"Fuck," London cursed quietly, leaned back in his seat on my right, and bumped my arm with his elbow as he slouched down.
"Emily shut you down again?" Evan's smug voice hit my left ear as he leaned over the aisle space and smirked.
My eyebrows couldn't have lifted higher since Drake never associated with anyone outside the team and, in fact, last night he'd practically bolted from the room when Sophia had brought her roommate over for the house's movie night. "Emily, huh?"
"No," he muttered but lifted his eyes and glared daggers at Evan, who just laughed and leaned over further.
Like the rest of the one-hundred-plus crowd of USC's team and staff, after a four and a half hour direct flight from LAX, we rode on a bus from Boulder, Colorado's airport to the University of Colorado for our season opener game.
"Which game will London Drake choke in this year?" Evan's blonde-haired head leaned over my chest, which gave me an unwanted whiff of his cologne and hair products. The dim lighting from Drake's screen illuminated his angular jaw and cheek bones as he read off it, "You gotta ignore that shit, bro."
"One fucking clutch miss last year," Drake groaned as the bounce of his last year's kick that bounced off UW's goalpost replayed in video embedded in the article. "There's even a fucking poll on a couple games... UW, Notre Dame, UCLA, or BYU."
My eyes narrowed at the UCLA option, I shoved Evan back into his seat, and reminded my kicker's sensitive ego, "Drake, you killed it the rest of the season." With a light punch into his shoulder for extra emphasis, I added, "Whatever you're feeling, use it tonight."
"Says the asshole with last year's Heisman sitting on his mom's coffee table," he mumbled dryly.
"Doesn't matter this year," I shot back right away, although I think he was right in that's where Mom kept it. "Trust me, turn off that shit so it doesn't get into your head."
Like two days straight before all game days, I isolated and blocked myself completely off from any and all external distractions. My phone was shut off from all calls and messages, my social media DMs and email inboxes went ignored, and I only focused on school and football. Between classes, I slipped in my earbuds so that, other than a quick nod or thanks, I avoided conversations centered around the upcoming game.
Better this way.
If anyone asked me, then I would've answered that I preferred all of our games were played in the Colosseum. USC's stadium created the most electric atmosphere I'd ever witnessed, when more than ninety-three thousand insanely loyal fans filled shoulder-to-shoulder up to three sections deep. With the horseshoe-shaped seating, all seats seemed like they faced the white monolithic-background for the Peristyle and Court of Honor behind the east-facing endzone.
Internally though, I was relieved that our game opener was an away game even if that location was the 5400ft high-altitude Folsom Field in Boulder, Colorado. Their stadium was also horseshoe-shaped but the alternated darker and lighter grass between the ten-yard line marks and the Rocky Mountains that framed distantly around it were of course different than the backdrop of Los Angeles.
Not to mention the actual buffalo that the team charges out behind.
Even though the thin, pressurized air led to most of us sucking oxygen through masks by half-time, I preferred that we worked out our first game nerves and uncertainty at an away game so that once we played at home, we clicked on all cylinders. The pressure to perform was always on the home team, which was the Buffs when our bus pulled up to the stadium.
A thrill rushed through me the same moment a cold, dry gust of wind whipped against my cheeks and blew against the back of my neck as I stood on the sidewalk outside the bus. I flipped my sweatshirt hoodie up over my head as we worked our way inside Folsom Field. Like every time I approached a field since I first strapped on a pair of cleats and clutched a football in my hands at age seven, the same heightened sense of awareness tingled the skin on the back of my neck, pulsed the blood faster in my veins, and drew my focus inward.
Like before every game, my earbuds hung from each ear even though I rarely listened to music. The same routine I used on each trip prepared me mentally for each game, since I treated every one as the single most important, like it was our season's game-changer. My tunnel vision only focused on the task at hand and looking ahead wasn't an option.
For tonight's game, Colorado used a zone defensive scheme, which our offense matched up pretty well against. When the deep defenders covered a particular area instead of latched onto our offensive players man-for-man, it left more open running area for slot wide receivers like Evan and Griff, who were beyond excited about tonight's game.
Unlike Hightower's west coast offense fancy shit he ran at UW, which relied more on the quarterback's passing game than running, our offensive system was tailored around Coach Campbell spread offense. Offensive Coordinator Coach Colbert and my QB Coach McGuire combined the spread offense with my strengths - careful and meticulous pregame planning and preparation, endless repetitions and practice, hard work, persistence, drive, stamina, and patience.
As quarterback and team captain, I was the first guy who arrived at practice, training sessions, and film study and the one who left last. I had a strong enough arm for deep passes but I usually threw them when it was almost a guaranteed catch, i.e., the receiver looked like he had enough space by the time the ball reached him.
On the field, we relied more on our run game than most spread offenses, led by Jackson my number one back and Pierce Lydell my number two. Like most spread attacks, we operated out of the shotgun or pistol formations and regularly used horizontal plays that 'spread out' the defense across the field. The natural speed ability of my backs, receivers, and tight ends, most of whom I lived with, created mismatches on the outsides that I exploited whenever they arose.
Personally, I loved the spread offence since I more easily saw the field and it gave me more room to maneuver if needed. I wasn't the fastest quarterback but at 6ft4, once my 220-pound frame got moving, I was a hard guy to take down.
The most difficult part of running our game-clock chewing, grind-it-out, dig-in-the-trenches, whatever-the-fuck-the-media-called-it-this-week style of play was the level of patience it required. A slip of inches meant the difference between a dropped ball and reception, a completed first down or falling short. I had the arm strength to pass on most of our plays, but our powerhouse front four blocking lineman made our most successful approach pounding down the defense's stamina play by play until fatigue became our thirteenth man in the game.
Twelve being the fans, of course.
The left side of my mouth curled up as I trailed behind Grant's large, gray sweatshirt and pants-covered frame as the inner walls of Folsom Field's stadium surrounded us. In a marched line two guys wide at a time, we followed the gray patterned carpet and weaved our way into the locker room, behind two black doors with brass press handles.
I blinked under the harsh LED lights that ran through the fresh, pristine locker room. A faint smell of new carpet and paint lingered since we were the first visiting team who used the space after UC's renovations. Dark brown lockers were positioned within small walls faced with stone, and I dropped my stuff down at one between Evan and Griff like I hadn't seen enough of them every day.
Same routine though.
Other guys on the team dealt with the pressure in their own way, some of them weirder than others. Grant prayed like a Catholic nun, Evan - like a lot of guys - blasted his pregame playlist so loudly I was surprised his sense of hearing still worked, Zach my tight end paced endlessly, and by far the worst was Jackson, who jumped from one foot to another over and over like he had to take a piss.
"So, how many?" The static sounds of Evan's music erupted out of his earbuds as he ripped them out of his ears and dangled them around his neck. His eyes flashed at me and he smirked before peeled off his shirt, crunched his abs as he bent over, and toed off his shoes.
"Get in the right position and you can have as many as you want," I auto-piloted the same answer he got every time he asked me the same damn question, how many touchdown passes I threw at him today.
"Words to live by." He winked at the double meaning, stripped down to full nudity with no ounce of shame, and cupped his balls. "Words I live by, Harrison."
I shook my head, turned my eyes away from a sight I wished I hadn't seen, then quickly dressed like so many times I had before, under gear, then adjusted my cup in place, and put on my pads. Once I squeezed my legs into my skin-tight gold pants, adjusted my socks and pulled my cardinal red away jersey overhead, I slipped on my cleats, stood up, and faced my team.
While I probably gave off a serious-as-stone demeanor, which the guys roasted me about every chance they got, truthfully I lived out my childhood dream. My silent internalizations and 'Let's get to work'- type pregame speeches were an all-work, no-play approach instead of amp-ups that I left to Jackson's crazy ass.
Despite my hardass work ethic, I loved the game of football, hard, more than I loved another person, and to the point where I'd structured my entire life and aimed my future towards it. But, with the benefit of hindsight, my unchecked anger could've taken away all my hopes, plans, and dreams and left me with absolutely nothing but regret and I'd never forgotten how they'd almost slipped away. That sobering realization drove me harder, lowered my chin to my chest, and gritted my teeth with a hardened sense of determination that I lived my second chance. I took the game more seriously than any other factor in my life, and I wasn't going to waste my second chance.
"So we had a pretty good season last year," I barked out dryly and earned a few eyerolls and chuckles from the coaching staff lined up against the wall that led to the exit.
"We had our time off, celebrated what we earned, and know what? It's a new fucking season. Every team's slate is wiped clean, everyone's zero-zero, and the biggest target is on our backs. The pressure to repeat sits on our shoulders, stuck on repeat in the back of our brains, and flips up over and over in our notifications."
My cleats clicked a circular path around the center of the room as I locked eyes with every one of my teammates - offensive, defensive, special teams, starters, backups, and practice squad members. As captain and quarterback, I knew every one of them, not just their names and positions but their strengths and weaknesses, both physically and in their character that only came from our long hours of self-sacrifice and body-punishing hard work we pounded out together.
A quiet burn rose inside my chest and my voice hardened, "Know what I have to say about that!? Bring it. We ready."
As if on autopilot, a few guys chirped back, "We ready."
I stared at my center Grant's usual pregame glossy eyes and green cast to his skin that looked like he was going to be sick. "Those nerves inside? Bring it. We ready."
A few more nodded heads were added before amore guys joined in a louder, "We ready."
"Those doubts people write about us? Bring it." My eyes flipped over to London's. "Those haters who hide behind their screens and spew shit online like they think they know better? Bring it. We ready."
Player by player, the room collectively stood, with fists tightened, jaws locked, and eyes that steadily met mine with a fire that burned inside them. "We ready!"
In my slow, circular pace, I silently challenged each player with a hardened gaze. The airspace was thick with anticipation and, from the undivided attention and slight body weight shifts, we all sensed the cohesive change in the room, felt it, tasted it.
One of my hands lifted and I pointed at the exit doors with my other index finger jabbed into the center of my chest. "Those people don't know, they don't see what we see. They don't see what I see. They don't feel what I feel. Your sweat, your pain, your hunger. I know the hours, weeks, fuck months of work you've put in for the start of this season. Our season."
My chest heaved as I sucked in a deep breath. "And from that, we ready!"
The walls vibrated with the shouted response from more than one hundred mouths, "We ready!"
"Shoulder to shoulder -" I started as the last guys stood up and locked in place next to their teammates, one palm on the shoulder of the player in front until the whole team was collectively locked in place, circled around me like one collective unit. My chest expanded with my last slow breath and I roared out a final, "We fucking ready!"
"We ready!"
I pointed one finger up at the ceiling and the stadium seats overhead us and palmed the other hand flat over my chest, over the only number I'd worn since I first fit into a football jersey. In a quieter, steady voice, I challenged them, "Let's go fucking prove it."
The unison eruption of cheers and roars proved that we were just that, ready.
Our voices thundered off the walls and cleats stomped in unison as we headed down the hallway to the field. Coach Campbell's amused voice hit my ear and his hand patted on my shoulder a few times. "Different vibe tonight, Jake,"
My helmet bounced against the side of my leg as I glanced over my shoulder and gave a lazy shrug. "Felt inspired."
"Didn't expect you to talk about feelings." He patted my shoulder twice more then dropped his hand. Before I corrected him that I meant physical sweat and pain feelings, he just chuckled quietly. "But seems like your head's where it should be."
Coach Campbell's no-nonsense approach was reflected in the stoic expression he wore the entire time he was around any football-related event, which included our team dinners. With his eyes focused forwards to our field entrance, he clutched a MacBook and clipboard in his hands, his short gray hair had more white streaked in it this year but his decades of football wisdom and experience hung heavily in his brown eyes.
Earlier this week, Coach approved of my recently removed social media presence. During Thursday's film study session with the offensive team, he'd actually used me as an example of how not to publicly present yourself, which of course the guys roasted me about, but then said removing the intimate pictures was the right thing to do.
A stoic, all-business expression hung on his face as his eyes flicked in my direction and he confirmed, not asked, "Ready."
"Yeah," I nodded tightly, tightened my hand's grasp around my helmet cage, and positioned myself near the exit doors. "Ready."
The crowd's hums, which erupted louder during certain pregame highlights, turned into deafening roars once our doors opened. I blinked a few times under the harsh overhead lights and worked up a fast enough pace towards the field with Coach Campbell at my side and my team, my soldiers, my Trojans behind me. Boos rained down on us and mixed with the clicks of our cleats on the cement walkway up to the field.
Under the bright white glare of the overhead floodlights, the crowd noise fuzzed out inside my ears as my brain took over into work mode. The soft turf pressed under my feet while I ran through my normal warmups, tossed a few throws to Evan and Griff, rolled my shoulders, and warmed up my legs in the clear, crisp, early evening air.
Like every time I heard the national anthem, I palmed my heart, where my chest swelled up at the moment. Within a blink, I stood at mid-field with Jackson and Grant against Devin Morris, UC's quarterback and captain along with his teammates for the coin toss.
After the referee announced the toss rules into his mic, he flipped the coin and I called out, "Tails." The coin flipped over a few times, we all hinged over where it landed on the turf, and a grin spread across my face when tails faced up.
I stood upright and answered the option that every won coin toss elected, "Receive."
Devin chose that we drove in an eastern direction to start, probably since that felt against the wind, but I knew that advantage only held up momentarily since the wind swirled in random gusts at this high of altitude. That was a big factor in how our offensive plan for today's game was that we ran-first, stuck to short yard passes, and gave London short, chip-shot distanced field goals if needed.
My hands lifted my helmet in place, tightened my chin strap, and squeezed tight fists inside my gloves as I watched Colorado's opening kickoff. After the ball arc'd high and sailed straight into the endzone, I jogged out to the twenty yard line with my offensive team for the start of this year's season.
"Shot eight!" Without going into a huddle, I fanned out my arms and placed Griff and Evan wide on the outsides and Zach at tight end right near Griff in what looked like our spread's pass formation. Instead of a fullback, I positioned Jackson a step in front of me for the option and lined myself up in pistol, three yards behind Grant, my center.
Colorado's defense recognized our spread setup and bought into our faked pass setup by the way their outside corners shifted along with my receivers. A quick snap later, I snatched the ball tight into my chest and pushed forwards. Both Grant and Jackson hit their blocks and with a low grunt, I rushed forwards until a burly Colorado lineman dragged me down six yards later.
"Red, sixty-four!" I called out, flashed the hand signal for a slant receiver wheel route and lined Griff up as an inside receiver. My hands dipped low behind Grant. "Hut, hut, hike!"
Once the rough leather hit my hands, I dropped back one, two, three steps, and poised my arm back. In my peripheral vision, Griff cut straight through the line of scrimmage, turned, and hooked just like we'd practiced. In just half a second, my eyes scanned my options, broke down the match-ups, and tossed the ball two steps ahead of Griff's. He executed his route perfectly step for step, snapped the ball tight in his grasp, and tore up the turf for another eight yards, the first down, and a few groans from the Colorado fans.
Like usual, we churned out small yard play after play, ate up the field space along with the game clock, and sucked the initial excitement out of the stadium. As we moved closer to the endzone, the crowd's defensive cheers gained an edge of nervousness and impatience.
Only thing better than sucking the life out of the visiting stadium's fans is scoring at home.
Lined up on the seven-yard line, the defense pressed down and forced our move. In a rush of grunts and swear words, I slipped the ball towards Jackson's hip, then faked the option and churned forwards until I crashed into a pair of legs in the endzone. Hands grabbed onto my legs and hips until I landed near the bottom of a heavy pile of groans and empty threats because there was no fucking way I released that ball from my grasp.
One by one, the bodies were lifted off me until I sucked in a deep breath of night air and grinned at the disappointed Buffalo players' expressions.
Just the start.
Play by play, down by down, we sucked Colorado's game opener excitement level out of Folsom Field until the fans sat quietly by the middle of the first quarter. Our defense smashed their opponents backwards and offensively we never looked back from our opening scoring drive. With three touchdowns scored in the first half, we went into the locker room up 21-7 at halftime.
My game wasn't perfect tonight but good enough that our coaching staff was content with our start. Griff dropped a long pass that easily would've put us up another score that I still wanted back. Physically though, I'd never felt stronger or faster. Even when the bitter night wind turned colder, my muscles warmed and slacked the more I exerted them.
Once we took the field for the second half, my breath puffed out in white vapor puffs against the black sky, sweat chilled my face and neck whenever I removed my helmet, and a permanent grin never left my face as we closed out our win. Offensive play after play, we took charge in the second half and put the game away.
"Fuck yeah!" London slammed his palm right into the center of my chest when the game clock ticked down to empty.
I hadn't put London in any position where he kicked anything other than extra point attempts, which he'd connected on 5-for-5 and we left Folsom Field with a 35-14 win. Offensively, my stats with two touchdown passes, one score I ran in, and two hundred and fifty-eight yards were decent, not spectacular, but the only one that mattered was the 'W' on our books.
After the postgame press interviews where I deflected all compliments to the hard work of my teammates, in particular my offensive linemen because they'd dug deep in the trenches tonight, and game wrap-ups from the coaches, the locker room, bus ride, and even flight back to Los Angeles all held a lightness of relief and satisfaction in the air. With one hundred and sixty-three yards running and two touchdowns, Jackson's ego fit inside its own plane aisle but he deserved the smug grin he wore home.
The longer we sat on the plane, the quieter our group became. Postgame fatigue combined with the adrenalin crash and subdued our collective group to quietly mumbled conversations, which included a few guys who called their girlfriends, quiet music or internal decompression, even soft snores.
Or loud, in Grant's case.
I shifted my eyes away from the human chainsaw on my left side and caught a glimpse at Zach's phone screen on my right. The goofiest smile stretched crease lines around his mouth and hearts vomited in his conversation both meant he texted with his girlfriend Sophia, who he'd been with since their sophomore year. Despite the partying players reputations our house had, probably because the single exceptions were me, Evan, Grant, and London, most of the team was in committed, serious relationships.
Still, I snorted softly. "Totally whipped, bro."
"Tease all you want, it's worth it." Zach held up his phone screen, which now showed a background picture of his tall frame wrapped around a short, black-haired, bronze-skinned Hispanic girl whose head tipped back in a laugh.
The words, "It's not that easy," slipped out before my filter caught them. I wasn't wrong, football was my life's number one priority, the game never shared me, and I'd lived my life like I hadn't wanted it to.
With a lopsided grin, Zach mumbled, "Even if it's hard, still worth it."
A snort left my mouth and I crossed my arms over my chest. "Is this the part where you tell me if I find the right one, not to let her go?"
"No, just try not to fuck it up," he replied and drew his eyes back to his screen. "And if she's important enough then you put in the damn effort."
When I realized I still eavesdropped on Zach's private conversation and none of me wanted his relationship words of wisdom, my eyes slid lazily closed and head tipped back into my seat. I was the first person who admitted I was shit in relationships but the consistency of monogamy throughout the season was a definite perk I wanted.
Breaking up with Brit was a no-brainer decision I should've made five minutes after I'd first met her and the friendship fallout with Kieran by far outweighed any 'gains' I'd gotten from that relationship. With a sigh, I pulled out my phone and thumbed through my two days' worth of unread messages.
Once I scrolled past all the good luck, then congratulations messages related to the game, my thumb absently flipped through a few more personal messages. Buried near the top of a recent block of supportive messages, I blinked a few times at a two-word answer on my screen that changed my entire semester.
HER: fuck you
My fingers moved quickly on my response.
me: that's the plan
Since I'd already texted Harper the logistics for next weekend's game and party and the 'delivered' status hung on my message for a few minutes, I shut off my phone, and closed my eyes again. While I wanted myself buried deep inside Harper sooner than later, a grin slowly spread across my face because I knew the next time I saw her, she came to me.
Interruption from Brit aside, I couldn't have scripted this better myself.