"Andrew Pritchett-Tucker, please step forward."
A general murmur rose. So people stood up and began looking around for Andrew.
As for Andrew, he was surprised there was a speaker system, it all felt very professional, just like in his forr school in Texas, though it had been so long he’d forgotten what elite high school facilities were like.
"Good luck, superstar," said Nick with a slight smile, giving him a pat on the shoulder.
Andrew just gave a small smile, stood up, and began walking toward the indicated area, passing through a group of players who glanced at him with veiled curiosity. An assistant pointed him to the adjacent door of the pavilion.
Upon entering, the atmosphere changed. The light was whiter, more clinical. There were two sports doctors with tablets in hand, a nutritionist, and a strength coach holding a laminated sheet.
Bruce and Rick entered as well, greeting him with a nod and a quick handshake.
"Let’s start with height and weight," one of the doctors said. "Shirt off, please. Shorts are fine."
Andrew complied. As he took off his shirt, the staff’s eyes sharpened. He wasn’t just muscular, he was compact, symtrical, defined, without exaggeration. A body clearly trained with expertise. He didn’t look like a 16-year-old junior. More like a college freshman ready to debut in the NCAA.
"Step on the scale. Relax," the doctor instructed.
The number ca up quickly: 88.5 kilograms.
"Height... one eighty-eight," the second announced, after using the stadioter.
Andrew wasn’t surprised. His height back in February had been 1.86. He’d grown 2 cm in the past months, less than before, but still growing, which was a good sign. Considering he had just turned 16 and his growth would likely continue until age 18–20, he still hoped to reach 1.91 to 1.93.
"Body fat percentage... exactly eleven percent," confird the nutritionist after asuring skinfolds with calipers and checking the number on the monitor.
"Arm circumference: thirty-eight centiters," noted the strength coach.
They took a few more asurents that only took a couple of minutes, and the process was finally complete. Of course, Andrew was well above the average even for elite players like those at Mater Dei, not just Palisades.
Rick let out a low whistle.
"Physique’s solid. Go back to the group, Andrew. And get ready for the tests," said Bruce with a slight nod, clear approval in his eyes.
"Yes, sir," Andrew replied, pulling his shirt back on as he left the room with an almost provocative calm.
Back in the gym, the noise hadn’t died down. Those who had already completed the check-up were starting to warm up: dynamic stretches, joint mobility drills, jumps, shoulder rotations. The air slled of sports deodorant, sneaker rubber, and a hint of anxiety.
For the next few minutes, Andrew waited, stretching alongside the others.
Finally, the coaches began calling them out one by one for the first major test of the day: the bench press with 185 pounds (84 kg), the standard asure in these kinds of evaluations.
Then the show began. After a few nas, a na ca that made everyone look:
"Victor Blackwell!"
The star receiver walked up to the bench like a celebrity heading to the red carpet. Defined muscles, sleeveless shirt, chains around his neck. He lay down, gripped the bar, and started with controlled rhythm. He reached 14 reps, attempted a fifteenth, but failed.
’Not bad,’ thought Andrew, watching with his arms crossed.
It wasn’t a bad number. In fact, elite, just as expected at this level and age.
Not bad for a wide receiver. So whistled, others gave him high-fives. Blackwell stood up like he’d just finished a performance.
Next, another na charged with expectations:
"Max Wittek!"
The system’s heir. The golden QB. Tight shirt, composed smile. He lay down with confidence, pushed the bar with strong rhythm at first, but by the eighth rep, his face started to tense. In the end: 12 reps. Solid. Nothing extraordinary, but more than enough for a quarterback.
Many applauded, more out of respect than excitent.
"Nick!"
The star running back stood up, raised his arms like he was entering a boxing ring, and threw himself onto the bench with contagious energy.
"Let’s go, Richardson!" several voices shouted.
Of course, there were multiple bench stations with spotters, otherwise, it would take forever, but those waiting their turn kept their eyes on the most attention-grabbing nas.
Nick gritted his teeth and pushed out 16 reps, the last two fought through on the edge of failure. As he stood up, he struck a theatrical biceps pose, smiled at the group, and threw out a "Beat that if you can," which drew laughs and applause.
"Duarte!"
The hybrid wide receiver/tight end of Asian descent who weighed over 100 kilos. He lay down calmly, like he’d been born on a bench press. The bar moved up and down with trono precision. 20 reps. So even stopped talking.
And finally ca the na everyone had been waiting for:
"Pritchett!"
All eyes locked on him. So murmured, others whispered.
A few looked at him with clear skepticism.
"The YouTube guy..."
"My cousin watches his videos."
"That quarterback who threw 60 TDs, right?"
"Yeah, but in D4."
That "but" was always there. As if the division erased the value of what he had accomplished.
Andrew didn’t react. He walked toward the bench unhurriedly, like he was stepping into his own gym rather than into a crowd of players waiting to see diocre or at best decent numbers, because he ca from D4.
Unlike the others, who wore sleeveless shirts or tight compression tops, he had on a loose black oversized T-shirt, slightly heavy fabric, not too much, good for gym training, the kind that doesn’t show sweat patches easily. No logos. Just plain black.
He took off his cap and placed it on the floor, right next to the bench.
Then he took a deep breath, gripped the bar, and began.
One. Two. Three. Five. Eight.
So far, nothing out of the ordinary, but the form was perfect.
The bar ca down cleanly, touching his chest, and rose with power and control. Not a single cheat rep. No wobble.
Twelve. Fifteen. Seventeen...
A low murmur rippled through the gym.
Max, from his corner, frowned.
Victor, more analytical, crossed his arms.
Nick’s eyes widened as he watched his record of 16 get casually surpassed, rembering the conversation he’d had with Andrew just minutes earlier, telling him to at least put up a decent number so people wouldn’t give him a hard ti.
Twenty-one.
The bar rose slowly, Andrew’s face tense, jaw clenched.
Twenty-two... no. It stalled halfway. The spotter grabbed it just before failure.
21 full reps.
Thomas Duarte, the one who had reached 20, watched Andrew with a mix of respect and surprise, though his expression remained mostly unreadable.
Andrew sat down slowly, taking deep breaths, satisfied with his performance. After a brief silence, that heavy murmur began, the kind that only happens when sothing unexpected disrupts the atmosphere.
He stood up, adjusted his oversized black T-shirt, picked up his cap from the floor, and as he walked past Nick, he gave him a couple of light pats on the shoulder.
"Was that decent enough?" he asked, glancing sideways with a faint smirk.
Nick didn’t answer right away. He stared at him, then let out a quiet laugh he couldn’t hold back. ’This bastard... I like him!’
Behind them, soone whispered, "He weighs less than Duarte and he’s a quarterback. What the hell was that?"
Another murmured, "Twenty-one reps. Under 200 pounds probably... and he’s a junior. Is this a joke?"
The tests continued. Next up: squats, ant to asure lower-body strength and explosiveness. A loaded barbell in a rack, with proper warm-up beforehand.
Instead of 1RM (one-rep max), they aid for a controlled set of 3 to 5 heavy reps, for safety.
Warm-up was essential here. The weights started to climb. Offensive and defensive linen dominated, most of them weighing over 100 kilos of body weight.
Even so, Andrew surprised again, lifting more than any offensive skill player on the team, and falling just below the heavier linen and defenders.
His squat was clean: 165 kg (363 lbs) for 5 reps.
Kevin Brown, the senior defensive leader, managed 200 kg (441 lbs) for 5 reps.
But his body weight was significantly higher than Andrew’s, over 30kg (66 pounds) more, which made a big difference in this kind of lift.
anwhile, Max had done 145 kg for 5 reps, 20 kg less than Andrew.
Victor had hit 155 kg for 5 reps.
More and more people started whispering, wondering just where this Andrew kid had co from.
Even the staff recording the numbers looked at him like he was so kind of genetic anomaly.
Then ca the third test: the Power Clean.
It’s an Olympic lift that asures explosive strength from the ground up. It requires total neuromuscular coordination.
It’s one of the most valued tests among football coaches because it asures what matters most on the field: total functional explosiveness.
As expected, the offensive and defensive linen dominated. Kevin Brown, a 130 kg beast, set the benchmark at 125 kg. Only two others passed 120.
Max Wittek, solid for a QB, reached 92.5 kg.
Nick hit 100 kg.
Victor, the star wide receiver, managed 94 kg. Good numbers, nothing extraordinary.
Then it was Andrew’s turn.
At 88.5 kg, with an athletic build that didn’t even look that heavy at first glance, he lifted 115 kg with flawless technique.
Clean. Fast. Precise.
’So many stares...’ Andrew thought, almost amused, noticing a few jaws slightly dropped. Even the dical staff and offensive coaches exchanged glances, murmuring among themselves.
Hadn’t anyone watched his videos?
Then again, he rarely posted one-rep max lifts.
So clips scattered among the hundreds he had did show his level, yes, but unless you were a true fan or a scouting freak, you could’ve easily missed them.
Then ca the favorite part for sprinters: the 40-yard dash.
36.5 ters from a static start.
It asures pure speed. A straight line. Acceleration, power, explosion.
Mater Dei used state-of-the-art electronic sensors, no manual stopwatches here. Everything was official.
’Okay, here we go. Focus,’ Andrew thought as he got into position.
He waited for the signal.
’Speed. I am speed... No, stop quoting movie lines,’ he told himself.
And just then, the signal sounded.
BEEP!
He launched like a lightning bolt. His stride was aggressive, arms pumping with force, posture perfect.
The sensor bar captured the exact finish.
A brief pause.
And then, the number.
4.53 seconds.
Silence.
Then ca the dry rustle of clipboards as pages flipped. Fast. Like everyone wanted to write down the number before it vanished.
Faster than Victor, and faster than most RBs in the country, except elite ones like Nick.
Bruce Rollinson squinted from the back of the gym.
Rick stopped writing and just stared at him. ’This kid is nuts...’ he thought. How is he this good at every single test? He looked like an all-terrain machine.
Victor looked down for a mont.
Nick smiled with his arms crossed, silently approving.
And Max... well, Max kept his reaction to himself, though his clenched brow said plenty.
There were four more tests: vertical jump, broad jump, shuttle run (for agility and change of direction), and finally the three-cone drill—the most technical of them all: movent, turns, and coordinated explosiveness.
Andrew shined in every single one, outperforming Max in each test.
And as for Dylan, his supposed competitor for the backup QB spot, Andrew left him even further behind.
When it ended, so looked at him with awe, others with a silent discomfort.
The murmurs were no longer filled with doubt.
The tests were over.
The coaches began packing up sensors, cones, and releasing the players. Most left in groups, chatting, so laughing, others quiet, reflecting silently on their performance.
As Andrew was about to leave, having said goodbye to Nick (the only one he’d actually talked to, and soone who seed easy to get along with), he heard soone call his na.
He turned and saw Coach Bruce Rollinson.
The legendary Mater Dei head coach approached with his hands in his pockets, walking like soone who had seen it all... but could still be surprised from ti to ti.
"Good work today."
"Thanks, coach. I gave it everything," Andrew replied with a slight smile.
He really had given it his all.
Even though he looked calm, he was never one to go half-speed.
If he wanted that starting spot, he had to crush his competition in every single test.
Bruce studied him for another second, silent, with the sharp gaze of soone who had seen hundreds of players pass through. Then, with genuine honesty, he said:
"I rember you told you’d beaten Max in so of the tests... but seeing it in person, live, it’s a completely different thing."
Andrew nodded, keeping his composure but not hiding his satisfaction.
"Yeah... the pressure was real, but it felt good to see the results co through. I even broke a few personal records."
"It showed," Bruce replied, not hiding the respect that had started to creep into his voice.
"Keep it up. Tomorrow is endurance testing... and the special drills for quarterbacks. I’m looking forward to seeing you."
And he walked away.
Andrew watched him as he walked back to the rest of the staff.
If the head coach says that, it’s a good sign.
After all, this was the sa coach who had been looking at Max Wittek as his future starter, the ideal heir to his offensive system.
But today... Max had been crushed.
Not just outperford. Crushed.
In strength. In explosiveness. In speed. In everything.
And even if Bruce didn’t say it out loud, his silence spoke louder than any speech:
He was no longer so sure who the starting quarterback should be.
And it was only Day One.
’Today’s a good day,’ Andrew thought with a smile as he walked toward his Camaro.
The next day, Andrew returned, for Day Two of testing.
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