After greeting his family, Andrew turned around. The stage for the award ceremony was nearly finished.

The stadium roared: drums, shouts, the marching band tuning their instruments, ready to explode at any moment. ESPN's cameras swiveled nonstop, broadcasting every detail.

'And this is just high school…' Andrew thought, sweeping his eyes across the scene.

The stadium, though holding only about ten thousand people, felt much larger with that atmosphere. The professional setup, the lights, the ESPN set… it all gave the impression of a college game.

A tap on the shoulder pulled him out of his thoughts. Andrew turned and saw Madison.

She was wearing the Mater Dei cheerleading uniform, bright red with white stripes. The sleeveless sports top showed her waist, and the short skirt still swayed with the leftover energy of hours spent cheering nonstop. Her straight, glossy black hair fell in a perfect cascade over her shoulders. Around her neck, she wore a simple choker that completed the look.

Her face was pearled with sweat after more than two hours of jumping, shouting, and leading chants from the sideline. Far from diminishing her, it made her look even more authentic and magnetic.

"Congratulations, MVP of the night and of the league!" Madison exclaimed with a wide smile, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

"We're champions!" she added before throwing her arms around him.

Andrew, surprised by the sudden burst of energy, had to bend down slightly to catch her. Madison's energy wasn't unusual, what was unusual was her hugging him so confidently.

Still, Andrew didn't mind. "Yeah, thanks," he replied with a smile. "Your routines were great. The preparation really showed."

Madison laughed softly, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, her expression still glowing with euphoria. "I'm glad. I hoped they kept you motivated, I practiced all week for that."

Andrew nodded, returning the smile. "Of course."

But it was a white lie.

Cheerleaders played a real role in the game: keeping the crowd's and the team's spirit high, even in the toughest moments. Andrew knew that, respected it, valued the hours of practice, the discipline, the physical effort. He admired the spectacle.

But for him… the true fuel always came from within. He never needed chants to motivate himself, never let his energy depend on others. His focus was locked on the game, on winning.

He kept that thought to himself. Telling Madison would sound insensitive.

'Maybe… if a cheerleader were my girlfriend, it would motivate me to see her,' he thought for a moment.

In his entire journey, neither in this life nor in his past one in Texas, had he ever dated a cheerleader. For many, it would be the inevitable cliché: the star quarterback with the cheer captain. But not for Andrew. His tastes and personality had always steered him down a different path.

He wasn't someone who enjoyed endless parties or large social gatherings after every game or on Saturday nights. He preferred to go home, rest, recover. Be with his close circle of family and friends.

Playing video games, watching shows, binging movies, having a quiet dinner, that was his idea of fun.

Besides, he knew that lifestyle worked in his favor. To be a professional, discipline wasn't optional. Sure, he could afford to party like any other high schooler and still perform the next day. At this level, he could still "go off-script" and handle the consequences.

And every now and then, he did it, because he really wanted to. The night of the party that later turned into the chaotic "search for the nonexistent One Ring" with Howard, Leonard, and Steve had been madness, but he had a great time, even with all the consequences that followed.

Once in a while was fine, doing it every week was impossible.

The difference was in the frequency. While many young athletes burned through their energy every weekend, wrecked their sleep and recovery cycles, and filled their bodies with alcohol, he was recovering, eating well, and even training on Saturdays and Sundays, even if no one asked him to. Of course, nothing too demanding, just walks, light-to-moderate cardio.

That silent, almost invisible habit was what gave him the edge week after week. It set him apart from the rest. It wasn't just discipline during practices and games: every single day counted.

That, added to his past experience, privileged genetics, and talent, allowed him to score five touchdowns per game against nationally ranked defenses like Servite and dominate at the elite level of high school football.

For a moment, his mind drifted to Pippa. He pictured her in a cheerleader's uniform, pom-poms in hand, smiling from the sideline as she performed a routine.

He was sure that would have motivated him like nothing else could. Seeing someone he loved in that role, cheering him on up close, would have lit a fire in him unlike anything else. Maybe he would've scored six touchdowns today, he'd never know.

But Pippa was his ex, and she had never been a cheerleader. Now, even if Madison showed interest and got closer and closer, Andrew knew she didn't make him feel the same. He wasn't in love with her.

Only if he ever felt that kind of love again, and if by chance the girl happened to be a cheerleader, could he experience that extra spark of motivation he had never felt on the field.

Madison, unaware of all the thoughts racing through Andrew's head in just a few seconds, gave him a mischievous smile. "You know what this means, right? You'll have to come to the party."

Andrew raised an eyebrow. "Did I say party when we became champions? Yes. But I never clarified which championship I meant. The real title isn't the league… it's the section championship."

Madison's smile instantly faded. She looked at him seriously, as if she truly believed he meant it.

Andrew couldn't help but grin from ear to ear; her expression was so genuine, it was like she had just found out Santa Claus wasn't real.

"Just kidding… I'll go."

Madison let out an exaggerated sigh, then playfully smacked him on the arm. "Idiot!" she exclaimed, though her laughter betrayed any hint of annoyance.

"Send me the address and time later. I'll come with some friends…" Andrew said casually.

Howard and Leonard had already confirmed, and so had Haley. They wanted to experience a Mater Dei party after such a historic win.

As for Willa, he had texted her himself before the game to invite her, but she turned him down with a solid excuse: she had a photoshoot early the next morning. "I'm not unemployed anymore like you always say," she had added with a touch of irony. Still, she promised they would spend Saturday afternoon together in their usual acting class.

"Of course, I'll send it later. It's at Katie's house, near the school," Madison replied. "Everyone's going."

As for outside guests, it didn't matter if they weren't from Mater Dei. They were the star quarterback's guests. Andrew could bring all his friends from Palisades, and no one would complain.

Andrew nodded, but his eyes drifted toward the field. "I'll be right back," he murmured, turning away without another word.

Madison watched him as he walked across the turf, wondering if she was being too obvious about her interest in him. She had never acted this way with anyone; she had always known how to manage attention. But with Andrew, it was different. Something about him broke through her defenses.

Andrew walked a few more steps before stopping in front of a rival kneeling on the field.

Troy Niklas, the defensive lineman who had sacked him three times that night, was still there, helmet at his side, head bowed, as if he had been frozen in that position for minutes, staring at the ground.

His teammates had already tried to lift his spirits, but he wanted to reflect, away from the bench.

…

POV Troy Niklas

The game had ended a few minutes ago. We had lost.

I was still there, one knee on the turf, one hand pressed against the cold, damp grass. The noise of the stadium was just a distant hum.

'So this is what losing feels like,' I couldn't help but think, bitterness and emptiness filling my chest.

It had been almost a year since our last defeat. That one came in last year's state final against De La Salle, we fell 28–20.

That loss hurt, of course. It was a state title we all wanted, and it would have been the first in our school's history. But that loss felt different.

It came at the very end of the season, when we were all battered, dragging injuries, our bodies spent. We lost by a single eight-point drive to the greatest dynasty in California, the North Coast Section machine.

A program without five-stars, not even packed with the four-stars we have in the Trinity League. They were pure system, a perfect mechanism built over decades of discipline and a legendary head coach. That night we were defeated by a machine, not a man.

Today was different. Today we were in peak physical condition, no excuses of fatigue, no major injuries. It was only the end of the first stage, league play. And we were crushed.

40–21. Almost a twenty-point gap. It wasn't a cold, efficient system. No. It was the brilliance of a single player: Andrew Pritchett-Tucker.

I could say it was the work of the entire Mater Dei offense or their coaches, but that would be a lie. Last year we faced them and we beat them. They had practically the same players. The only difference was him, the new addition.

I saw him up close, more than once. Three times I took him down, and it still wasn't enough. He always found another way to hurt us. His deep passes. His impossible runs. His fakes that left me clutching nothing but air.

Everything Bosco tried to do, with all their fury, didn't work. Us, as the defending champions under pressure, couldn't do it either.

Losing to a system is something you can process. But losing to a single player, a junior only sixteen years old, that stings in a different way.

Then I heard a voice nearby. "Hey."

It wasn't a teammate's voice.

I looked up. In front of me was Mater Dei's deep red, the number 19. Andrew. His face drenched in sweat, black hair plastered in strands, eyes serious, unreadable. For a moment I froze, stunned to see him there. Him, the man from my nightmares tonight, coming closer to talk to me.

I stayed silent, still kneeling, staring up at him. Andrew extended his arm, palm open toward me.

"Good game," he said calmly.

I froze for a second, surprised by those words, but eventually I got to my feet and shook his hand. The grip was firm, equal to equal. I didn't return the "good game", but I accepted the gesture for what it was: respect from a rival.

"You're really good," he added.

I clenched my jaw. "I don't want your pity."

Andrew gave the faintest smile. "It's not pity. If it were, I'd have to console all my opponents every week, don't you think?"

I raised an eyebrow at him. On one hand, it sounded arrogant. But in his tone there was no arrogance, just plain logic. And the truth was exactly that, he'd been tearing apart entire defenses all season, averaging five touchdowns per game.

"Seriously," he went on, "you're the best defender I've faced so far. You sacked me three times. Each hit hurt. You wrecked my average of 0.8 sacks per game."

His tone sounded somewhere between annoyance and respect. I knew that statistic, but hearing it from his own mouth made me feel… pride? As if, in some twisted way, my name had been etched into the short list of the few times he'd been brought down.

"The next time we meet, maybe in the playoffs…" Andrew released my hand. "I won't let you sack me even once."

That challenge hit me hard. I wasn't expecting it. But my competitiveness flared instantly.

"Next time it won't be three," I growled, locking eyes with him. "It'll be four or five. As many as it takes for my team to win."

Andrew smiled calmly. "That's the spirit. We'll see who keeps their word…"

For a second, I thought that would be the end of it, but before leaving he threw me another question.

"That pose, kneeling is it because of Tim Tebow?"

I hadn't expected him to be so talkative. "Yeah," I admitted in a lower voice. "He doesn't play my position, but he's always been an inspiration to me."

Andrew nodded. "He is for many…" he said with respect, and without another word, he turned and walked back toward his teammates.

I stayed standing, watching him. The emptiness and sadness that had weighed me down minutes earlier began to lift quickly. I couldn't think of this game as the end of the world.

We couldn't drown over one game. We weren't even eliminated, the playoffs were waiting for us. The real titles were still on the table. Our record was solid, 6–1.

And I was the captain of the defense. I couldn't allow myself to fall.

I clenched my fists, took a deep breath, and marched toward my teammates. Some were still dejected, staring at the ground, muttering their frustrations. I planted myself in front of them and raised my voice:

"This isn't the end! We're in the playoffs! We're still in the fight! We'll train harder, we'll come back stronger. Don't forget: what really matters is still ahead of us!"

Several heads lifted, surprised by my sudden burst of fire.

The head coach, a few yards away, watched me with one eyebrow raised. Maybe he was wondering what the hell had gotten into me. From kneeling on the turf, lost in my own emptiness, to standing tall with renewed energy and trying to fire up the team in a matter of minutes.

Maybe he suspected Andrew had said something to me. Maybe he'd even seen him walk over. But I'd never tell him it was Andrew's words that had reignited my competitiveness.

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