Saturday, May 5, 2023
UCLA's Spring Game was underway. As tradition dictated, it was being played at the Rose Bowl. But unlike previous years, the context had completely changed. The stands were no longer dotted with empty sections or dominated by a small, loyal crowd.
There were more people. A lot more than usual. Entire sections filled, constant noise, and professional cameras spread along the field with media crews moving up and down the sidelines. It was still a scrimmage, yes, but the atmosphere felt much closer to an event than a simple open practice.
It resembled those Spring Games from powerhouse programs, the kind that filled stadiums even for a practice. Alabama, Texas… those universities where football never really stopped, not even in the offseason.
UCLA usually wasn't in that category. But this year, it was.
Even so, on the field, the structure hadn't changed. It was still a controlled practice run by the coaches. There were no full tackles; plays were blown dead as soon as a defender made solid contact or wrapped up the ball carrier, avoiding any unnecessary risk.
The duration also differed from a real game: four quarters of ten to twelve minutes, with the clock handled flexibly.
The entire event didn't last more than two hours. And above all, it didn't flow like a traditional game. Drives were cut short, specific situations were repeated, and coaches stepped in whenever they wanted.
For the crowd, at times, it felt strange.
On offense, the quarterback rotation set the rhythm. Andrew, Hundley, and Prince were the three main names, the ones truly being watched under that unspoken idea of competition. What happened there was already starting to tip the balance.
Even though many already knew the balance was leaning one way.
By the time the fourth quarter began, the numbers were as follows:
Andrew had led six drives. Hundley five. Prince four.
And within that fragmented context, where many drives didn't even reach completion because coaches cut them off before the red zone, Andrew had already thrown three touchdowns.
A number that, even with all those limitations, stood out the most.
Hundley had also found the end zone, but only once and with less consistency. Prince, on the other hand, hadn't been able to capitalize on his opportunities.
But beyond the numbers, what truly made the difference was something else. The way he played.
Andrew didn't look like he was reacting. He looked one step ahead. He understood what the system demanded and executed it without friction. Where others hesitated, he had already decided. Where others improvised, he solved things within the structure.
Hundley, for his part, had shown what everyone already knew he had, physicality, explosiveness, and that ability to break a play open when needed. A couple of long runs made that clear and had many in the stands rising to their feet, applauding.
But every time he stepped outside the scheme to gain yards on his own, Norm Chow's reaction wasn't exactly enthusiastic. It wasn't that he reprimanded him, but it wasn't what he wanted to see.
Finally, the fourth quarter began. Andrew stepped in for his seventh drive of the day.
"Let's go, Andrew! Show them who's in charge!" Haley cheered, clapping as she stood up.
"Yeah, crush them!" Luke added, raising his fist with excitement.
"Guys…" Steve cut in, glancing at them with a half-smile, "I share the excitement, but he's playing against his own team."
Even so, not even he could hide what was obvious. It wasn't just that Andrew was producing. It was how he was doing it. The sense of control, and that everything fit better when he was on the field.
"Fair point… force of habit," Haley said, sitting back down, her eyes never leaving the field.
"All those hours studying the playbook like a maniac paid off," Jay remarked with a restrained, almost proud smile, not taking his eyes off the field.
Mitchell, beside him, nodded slowly. They both knew what was behind it. It wasn't just talent. It was time. Hours. Months from January up to this moment, locked into a routine that went far beyond the physical. He had trained his body, yes. But more than anything, he had trained his mind.
Alex nodded as well, crossing her arms. "You could consider him a genius at that," she said.
"Admirable," Manny added, leaning slightly forward, his gaze fixed on the field. "It's like in chess when someone doesn't just play well, but understands the board several moves ahead. He's not reacting, he already knows what's going to happen."
Leonard nodded beside him in silence, acknowledging the idea without needing to add anything.
It was curious. Andrew was considered a sports genius. No debate.
But outside of football, he wasn't seen as an academic genius. He had graduated early, yes, but more due to organization, discipline, and getting ahead on coursework than because of extraordinary academic ability.
He had good grades, he was consistent, and he delivered. But he wasn't Alex, who was aiming for something like California Institute of Technology with almost absolute clarity.
Nor Leonard, with an IQ far above average. Not even Manny, who, without fully dedicating himself, handled a notable level of chess for his age, moving naturally in a space where others needed years of intensive practice.
But when it came to understanding football, Andrew was something else. He didn't just execute plays or throw better than the rest. He understood the game. It was a way of thinking the field that wasn't common.
That part wasn't always visible at first glance. For most people, what stood out were the deep passes, the accuracy, and the big plays.
In contexts like this, starting college, where the game becomes more complex, that superiority showed itself more clearly. Learning a college-level playbook wasn't just about memorizing routes or formations. It was far more complicated than that.
"Don't say it like that's necessarily a good thing," Cam cut in, his tone different, more restrained, almost concerned.
Mitchell turned his head toward him, raising an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
Cam sighed lightly before answering. "That he spends too much time on it. It's not just training or school, he studies the playbook on his own too. Jay said it… like a maniac."
A brief silence followed.
Alex broke it without hesitation. "He enjoys it," she said naturally, as if it were obvious. "I can't believe someone could spend thirty minutes explaining plays, schemes, and formations without stopping, but he does."
Jay nodded slowly, still watching the field. Claire did the same. Even Gloria and Phil.
Andrew seemed to enjoy studying football.
The only questionable part might be the balance. Because all of that stacked on top of a routine that was already demanding on its own.
Even so, at a glance, it didn't seem to affect him. Maybe he looked a bit more serious and focused. Less relaxed than before. Not enough for just anyone to notice, but enough for those who knew him well.
They let the topic drop as the drive began.
It was a different series from the previous ones. More methodical. Designed to move the chains consistently without needing to chase a big play. Short, safe passes and quick decisions. When the opportunity presented itself, an occasional intermediate throw to gain more ground.
Andrew executed it naturally. No rush. Until, on one of those reads, he found the window. An intermediate pass, about fifteen yards, right into the chest of the starting tight end.
Joseph Fauria.
A junior, though in practice already entering his final year of eligibility. He came from Crespi High School, a tall four-star recruit once considered among the best at his position nationally. He had spent time at Notre Dame before ending up at UCLA, and now he was a key piece in the system.
The coaches cut the drive there. There was no need for more. They had seen what they wanted to see, and, as always with Andrew's drives, they were satisfied.
"Nice job, little bro!" Joseph said, walking over with the ball in hand and pulling Andrew into a quick hug.
Andrew smiled, a bit reserved, accepting the gesture. "Thanks. Nice catch."
To be honest, he could be considered his little brother. The physical contrast was obvious. Joseph stood six-foot-seven, over two meters, with around 260 pounds of muscle. His presence was imposing.
Andrew, though tall and well-built, looked smaller by comparison.
"Good drive," said Jonathan Franklin, the starting running back, stepping in to bump fists with Andrew.
Jonathan was one of the key names on the offense, already proven, with real production in previous seasons.
Andrew barely had time to respond before Xavier Su'a-Filo walked up to him. The offensive lineman, well over 300 pounds and standing above six feet tall, gave him a pat on the back that shook him a bit more than would've been ideal.
"Good job," Xavier said. "Sorry about that pressure earlier, they beat me inside. I won't leave you hanging like that next time."
Andrew returned the pat, trying to match the gesture, though he barely managed to move him. "It's fine, the throw still came out well."
"That's the good thing about having you with us!" Xavier replied with a wide grin, giving him another, even harder slap, as if he didn't quite measure his own strength.
Around them, a few players laughed, following the moment as they walked off the field with Andrew at the center of the group.
Just as they reached the sideline, Shaq Evans approached them. Also a near-senior and the team's unquestioned WR1. One of the top offensive talents on the current roster before the full arrival of the 2012 class. Tall, and athletic, the kind of receiver who thrives on deeper, more demanding routes with precise timing.
As Andrew stepped closer, Shaq took a step forward and lightly tapped his shoulder with a smile.
"Good work," he said, nodding slightly, "though I don't like just standing there watching."
Since it had been a drive designed to control the pace, move the chains with short passes, and minimize risk, Shaq had been watching from the sideline. It wasn't the kind of series where someone like him usually shined.
Andrew smiled. "I think two touchdowns over twenty yards are pretty good stats for a practice game."
Shaq let out a laugh and this time gave him a firmer pat on the shoulder. "Fair enough. I'm being greedy."
Of Andrew's three touchdowns, two had been connections with Shaq on deep routes, one for twenty-five yards, the other for twenty-nine.
For Shaq, that was pure gold. He didn't care that the quarterback in front of him was a freshman. Having a quarterback capable of throwing deep with precision, respecting route timing, and trusting it, that was exactly what he needed to maximize his game.
A few yards back, along the sideline, Jim Mora and Norm Chow watched the scene in silence and nodded to themselves. They had known Andrew's talent long before he ever stepped onto the field.
But what they were seeing now was another piece of good news: his relationship with the group. His leadership.
Because, in the end, he was surrounded by players who had been in the program two, three, even four years longer than him. Veterans. Guys who didn't hand out respect easily. And yet, without forcing it, he was starting to fit in.
That completed the picture.
There didn't seem to be a clear weak point. Physically, he had arrived better than expected and was still growing.
In terms of talent, he was above the rest, there was a reason he had been considered the greatest high school prospect of all time. Mentally, the hardest part of all, he had absorbed the playbook at a speed that wasn't normal, and more than that, he had made it his own.
And now this.
The hardest part to measure. The one that isn't built through reps or hours in the film room:
His connection with the team.
In just a few months, it was already visible. Not in speeches or exaggerated gestures, but in simpler details, in the way veterans spoke to him, and how naturally they included him.
They didn't treat him like a new kid. They treated him like someone they were starting to trust.
"Oh, come on! Don't end it there!" Haley exclaimed, clear frustration in her voice, right as the drive had been stopped near the end zone, with Andrew in position to finish his fourth touchdown.
"You're really taking this seriously," Howard commented, filming the field with his camera.
He did it more out of habit than anything else. Andrew didn't have the same time as before for his YouTube channel. His routine at UCLA was far more demanding than in high school.
There were a couple more drives after that, this time with the other quarterbacks, and little by little the game came to an end.
The Rose Bowl responded with sustained applause as the players began to leave the field. A large section of the stadium even started chanting Andrew's name, the sound rolling down from the stands like a wave. As he walked toward the tunnel, he raised a hand and clapped back in appreciation before disappearing inside.
"Well, that game was weird," Leonard muttered, scratching the back of his neck.
"Yeah," Howard sighed beside him, "and I thought we'd get something epic like the All-American Bowl…"
Neither of them had been able to travel to Texas. They had missed that game. The return of the connection between Andrew and Steve. That last pass.
And for Howard, it had been even worse hearing about everything that had happened off the field. The meeting with Monica and Rachel. Two beautiful girls who, in his mind, made that absence sting even more.
A few minutes later, out in the parking lot, Andrew met up with everyone and they headed out to grab something to eat.
It was around two-thirty in the afternoon, and Andrew was clearly hungry. No one argued with the plan.
"Your seniors look like they're from a different league of humans," Leonard commented once they were all seated in a restaurant. He still had some of the scenes from the field fresh in his mind, several of them walking up to Andrew, bumping fists, talking to him like it was nothing.
Howard scoffed. "I look like a hobbit next to them," he said, half-joking, half-serious. And that was despite not being that far apart in age, at least on paper.
Claire rested her elbows on the table and looked at Andrew closely. "Looks like you get along really well with them," she said. "Good job."
Jay nodded beside her. "They already see you as a leader."
Andrew, taking a bite of a burger, one of the few he'd allowed himself in months, looked up, chewed, swallowed, then nodded. "I guess so if you produce, they respect you. As long as you're not a cocky idiot."
Jay let out a deep laugh and gave him a firm pat on the back.
Andrew made a slight face, turning his head just a bit, as if he were starting to wonder why everyone seemed to have the same habit today.
He wiped his mouth with a napkin and added, "Do you know what the big guy's name is, number 56?"
"It was kind of a weird name…" Steve said, hand on his chin, trying to remember. He'd already talked with Andrew to get some context before joining the team.
"It's Xavier Su'a-Filo… I still can't pronounce it right," Andrew replied.
"Wow, that's definitely a strange name," Haley said, raising an eyebrow.
"And that's not even the strangest part," Andrew continued, casually, not making a big deal out of it. "In 2010 he left UCLA to go on a two-year Mormon mission. He was in Florida and southern Alabama. He got around on a bike… one custom-made to handle over 300 pounds."
There was a brief silence at the table.
"Seriously?" Phil blurted out, surprised.
"Yes," Andrew nodded. "He just got back to the program and he's already a starter."
Howard's eyes widened a bit more. "Wait… you're telling me that guy left football for two years, rode around on a bike, and came back like nothing happened?"
"That's right," Andrew confirmed with another nod.
"Two years away and still coming back at that level, that takes more than just physical ability," Alex said. And she was right. He could be huge, sure, but if everything else had fallen apart, he wouldn't be an unquestioned starter right after returning.
"And now you've got him protecting you," Jay added.
"Yeah, I'm not complaining," Andrew said, taking another bite of his burger.
Leonard slowly shook his head, thoughtful. "He probably doesn't like your 'Jesus Christ' nickname very much."
"Oh, right," Cam said, bringing a hand to his mouth with dramatic flair, as if he had just made the connection.
The nickname "Jesus Christ of football" wasn't a small thing. It touched directly on a central figure in Xavier's faith, and not in a superficial way. Not someone who simply identified with it, but someone who had devoted two full years of his life to a Mormon mission.
"He doesn't love it," Andrew said with a slight smile, not making it dramatic, "but he doesn't make a big deal out of it either. He knows it didn't come from me, the internet gave it to me."
'Specifically Chandler Bing…' Andrew thought, without saying it out loud.
Without lingering on the topic, he shifted naturally, as if he were just listing random facts about his teammates.
"Did you guys see number 8? Joseph, the tight end who's over two meters tall."
Gloria nodded right away. "The one who caught your last pass of the game, right?"
Andrew nodded.
"Hard to miss," Haley said, still slightly shaken by the image. It was still fresh in her mind. How could someone like that be only three years older than them? Over six-foot-seven, more than 250 pounds. A presence that threw you off balance.
He looked like a mutant next to anyone. Even next to Andrew.
Because Andrew stood out physically too. Six-foot-four, around 210 pounds, but in a different way. More athletic in an aesthetic sense. Clean, defined proportions. A trained body, but balanced. And his face still carried a youthful edge, which made the contrast with guys like Joseph even more striking.
"So what's the deal with that guy?" Cam asked, now clearly in full gossip mode.
"Well, turns out he wasn't at UCLA from the start. He went to Notre Dame, and during his sophomore year, he got suspended for slapping a priest on the backside as a joke… which ended up leading him to transfer to UCLA," Andrew explained, shaking his head slightly, a smile making it clear that even he found the story ridiculous.
There was a second of silence at the table.
"Seriously?" Mitchell asked, his expression somewhere between confusion and disbelief.
"One hundred percent real," Andrew confirmed.
Howard's eyes widened, completely stunned. "So you've got one guy on your team who dedicated two years of his life to religion…"
"…and another who slapped a priest on the ass," Leonard finished, still in disbelief.
Steve let out a laugh, unable to hold it back. Haley followed almost instantly, bringing a hand to her mouth.
"Those two must hate each other," Haley said between laughs.
"Pretty much," Andrew replied. "They barely talk, and when they do, it usually turns into an argument."
He shrugged slightly and concluded, "But that's just how locker rooms are."
The conversation flowed naturally until Haley brought it up, almost as if she had been waiting for the moment. She mentioned a party that same night, hosted by a guy from Palisades, someone their age, and someone Andrew had met back when he was still in school in his early years.
Leonard and Howard were already invited. The only question was whether Steve and Andrew were in.
"I'm in!" Steve said without hesitation, a smile spreading instantly across his face.
All eyes turned to Andrew.
He stayed quiet for a moment. "I don't know…" he finally said.
"Oh, come on! Why not?" Haley insisted.
Andrew hesitated. It wasn't exactly that he didn't want to go. It was simpler than that, he just felt lazy. After the game, the idea of going back home sounded far more appealing than going to a party.
Cam, who had been talking with the adults, had been listening. He turned his head toward him. "Come on, sweetheart, you can go unwind. You've earned it."
Andrew looked at him with a clear, almost incredulous expression. Since when did parents push their kids to go to parties?
"That's true," Mitchell added, joining in. "Besides, May won't be as intense. You can ease up a bit."
Andrew paused, thinking.
His parents weren't wrong. They knew his routine, he told them everything.
After the Spring Game, the structure shifted. There were no more on-field practices, no scrimmages, none of that constant rhythm of learning the playbook. The hardest stretch had already passed between January and April.
Now came a lighter phase. More maintenance within the team. The gym was still there, but not at the same intensity. Meetings became less demanding. The focus started shifting toward academics, with exams approaching.
It wasn't full rest, but it was a relative pause.
Andrew exhaled softly, as if making the decision right then and there.
"It's been a while since I've gone to a party…" he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else, looking down at the table.
He lifted his gaze and added, "Alright. I'm in."
Steve smiled immediately. Haley did too.
…
Night had fallen over Los Angeles. In one of the city's many nightclubs, the atmosphere was the usual: dim lighting, flashes of color pulsing in intervals, music vibrating through every corner, and the murmur of conversations blending with laughter.
In one of the VIP sections, on a low couch, Brett Hundley sat leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. In front of him, the table was cluttered with open bottles, half-finished glasses, and ice that had already begun to melt.
He wasn't paying attention to any of that. His gaze was fixed on his phone.
An article from ESPN College Football.
It wasn't just another recap. It was direct coverage of UCLA's Spring Game.
The headline filled the entire screen:
'Andrew Pritchett-Tucker impresses in his public debut with UCLA: total control and leadership in the Spring Game.'
Hundley lowered his gaze slightly, reading. There was a line that repeated itself in different ways throughout the article, that he had lived up to expectations.
Hundley tightened his jaw slightly as he kept reading.
Then came the inevitable comparisons.
His name appeared alongside Andrew's. But with more question marks. Nothing offensive, but nothing favorable either.
His finger paused on the screen. He scrolled back up, reread a line, and exhaled through his nose.
"Shit…" he muttered under his breath.
He locked the phone without finishing the article and let it drop onto the couch beside him.
He grabbed the glass in front of him and downed it in a single gulp.
"What's with the negative aura, man?" a deep voice said to his right.
Hundley turned his head and saw his friend: Greg Capella, holding two unopened bottles of alcohol that looked expensive.
Greg was a UCLA offensive lineman. Over 300 pounds. He had been in the program for years. He arrived in 2009, didn't play a single snap, redshirted, made his debut in 2010, and only last season had solidified himself as a starter, playing every game.
Hundley clicked his tongue, not in the mood to get into it. "It's nothing."
Greg watched him for a second, sizing him up, then sighed before dropping down onto the couch beside him, making the frame creak slightly under the weight.
"Still reading articles about today's game?" he asked calmly. "You did fine. Stop overthinking it."
Hundley let out a humorless chuckle. "I did worse than the chosen one."
Greg didn't answer right away. He stayed quiet for a few seconds. There wasn't much he could say against that.
It was true.
And ever since Andrew had arrived at UCLA, everything had shifted. Hundley had spent the entire previous season not playing, redshirt, preparing for this moment. In another context, without that external factor, he would've been the natural candidate. He had the physical tools, the talent, and the time in the program.
But Andrew hadn't gone somewhere else.
He had chosen UCLA, and with that, everything had moved. The staff, the system, even the team dynamic.
"The kid's good," Greg finally said, bluntly. "But you've got your own strengths. You've been training at the college level for a year. He hasn't. There's still fall camp."
Hundley shook his head, elbows resting on his knees. "You don't even believe that yourself."
He paused briefly, letting the air out through his nose.
"The damn Chow already looks at him like he's his favorite student. The system is built for him, and on top of that, he can run if he wants. The recruits coming in August came because of him. And there are already veterans looking at him like their quarterback."
Greg fell silent again for a moment. Not because he didn't understand. But because he didn't have an easy way to contradict him.
He finally stood up, giving him a light pat on the shoulder. "I just wanted to cheer you up," he said, "and you shouldn't talk about your offensive coordinator like that."
Hundley didn't respond.
Greg looked at him one last time before turning away. "And wipe that shitty look off your face," he added with a half-smile, "the girls will be here any minute, try to forget the game. It's going to be a fun night."
…
In another part of the city, in a much more residential area, the scene was a bit different. A large house, loud music, lights on in every room, people coming and going, laughter, shouting, and drinks in hand. A teenage party in all its glory.
Andrew was there. He had arrived about thirty minutes earlier with Haley, Steve, and the rest.
The reception had been over the top. The moment he walked through the door, the recognition was immediate. Applause, whistles, people calling out to him, hands slapping his back, congratulations for today's practice game. For a couple of minutes, he was the absolute center of the place.
Thankfully, it faded, and everyone went back to their own worlds and circles. Though he still drew looks.
Andrew talked with a few former classmates from Palisades, exchanged a couple of lines, and then made a few laps around the house, observing more than participating. People dancing, others in groups talking, some already more drunk than necessary. He grabbed a cup and filled it with water.
Now he was sitting on a couch, slightly reclined, staring at the ceiling.
Detached from the noise.
For a moment, everything else disappeared.
The lights moving across the ceiling began to turn into lines, trajectories, and spaces. As if the field were being drawn up there. Routes crossing, zones opening, defenses rotating.
The playbook he had studied like a maniac for nearly five months.
The sound of the party faded into the background, almost irrelevant. Until something snapped him out of it. Andrew blinked a couple of times, refocusing on his surroundings. He exhaled through his nose, took a long sip from the cup, and finished it in one go.
He set it down beside him and stood up.
The house was big. Too crowded. He tried to spot Steve, or any of the others. He walked through the crowd, moved from one room to another, but couldn't find them.
Andrew paused for a moment, pulled out his phone, and sent a message saying he was heading home so they wouldn't worry.
He headed for the door and stepped outside.
He walked a few meters toward the street. His Camaro was parked right in front, taking up a spot that had been left open when Haley mentioned they were coming. On a block completely packed with cars, that space stood out as if it had been reserved.
Andrew stopped next to the car. He rested a hand on the hood and began lightly tapping his fingers, looking toward the house across the street, completely dark.
Thinking.
"Andrew?"
The voice snapped him out of it. He turned and was surprised by the person standing in front of him.
Pippa.
His ex-girlfriend. His first real girlfriend, not counting the thing with Verónica.
The last time he had seen her had been in December, at the neighborhood party his parents had hosted.
"Hey…" Andrew greeted, surprised. She was, probably, the last person he expected to run into that night.
"Hi," Pippa replied, stepping a little closer. "Everything okay? You looked a bit lost in your thoughts."
She had seen him inside, sitting on the couch, disconnected from everyone else.
"Yeah," Andrew said quickly, "I was just thinking about some things," he added, making a slight gesture with his hand, brushing it off.
Pippa nodded, watching him for a few seconds longer than usual. "When you focus on something, you tend to leave everything else aside a bit," she said calmly, without reproach, more as an observation. "You should be careful with that. I'm saying it because it happens to me a lot…"
Andrew held her gaze for a moment, then nodded. "I'll keep it in mind, thanks," he replied, in a more sincere tone. "I'm just tired today."
There was a brief silence.
"Enjoy the party, bye," Andrew added.
"Bye," Pippa said.
Andrew opened the door and got in. The engine roared with that deep, familiar sound, and a few seconds later, the Camaro pulled away down the street.
Pippa stood there watching the car as it disappeared. She let out a soft sigh, the conversation had been a bit strange, she had to admit. She had walked over to him on her own when she saw him.
She turned and headed back toward the porch of the house.
There she saw her friend, Cara, watching her with an expression that mixed reproach and amusement. She shook her head while taking a sip from her drink.
"What?" Pippa snapped, annoyed by the look.
"Talking to your perfect, hot ex isn't exactly the best idea," Cara said bluntly. "You should get over him."
"I am over him, and you know it," Pippa replied, crossing her arms. "It wasn't easy… but I did," she admitted.
Cara raised an eyebrow, tilting her head slightly. "Then why did you walk up to him when you're supposedly seeing another guy?"
Pippa shook her head softly. "It's not that. I was just worried about him, you know?" She paused briefly, searching for the words. "We've known each other for almost four years. It's not that I want to go back. I just know how he is when he gets too deep into something. And with everything he's dealing with right now…" she trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished.
Cara watched her for another second before nodding slightly. "Maybe, but he didn't look very interested in the party," she said. "I don't get why he can't just have fun for once."
She gestured toward the inside of the house. "I saw him with a glass of water. Water!" she emphasized, almost offended. "And in a glass glass, from the kitchen."
Pippa couldn't help a small smile. "He's an athlete. He doesn't drink."
Cara scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Yeah, right… an athlete. I see guys from school who play too, and they're out every Friday and Saturday just like everyone else." She paused, raising her glass. "And I'm sure the college guys are the same or even worse."
"Are they considered the greatest high school prospect of all time?" Pippa asked.
Cara fell silent for a second. She didn't have an answer for that.
"Touché," she finally said.
Pippa smiled slightly, with a small sense of victory, but Cara raised a hand, stopping the moment.
"Instead of gloating… I'd be worried," she added, her tone shifting. "Miles saw you talking to Andrew and went inside looking pretty pissed."
Miles was the guy she was currently seeing.
Pippa let her shoulders drop in frustration, "Ugh… why?" she muttered, running a hand through her hair. "Why does just mentioning Andrew make every guy I date get paranoid?"
Cara looked at her like the answer was obvious. "Because he's your ex, and because he's Andrew Pritchett-Tucker," she said bluntly. "And now you didn't just mention him. You were the one who walked up to him."
She paused briefly, leaning slightly toward her to murmur, "You've got a tough conversation waiting for you."
Pippa let out a long sigh, closing her eyes for a second. "Great…" she muttered.
She started walking toward the front door, grumbling under her breath, something about trust, about how absurd the situation was, and how everything got complicated for no reason.
Cara stayed on the porch, watching her go inside, taking another sip from her drink, a faint amused smile on her face.
It was strange to see her like that.
…
Andrew was already home.
The silence of the apartment contrasted completely with the chaos of the party. The atmosphere was calm. He was making himself some tea while placing a few printed pages of the playbook on the table.
'A little time won't hurt,' he thought.
He still had some of the things he had been visualizing at the party in his head. He wanted to organize them, analyze them a bit. After that, maybe watch a movie or just rest.
But just as he finished setting everything up, the sound of the intercom broke the silence.
Andrew raised an eyebrow, walked over, and pressed the button.
"Yes?"
"It's us, man, open up!" Steve's enthusiastic voice replied instantly.
Andrew blinked, surprised.
Without thinking too much about it, he pressed the button to unlock the building door.
A couple of minutes later, there was a knock at his door.
He opened it and there they were: Steve, Leonard, Howard, and Haley.
"What are you guys doing here?" Andrew asked, immediately noticing that everyone, except Haley, was holding laptops.
"The party was boring," Steve said with a grin. "Let's play LoL!"
"Yeah, LoL night, baby!" Howard added excitedly.
Leonard nodded. "Yeah… unless we're bothering you," he added, more reserved.
Andrew looked at them for a second and a genuine smile formed on his face. "Of course not," he said, opening the door wider. "LoL night."
He high-fived Howard as he let them in.
Haley was the last one to enter.
"LoL night, baby!" Haley repeated with way too much enthusiasm for someone who had never played LoL in her life.
Andrew looked at her, amused, and shook his head slightly, smiling. "We can teach you how to play top."
"Yeah, baby," Haley replied, pointing at him as if she fully understood the terminology, even though she clearly didn't.
Steve stepped a little closer to Andrew, lowering his voice. "She's a bit drunk," he murmured. "It's been so long since she's been to a party that she forgot to measure her alcohol."
Andrew let out a small laugh and gave him a pat on the shoulder. "Good call bringing her."
"I love this apartment!" Haley exclaimed, already walking around, looking at everything with fascination. "I want one like this! I'm going to ask Grandpa for it! He better pay for it! Cheap old man for all the millions he has…"
Andrew and the others laughed as they started setting up their laptops, moving things around, plugging in cables, and turning the living room into a small improvised setup.
The night had completely changed.
And, for the first time in days, Andrew wasn't thinking about football.
...
A/N: Hi guys. All the seniors who appear in this chapter were starters in UCLA's 2012–2013 season, the first under Jim Mora, in which the team finished with a 9–5 record and won the Pac-12 South.
As for Brett Hundley, in reality he had a great season and truly broke out as a player, but well, tough luck for him that in this story Andrew exists.
And regarding the scene of Andrew visualizing football plays on the ceiling: it's not any kind of supernatural ability. I just wanted to clarify that. It's more that I was reminded of The Queen's Gambit, where Beth Harmon visualizes chess games on the ceiling. And I thought that, just as she does it because of her obsession and talent, Andrew, who is also a genius and obsessed, could do something similar, just without the drugs…