5:25 p.m.
POV Troy Niklas – Servite Defensive Lineman
We're still on campus. In a few minutes, the position meetings and the final game-plan review will start. After that, we'll finally head to Santa Ana Stadium.
I sit quietly, watching my teammates. Some talk, trying to fake calmness; others stay completely silent, stiff as statues. Nerves. You can feel them in the air, and I don't blame them: this game is different from any other we've ever played.
Last year was historic. League champions, even if shared, and, most importantly, champions of the toughest section in California and, probably, the country. A title Mater Dei hasn't won in years, which shows just how hard it is to come out on top in this section.
I was named MVP of that final, even over Cody, our quarterback. I also received Lineman of the Year honors from the Los Angeles Times. That was my year, my crowning moment as a leader.
Now I'm a senior, and the weight on my shoulders is even greater. But this year feels different. There's something new, something that wasn't there before: national cameras. ESPN. An entire country watching. I never thought a league game, even a final against a historic rival, would turn into a spectacle of this scale.
Not even last year's section final had this much media pressure. This is another level, and everyone knows it.
The reason? One name: Andrew Pritchett-Tucker.
I've watched him on film countless times. Fifty-yard throws like it's nothing, red-zone escapes, averaging five touchdowns a game. What he did against Bosco still feels unreal: seven touchdowns, and not against just anyone, against Bosco.
We beat Bosco barely a week earlier, by less than ten points. And then Mater Dei comes in and blows them out by more than twenty. That game wasn't just historic on the field: it became the most-watched high school football game ever, with 1.3 million viewers. And because of that, our game tonight will also be broadcast nationwide.
It's a massive opportunity. A huge audience, scouts and fans from across the country watching us. We might even break the Bosco-Mater Dei record. Everyone here has the chance to make a name beyond California. But let's be honest: it's not because of us. It's because of him.
I look at Cody. Twenty touchdowns in six games, only four interceptions, a great season. Any other year, he'd be the one everyone's talking about, a season that, at this pace, could rival the legendary ones like Matt Barkley's. But not today. Today it's all about the Mater Dei kid, the "five-star," the phenom everyone wants to see.
And what bothers me most isn't the attention itself, but the narrative being built. If Andrew drops four or five touchdowns on us, nobody will talk about Servite or our effort. We'll just be a footnote in his story. "The game where Andrew Pritchett-Tucker was crowned." I can already see the headlines, some more sensational than others.
That can't happen.
We're the defending champions. This team already knows what it means to win, to lift the title of the toughest section in the country. We're not Bosco. And tonight, we're going to remind everyone that Servite is not just another stepping stone in Mater Dei's legend.
After a few minutes, we stood up and headed into a room for the general review.
They closed the doors and the talks began. Offense first, then defense.
The defensive coach stood before us, serious, with the board full of arrows and schemes.
"Everything starts in the trenches," he said in a deep voice. "If we win the line, we have a chance. If not, he's going to tear us apart."
We all knew who he meant. No need to say the name.
I nodded, clenching my fists. As a defensive lineman, my job is clear: break through Mater Dei's protection and get to Andrew. Sack him, pressure him, force mistakes. But it's not that simple.
We've analyzed it all week: his release time is insanely fast. The quickest we've seen. The second he gets the ball, it's already gone.
The coach pointed at the screen where clips of Andrew played on repeat. First throwing deep, then escaping the pocket and running with power.
"If he doesn't find an open receiver, he doesn't freeze. He runs. And when he runs, he's just as dangerous."
That's what makes him the number one dual threat in the country. Other quarterbacks need a perfect offensive line to shine. He doesn't. He can improvise, extend plays, kill you with his legs.
The instruction was clear: we couldn't let him get comfortable in the pocket. We had to push him, hit him, knock him off rhythm. But none of us were under any illusions, even if we pressured him, there was always the chance he'd still find a way to punish us.
The offensive meeting came afterward, reviewing blocking and protection schemes for Cody.
Finally, the meetings wrapped up. Thomas, our head coach, gathered us all together. He looked at each of us, one by one, with that firm voice of his that always seemed to light a fire in our competitiveness.
"You know what's at stake. This isn't just a game, it's about showing who we are. We've been champions, we've shown character. And now they want to use us as the backdrop to someone else's story. We can't let that happen."
His words sparked a murmur of approval. After a few more words, he added, "Get ready. Ten minutes and we're on the bus."
The room turned electric. Everyone started suiting up, adjusting helmets, wraps, gloves. I stayed still for a moment, watching Cody, who was sitting alone in the corner, staring at the ground.
I walked over. I know him well, and you don't have to be a mind reader to know what he was thinking. Being the quarterback in this situation must feel like absolute crap.
He's got twenty touchdowns in six games, amazing numbers. Any other year, he'd be one of the most productive QBs in the country. But Andrew has thirty. Ten more. And not just that: he's the viral channel kid, the five-star, the one breaking records game after game.
It can't be easy living in that shadow.
I sat beside him. "You know, there's always a guy like that," I said. "A player who just seems bigger than the rest. Two years ago it was Barkley. And even then, I didn't feel like he overshadowed us as much as this kid does."
Cody lifted his head, a bitter smirk on his face. "Yeah, it's like everything's already decided before we even play."
I shook my head. "Hype can fool people. They say he's already ready for college, maybe even the NFL… that doesn't mean anything. You want an example? Tom Brady. He didn't shine in high school, or in college, and in the draft he was picked almost at the end, sixth round. And look at him now. He's the GOAT."
Cody took a deep breath, processing my words. I added:
"What matters is today. Us. This team. You're our quarterback, and we're going to need you if we want to beat them. No matter if I sack that bastard two or three times, we've got to put points on the board to win the title."
I saw a spark light up in his eyes, he smiled faintly. "Sack him two or three times? His sack average is 0.8. Bosco only got him once, and that was with extra motivation after what he said in that interview."
He was right. Andrew wasn't an easy quarterback to bring down. A sack might look simple on paper, break the O-line's protection and tackle the QB before he releases the ball, but in practice it's one of the toughest jobs in football, especially against quarterbacks of Andrew's caliber.
I'd seen it over and over on film. Mater Dei's offensive line is elite, with multiple three, and four-star linemen. And when the protection breaks down, Andrew gets the ball out with insane quickness, the fastest release I've seen at this level.
Against weaker teams, sometimes he doesn't get touched all game: zero sacks.
In big games, like Bosco or the playoffs, the average for a QB like him is two or three sacks total.
But even then, Andrew turns what should be a sack into a positive play: he escapes the pocket, runs, picks up yards.
Cody, in the Bosco game, was sacked three times. Andrew, just once.
"I know. It won't be easy. But if we can get those two or three sacks, even if it sounds like nothing, those will be our golden chances. And that's when we'll need you. To turn those cracks into points."
Cody nodded, this time with more confidence in his eyes. I knew he still felt Andrew's shadow looming over him, like all of us did, but at least he remembered that he also had a key role to play.
The voice of an assistant interrupted us: "Let's go, time to get on the bus!"
I stood up, tightening the straps of my bag. The campus hallway filled with noise.
As we stepped outside, we saw the entire caravan lined up. Our bus in front, and behind it the ones for the cheerleaders and the band. Even though we were the visiting team, they always brought a spot for them, not as much time as at home, sure, but enough to do their job, cheer, and leave Servite's mark in the opponent's stadium.
I was about to step on when I felt a hand on my arm. I turned. It was Emily, my girlfriend, one of the cheerleaders. She smiled nervously, that kind of smile that tried to be light but couldn't hide the worry in her eyes.
"Be careful, okay?" she said, handing me a protein bar.
I took it without saying much. I was never one for long words.
"I'll be fine, I won't get hurt, thanks," I answered, my voice low and rough.
'She says it like he's going off to war,' I thought.
And sometimes it feels that way. My position is the most physical of all. Every play means colliding with another giant, pushing, hitting, resisting. I know I'll come out banged up, bruised, but I'm not made of glass. I'm not going to get injured.
Emily lowered her gaze for a second, then looked back up. "I don't just mean that," she said, more serious now. "I mean him. Don't get frustrated if you don't sack him, don't get angry if things don't go right at first. Give it your all, and that's enough."
I understood. She wasn't talking about my health, she was talking about Andrew. About the pressure we all felt. About that silent fear that he might roll right over us the way he did to Bosco.
I thought about them. How they came in motivated, blood boiling from those words Andrew said on national TV. It hadn't sounded like arrogance, more like confidence, but of course Bosco took it as a personal insult. They came in thirsty for revenge, wanting to make him pay for every syllable. And still… they couldn't stop him.
Seven touchdowns. Zero interceptions. Just one sack the entire game, even though their defense chased him like it was a war. It was a dismantling.
Not just on the scoreboard, but in spirit. How do you pick yourself back up after that? How does an entire defense recover from knowing you were used as a stepping stone for a legend?
I think the psychological damage was worse than the physical. And we'll find out tonight. Bosco is also playing, same time as us, against another Trinity rival. They're coming in with a 2–2 record. Losses to us and to Mater Dei. If they lose again, they'll likely be out of the playoffs.
That will say it all. If their defense gets crushed again, one of the toughest in the league, it'll be clear that last Friday left them truly shaken, that they couldn't recover from a historic humiliation. Because that game wasn't just any game: it was the most-watched in high school history, with over a million people watching them get torn apart. That kind of defeat leaves scars.
In a few hours, we'll know how deep they run. Though in the end, what really matters is right in front of me: our own game.
I kept my eyes on Emily, with that mix of tenderness and stubbornness only she could stir in me.
"I know," I said, softer this time. "Believe me, I'm going to give it everything."
She sighed, relieved. Smiled faintly and brushed my arm with her hand before turning toward her bus.
I climbed onto mine, still holding the protein bar. I settled into my seat, letting her words and my thoughts sink in. She was right: I couldn't obsess over the perfect sack alone.
The engine roared to life and the bus rolled toward Santa Ana. It pulled up in front of Santa Ana Stadium at exactly six o'clock in the evening.
As soon as we got off the bus, the air was thick with noise: horns, shouts, drums. The entrance was already drenched in red. Thousands of Mater Dei jerseys filled the stands, much earlier than usual. Normally people trickled in as the game started; tonight, they had been there from the very beginning.
We walked onto the field for warmups. Helmets under our arms, stretching, basic drills. We tried to focus, but it was impossible to ignore the atmosphere. Every corner of the stadium was alive.
Minutes later, Mater Dei made their entrance for warmups. The roar was immediate, a deafening ovation. And among the applause and shouts, a single name rose, echoing until it covered everything:
"Andrew! Andrew! Andrew!"
I couldn't help but look up. And there he was.
I recognized him instantly, just like in the newspaper photos and those YouTube videos I'd watched, more because everyone else did than because I wanted to.
Black hair, sharp features, red uniform with the number already tied to records. His expression was stoic. No arrogant smile, no smug swagger. He walked calmly, barely acknowledging the crowd, raising one hand in recognition, but without the air of a star. None of the poses I'd seen from other five-star prospects, like Barkley back in his day.
That contrast gave me a bad premonition. The arrogant ones, you knew how to break them: hit them, rattle them, and they crumbled. But someone this focused, someone who looked immune to the euphoria surrounding him… that was different.
The ESPN cameras followed his every step. The red lights of the portable set flared on near the sideline.
Next to me, one of our linemen, huge even by our standards, snorted in frustration.
"God isn't fair…" he muttered, looking at Andrew with a mix of envy and resignation. "Not only does he play like that, he looks like he walked off a damn magazine cover."
I didn't reply.
"When the game's over, ask him for a picture. Maybe you'll even get to touch him," one of the guys joked, and the others laughed.
"Shut up," the lineman growled, punching him in the arm.
Warmups continued for a few more minutes, speed drills, formation walkthroughs. Then we all headed back to the locker room. The tension there was heavier. Fewer jokes, more silence.
Finally, the moment came. The stadium speakers boomed with a solemn voice:
[Ladies and gentlemen… please welcome the Servite Friars!]
We ran out in formation, storming the field through a mix of cheers and boos. We were the visitors, and you could feel it. Our band played loud, trying to impose itself against the red sea surrounding us. We broke through the banner with our name and stepped onto the grass.
Seconds later, the speakers thundered again:
[And now… your Mater Dei Monarchs!]
The noise was deafening. The Mater Dei players tore through their own banner and rushed onto the field with Andrew at the front, lifting one arm to the stands. Thousands answered with a single chant, a thunderous chorus repeating his name again:
"Andrew! Andrew! Andrew!"
We lined up for the kickoff. Servite would kick first. The ball sailed high in an arc, landing in the hands of Mater Dei's return team.
Their return was decent, not bad, not great. They broke the first line of coverage and advanced, leaving the ball near the 25-yard line. Standard.
They had about 75 yards to cover to reach the end zone.
Then Mater Dei's offense took the field, Andrew leading them. The stadium roared once again.
I wondered if tonight he could repeat what he did against Bosco. Drives of just two or three minutes, even one that ended in a touchdown in barely over a minute.
I remembered how Bosco, with all their firepower, needed four or five minutes to build a series. Andrew, meanwhile, shredded defenses as if he were playing at a different pace.
The very first play gave me the answer.
I exploded off my position, slammed into the guard, and drove him back, opening a gap. I was about to have him in my sights, one more second and I'd get there, but Andrew had already released the ball. Precise and fast, straight to the receiver on the sideline. First down.
Next play. Another charge, this time I managed to destabilize the tackle. Same result: when I looked up, the ball was already gone, floating perfectly toward the middle of the field.
He wasn't running, he wasn't improvising. He didn't need to. Every pass found someone open, every route looked like it was timed to a metronome. The offense advanced at an infuriating speed.
But I didn't lose heart. I couldn't. On every snap I pushed harder, lower, with more fury. If I could break protection half a second sooner, I'd get to him.
In less than two minutes Mater Dei had already covered 55 yards. A suffocating pace. At this rate, they'd finish the drive in three minutes at most, just like against Bosco.
But then my moment came.
I crashed into the guard, shoved him back, and spun hard. I saw Andrew raise his arm, looking for another quick throw. I didn't give him time. I wrapped him up and took him down with all my weight, cradling him in my arms so I wouldn't risk a penalty.
The play ended in a roar from my teammates. A sack. The first of the game. The momentum from the previous play erased. Now they had 13 yards to go, but with one less down to work with.
I stood up slowly. Andrew did too. Through the helmet I could see him, no grimace, no frustration, no anger. Just silence on his face. He protected the ball, got back up without looking back, and returned to the line of scrimmage, barking instructions to his teammates.
I didn't celebrate. It wasn't a win yet. My teammates congratulated me, bumping helmets, shoving me with excitement. I nodded, but kept my calm. The game was far from over.
Third down. I launched again with the same force. Broke through the line, and for a split second I thought I had him again. But Andrew released the ball even quicker this time, a short pass to his running back just a couple yards away.
It was the safest move he could make. But for us, it was a victory. The back barely gained a couple yards before being brought down by our secondary.
Now it was fourth down, still more than ten yards to go.
There were two options. One: Andrew had the arm to try something medium or deep, he could pull it off. But if they failed, they'd lose possession right there.
The second option, the normal one: the field goal. And, as expected, that's what they chose.
The distance was 37 yards, standard range for a solid kicker. The logical decision: take three points early, open the score, apply pressure. You could hear it in the Mater Dei fans, it wasn't what they expected.
With Andrew under center, the crowd always anticipated a touchdown. The murmur in the stands was clear, as if a field goal was almost a failure. They were spoiled.
For me, though, it felt like a small victory. We had stopped the monster. If on our first drive we could score a touchdown, we'd take the lead and flip the pressure back on them.
Mater Dei's kicker lined up, struck clean, and the ball sailed straight through the uprights. 3–0. First points of the night.
But now it was our turn. Time for Cody and the offense to take the field.
I stood on the sideline, helmet in hand, watching as Cody led the drive. It wasn't as fast-paced as Mater Dei's, but it was steady, methodical. Every play gained something, a few yards at a time, no big mistakes, no critical fourth-down situations.
The clock burned over four minutes. Their defense seemed contained, not suffocating. Finally, when Cody connected with our receiver in the end zone, our sideline erupted.
"Yes!" I shouted without meaning to, clapping on my feet.
After the extra point, the kicker did his job and we went ahead: 7–3.
I'm sure no one in the stadium, or anyone sitting on their couch watching, expected us to be the first on the board with a touchdown, and for Cody to be the first quarterback of the night to throw one.
I strapped my helmet back on and took a deep breath. The celebration was already behind us. Now it was my turn again. I went back out with the defense, knowing the next series would truly test us.
"Come on, come on, he's gonna be more nervous now that he's trailing!" one of my fellow linemen shouted as we sprinted toward the starting yard line.
I glanced at the clock. Two minutes and thirty seconds left in the first quarter.
A stretch of time in which few quarterbacks would even dare to think about covering seventy yards.
Doubt cut through me: would he keep being just as aggressive after that series that forced them to settle for a field goal? Or would he slow the tempo down?
The answer came too fast. And it surprised me more than I wanted to admit.
Yes, he was still aggressive. Even more.
The passes began to rain down: 15 yards, 20 yards, another deep throw to the sideline. All at a blistering speed. Within seconds, we were against the ropes. The clock showed barely thirty seconds left in the first quarter and they were already on our 30-yard line, with four downs ahead.
I set on the line, breathing deep. This time. This time I'd get him again.
I pushed with everything I had, broke through the block, drove forward with the same violence as on my previous sack. I saw Andrew with the ball tucked tight to his chest, he realized I had broken through the pocket, and he wouldn't have time to throw.
So of course he'd try to run, but to do that, he'd have to get past me, and I wasn't letting him.
I saw him make a subtle fake, a slight shift of the hips. The instant I lunged, he vanished from my path. The void swallowed me and I ended up on the ground, palms digging into the turf.
I turned my head and saw him sprinting to the side, still in control. One of our guys came over to cut him off, looked like he had him… but Andrew released the ball on the move. A pass of over twenty yards, perfect, right into the hands of his receiver, who crossed into the end zone. Touchdown.
I stayed on the ground for a few seconds, breath caught in my chest. For the first time, I felt a crack opening inside.
Is this what Bosco's defense had to deal with? Was it logical to think we could win?
"Shit…" I muttered.
I got up slowly, glancing at the stands. The ovation was deafening, Andrew's name thundered like an endless chant. If I hadn't seen our cheerleaders still cheering, especially my girlfriend, and my family in the visitors' section, I would've sunk deeper. But I couldn't throw in the towel that quickly.
Mater Dei didn't kick the extra point. They went for two. And of course, they made it: he found another receiver in short yardage.
The first quarter ended 11–7.
The second quarter began with our offense on the field. We pushed hard, nearly three minutes of plays, but Mater Dei's defense shut us down. No points, not even a field goal.
Mater Dei went back on the attack. The drive lasted barely three minutes: another touchdown. Long passes, blazing rhythm. 18–7.
I didn't know whether to be thankful they didn't go for two points again and settled for one.
Our offense with Cody managed to respond and not fall apart. In four minutes we scored a touchdown and closed the gap.
There was no choice but to go for two. The coaches knew it, otherwise we'd never catch up. This was a final, and in a final there's no room for half measures.
Cody threw, and the pass was complete. Conversion successful. 18–15.
We were still alive.
'I have to stop him this time, no matter what…' I thought, stepping back onto the field.
Barely two minutes remained in the second quarter. He couldn't score.
This time I did it: another sack. I slammed him down, my teammates roaring behind me. For a moment, I thought we had contained him. But they still had downs ahead and didn't settle for a field goal.
The bastard, in the final twenty seconds of the half, fired another twenty-plus yard pass that connected with one of his receivers.
The stadium erupted. And, as if that weren't enough, they went for two again. And made it.
26–15.
'Three touchdowns already tonight…' I thought as I walked back to the sideline, carrying a feeling of defeat I had never known before.
The whistle blew for halftime.
The weight of the scoreboard crashed down on us. Some of my teammates cursed in frustration, others slammed their helmets or hurled them to the ground, trying to shake the anger out of their bodies.
I took a deep breath, helmet still in hand. The halftime show was already starting.
We had two quarters left to keep this from turning into another televised massacre. And I wasn't ready to give up just yet.
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