam looked at him, but Mitchell, knowing this could turn into a long argument, cut in, "Quiet, they're coming out."
The scrimmage was about to begin.