"It’s a muscle contusion near the deltoid," said the blond man with glasses and a neatly trimd beard.
He was Mater Dei’s athletic trainer, the professional responsible for the players’ imdiate physical health. He wasn’t a surgeon, but he was specifically trained to assess sports injuries, make initial diagnoses, decide whether a player can continue, and coordinate treatnt and referrals when necessary.
Andrew nodded as he applied ice to his right shoulder. That was where the impact had been. The defensive lineman Patrick crashing down with all his weight in the final minutes of the third quarter. The hit that left him sore and forced him to adjust his ga.
That was why he had thrown with his left arm and run more than usual.
The ga was already over. Andrew was sitting in the Monarchs’ locker room, without helt or shoulder pads, wearing only a tight compression shirt. His cleats rested beside the bench.
Once again, he had been nad MVP and had given a brief interview in front of ESPN’s caras.
But, curiously, they had barely asked him about advancing to the semifinals or about his four touchdowns.
The questions revolved around sothing else: the pass with his non-dominant arm. How strange it was. And also the fact that he hadn’t played in the fourth quarter, confirming that sothing had happened.
"Will he be ready by next Friday?" asked Rick, the offensive coordinator, one hand on his chin and an unusually serious expression on his face.
It wasn’t uncommon for football players to finish gas with bumps, bruises, or sprains. It was part of a sport with so much contact.
But since Andrew had joined the program, this was the first ti he had suffered sothing like this. And that said a lot: his ability to avoid unnecessary contact, his intelligence when running, and the way he fell when he had no other option.
Rick, moreover, was no dical expert. His world was the playbook, reads, and offensive sches, not diagnoses.
The athletic trainer looked up calmly.
"He’ll be ready," he said without hesitation. "It’s a hard contusion, yes, but nothing’s broken. Rest, ice, treatnt over the next few days, and he’ll be ready for Friday."
’Better than a mild sprain,’ Andrew thought.
If he had kept playing or taken another hard tackle, the hit could have turned into a Grade I sprain, with a typical recovery ti of seven to ten days. In that scenario, he would have been cutting it very close for the next ga, or missed it entirely.
"You have the visit to Missouri tomorrow, right?" asked Bruce, arms crossed, watching him seriously.
Andrew nodded. It wasn’t a secret to the school, especially with less than a day to go.
The blond man looked at Bruce before answering. "That won’t affect him. It’s relative rest, not full immobilization. As long as he uses ice, anti-inflammatories, and avoids unnecessary strain, he’ll be fine."
’Great. No being the one carrying all the luggage,’ Andrew thought with a small smile.
Bruce nodded slightly and looked back at Andrew, the image of that play still fresh in his mind, the opposite arm rising to throw. "I didn’t know you could do that."
Andrew scratched his head. "It’s sothing I used to practice at ho when I was bored."
In formal practices, he never worked on his left arm. Even if a quarterback can be ambidextrous, there is always a dominant arm.
From the mont you start playing, everything is built around that side: release speed, accuracy, a stable spiral, and timing. The other arm, even if coordination exists, lacks that fine control, has less velocity, and carries a higher risk of error or injury. It’s not a skill that’s trained regularly.
In his previous life, Andrew didn’t have that ability. But in this new chance, he thought, why not? He could train it, with the huge advantage of a disciplined mindset inside the body of a five-year-old.
He decided to make the most of that ti and advantage. At ho, in his spare monts, he threw passes with his left arm. Alone. Sotis with Steve. Not seeking power or depth, but basic control and functionality.
Over the years, he developed a useful level of dominance. Not a replacent for his primary arm, but a situational tool: to improvise, to surprise, or like that night, when his dominant arm was hurting.
He could never throw deep with his left. That was out of the question. It was far too complex even under ideal conditions, and much more so in a real ga, with pressure, defenders, and split-second reads. That was why the pass to Sedric had been short.
Even so, for a non-dominant-arm throw, it could probably be considered one of the longest: nine yards.
He had trained that possibility to be a more complete player. And, deep down, because he rembered a quarterback he greatly admired in his past life: Patrick Lavon Mahos.
A Texas player, like he had been in that other life. Back then, while he was still in high school, Mahos was already thriving in the NFL, and Andrew watched him like a distant, almost unattainable idol.
Now things were different.
Andrew practically belonged to the sa generation. In fact, he was older.
Mahos had been born in September 1995. He, in January 1994.
A year and eight months apart. Not even a full two years.
’He should be in his junior year now...’ Andrew thought.
It was strange to share an era with soone he had once admired.
In high school, Mahos hadn’t been a dia prodigy. Three stars. No early hype. Playing at a mid-level school in Texas. Nothing that drew much attention. He would explode later.
A perfect example of how the star system doesn’t always get it right.
Barkley. Clausen. Absolute high school phenoms who failed to carry that dominance into the NFL.
Mahos, on the other hand, would go on to win three Super Bowls. Insane.
In college, Mahos began to draw attention, though with caveats. He played in a pass-heavy, frenetic-tempo system that inflated statistics: gas with over seven hundred total yards, lots of short throws, relentless volu. Even so, clear flashes of sothing different were already there. Pure creativity. Natural talent. An uncommon ability to improvise.
The problem was never him. It was the context.
A terrible defense at Texas Tech. A competent coaching staff, nothing more. No titles. And, of course, no Heisman.
’So we’ll probably cross paths in the NFL,’ Andrew thought, letting the idea take shape.
A future where they would face each other head-to-head. Quarterback versus quarterback.
His goal was clear: to win a Super Bowl.
And even though, in theory, he should reach the NFL before Mahos, he was certain of one thing: if he wanted to achieve that goal, if he wanted to fulfill the promise he had made to his grandfather, there would be one na he would have to surpass.
Patrick Mahos.
What was curious was that, at that very mont, Mahos probably already knew who he was.
Not because they knew each other, of course, but because it was almost impossible not to.
Andrew was everywhere: nationally televised gas every Friday, records falling one after another, constant debates on ESPN, and endless analysis across social dia.
He was the standard. The na everyone ntioned when talking about the greatest high school player ever seen.
It was very likely that Mahos, as a quarterback, had seen so of his highlights. Or even a video on YouTube. Maybe out of simple professional curiosity. Maybe just because it was impossible to escape his na.
And that was when he understood it more clearly. It wasn’t that he hadn’t known it before, but suddenly he truly beca aware of the difference.
Mahos, at that age, played without that weight. Without the constant microscope. Without the obligation to be perfect every single week.
Andrew, on the other hand, had already been carrying all of that since the start of this season in high school.
Every ga was an exam.
If he didn’t throw four, five, or six touchdowns, the performance would feel disappointing to many.
After every Friday ca the headlines, the updated statistics, the records broken, and the ones still to co.
Every official college visit he accepted beca news.
And the university he chose wouldn’t be just another step, but the stage where that pressure would multiply.
The path to the NFL seed steeper than ever.
Much more so than in his first life, when he was a talented recruit, yes, but without the burden of being expected to beco sothing historic before turning eighteen.
"Andrew?" Bruce called, noticing he was still staring at the floor, lost in thought.
Andrew blinked and ca back to himself. He looked up, took a deep breath, and stood up calmly.
"I’m going to take a shower," he said. "My family is waiting for , and I don’t want it to get any later."
Bruce nodded without saying anything. Andrew grabbed his clothes, gave a brief nod in farewell, and headed toward the showers.
From behind, Bruce, Rick, and the blond athletic trainer watched him walk away down the hallway. None of them said a word, but all three shared the sa feeling: that kid was carrying sothing different.
Andrew took a quick shower. Then he got dressed, pulled on a black hoodie, and was ready to leave the locker room. He didn’t talk much. He kept turning everything over in his head and, at the sa ti, assessing the sensations in his deltoid. It wasn’t sharp pain, but a persistent discomfort.
The locker room was in a state of contained euphoria. Not overflowing, not chaotic. Success had already beco the norm, the expectation.
But that didn’t an there wasn’t celebration. They had advanced to the semifinals, won decisively, and of course everyone was talking about the sa thing: the left-handed pass.
Sedric was telling it for the umpteenth ti, describing the play like a movie scene, how he saw the ball leave, how he knew it was coming to him, how everything happened in slow motion. Andrew knew he was exaggerating. He himself had explained the play in the huddle.
"There he is, the man!" exclaid Nick, the starting running back, moving toward Andrew to give him a pat on the back, right near the shoulder.
Before he could do it, Austin, the leader of the offensive line, reacted. He grabbed Nick’s wrist firmly.
"His shoulder’s sore," he said, without raising his voice, but leaving no room for debate. It sounded more like a warning than advice.
"Hey, hey!" Nick complained. "I forgot, sorry."
He pulled free, shaking out his wrist while looking at Austin with a mix of respect and future revenge, though he knew it would be impossible to beat that giant by conventional ans.
Austin then turned to Andrew, serious. "I’m sorry. That bastard got to you because of ."
It had been a clean, powerful, unexpected shove. The pocket collapsed in less than two seconds. Too fast even for soone like Andrew.
"No problem, big guy," Andrew replied with a faint smile, patting his shoulder with his left hand. "These things happen more often than you’d think."
It was true. The ga was already tilted in their favor by sixteen points, and there were barely two minutes left in the third quarter. No one had expected that kind of explosion from that defensive lineman. Not even him. With his focus at one hundred percent, he might have escaped with his legs. But maintaining that absolute level of attention for an entire ga wasn’t human.
Thomas, the tight end, nodded silently. With his usual poker face and arms crossed, he glanced at the arm that had been responsible for so many morable monts. "Is it serious?" he finally asked.
Andrew shook his head. "Not really. A few days of rest and, in theory, I’ll be at one hundred percent for the semifinals."
The relief was imdiate. Several people exhaled openly. No one wanted to imagine that ga without him, especially a semifinal. Even if he missed the first quarter and ca in later, they knew it would be enough. With Andrew on the field, things simply worked.
A little farther back, the juniors, sophomores, and even a few freshn listening from the edges, slightly intimidated by the circle of seniors, also seed to relax. No one said anything, but the looks said the sa thing: everything was under control.
"Putting football aside," Nick chid in, resting his chin on his hand with a grin, "are you coming to the party tonight? Your schedule should allow it, right?"
It was common knowledge that Andrew wasn’t soone who went to parties every week. He had his own schedule, almost thodical.
But when he did decide to go to a party, everyone knew it, and waited for it. Not because he got wild or drunk, but because his presence lifted the atmosphere.
Andrew shook his head. "I can’t. I have an official visit tomorrow."
"That’s a sha," Nick admitted without much drama. They were all seniors, all had college visits. "Where are you headed?"
"The Missouri Tigers," Andrew replied casually. There was no point in hiding it. The next day there would be news of him arriving at the Missouri airport anyway.
There were a few scattered ohs, thoughtful nods, and looks that imdiately began analyzing that official visit. Before the topic drifted, Andrew spoke again.
"But I am going next Friday," he added. "A proper party when we make it back to the section final again."
The celebratory reaction was instant.
"That’s what I’m talking about!" Nick exclaid.
"That sounds much better," Thomas added, cracking a smile for the first ti.
"Then we’ll save the drinks," Sedric joked.
"You can’t back out now," Austin said.
"Of course not," Andrew replied with a smile.
He wasn’t the biggest party guy in the group, not even close. If it were up to him, he’d prefer a quiet night: close friends, video gas, maybe a movie, board gas, and long conversations that stretched late into the night. But he didn’t mind going to a party once in a while either.
He knew those monts mattered too. That sharing space with the team off the field helped build sothing stronger. He didn’t want to be an untouchable but distant leader, a perfect, unreachable figure. He wanted to be just one of them when it was ti to be.
Andrew finally exited through the back way. A players-and-staff-only access that led behind the stadium, into a technical parking lot out of reach of the public. Even that night, Mater Dei had stationed two school security guards there, more as a precaution than out of strict protocol.
It had been a long ti since Andrew stopped leaving through the public exits, eting his family in the crowd like before. His fa was simply too great now.
Even though this was, in theory, a ho ga, the stadium had been expanded with temporary bleachers and comfortably exceeded ten thousand people.
A large portion of the crowd was neutral, fans who ca just to watch him play. On top of that were families, friends, players’ cousins, and even so supporters of the opposing team who, far from hating him, wanted a photo, a greeting, anything.
In previous gas with crowds of twenty, thirty, or even fifty thousand spectators, security had been much tighter and his exit even more discreet. That night could be considered relatively calm.
When Andrew reached the parking lot, his family was already waiting for him.
His parents were there, his little sister, Claire, Phil, Jay, Gloria, all of them. Even Leonard and Howard.
The mont they saw him appear, Cam was the first to react.
"Son!" he exclaid, throwing himself toward him with his arms wide open. "You were incredible! That pass was exquisite!"
"Which one?" Leonard muttered with a strange expression, glancing at his friend.
Cam was already in full emotional charge when Mitch and Claire reacted almost at the sa ti, intercepting him.
"Cam!" Mitch said, raising a hand.
"Careful with his arm," Claire added.
Cam ca to an abrupt stop half a ter from Andrew, arms still outstretched, as if he had just run into an invisible wall.
"Oh... right," he murmured, lowering his voice. "Sorry, sweetheart."
Jay, who had been watching the scene in silence, frowned when he noticed the ice pack strapped to his grandson’s shoulder.
"Is it serious?" he asked bluntly. "From the stands it looked like a hard sack. Not just any hit."
Andrew shook his head imdiately, before the concern could grow too much.
"No," he replied calmly. "It’s just a muscle contusion. Nothing broken. The athletic trainer says that with rest and ice, I should be fine for the next ga."
Several tensions eased at once. More than one person let out a breath they hadn’t realized they were holding.
"Are you sure?" Gloria asked, stepping a little closer and eyeing his shoulder.
"Sure," Andrew repeated with a faint smile. "If I do the recovery properly, there shouldn’t be any problem."
Jay nodded slowly, still assessing him with his gaze, but without pressing further.
"You’d better be," he grumbled. "Semifinals don’t co around every day."
Andrew smiled a bit more, adjusting the strap of his bag over his good shoulder. He knew the old grouch was speaking out of concern.
"That left-handed pass was aweso!" Phil exclaid, now relieved that it wasn’t a serious injury.
"It was!" Howard chid in. "All the crowd reactions were caught up close!" he added, patting his cara.
Howard was no longer responsible for filming the plays themselves. ESPN’s professional caras were already capturing those, and it was far better to use that footage. So instead, he focused on crowd reactions in the stands, the emotions, the atmosphere, prega interviews and postga reactions.
"You finally decided to use that weapon," Cam said, clapping enthusiastically.
Of course, he had known for a long ti that his son trained his left arm. He had seen him doing it at ho, in the backyard, out of sheer boredom or curiosity. But he had never used it in an official ga.
"It was insane!" Haley added. "I had a guy next to with his eyes wide open like a cartoon," she said, laughing.
Manny stepped in with his usual didactic tone. "A statistically improbable play that was nevertheless executed successfully. Probably another high school record: the longest docunted pass thrown with the non-dominant arm, and in a very complicated context, too."
Andrew listened in silence as they walked toward the car.
For soone who didn’t understand football very well, a nine-yard pass with the opposite hand didn’t seem like a big deal. Not compared to a fifty-yard bomb, or those throws of more than seventy yards he himself had completed before. It wasn’t a spectacular run, weaving past defenders at full speed either.
But for those who knew, it was.
The mont in the ga. The pain in his arm. Los Alamitos’ defensive pressure, rising after the sack. The charged atmosphere, the real possibility of an interception or losing possession at a critical instant. And still, choosing to throw with the opposite arm and completing a clean nine-yard gain.
That wasn’t just another play. It was a rarity, an even greater one than his deep passes, which had already started to feel almost normal.
"But it was risky," Jay finally said in a asured tone, "you threw it into the area of a four-star cornerback. If he’d read it and picked it off, they could’ve taken it for a pick-six, and you wouldn’t have been on the field in the fourth quarter."
Andrew turned his head slightly toward him and replied with a faint smile, "Nothing ventured, nothing gained."
Jay snorted. It wasn’t quite a growl or a complaint, more like a restrained chuckle, and he didn’t say anything else.
At that mont, Andrew pulled his phone out of a pocket and read a quick ssage. Just a single line from Jade. He replied, then looked up.
"Before we leave..." he said casually, "I want to et up with her, she ca to watch the ga."
The effect was imdiate. The group ca to a dead stop.
Cam blinked twice.
Claire frowned slightly.
Haley lifted her head as if she’d just heard a key word.
Manny tilted his head, intrigued.
Jay narrowed his eyes just a bit.
Gloria’s eyes sparkled, sensing a budding romance, though with a touch of caution.
"Here we go..." Howard murmured.
Leonard nodded silently, recognizing the possible beginning of another "family circus," as Andrew so often called it.
"Her?" Haley repeated slowly, eyes half-closed. "The girl you’re seeing?"
Andrew nodded. "Yes. I told you yesterday she was coming to the ga, rember?"
Everyone nodded.
"The girl you’ve told us practically nothing about," Claire added, choosing her words carefully.
"The sa one," Andrew confird, unfazed.
"Well, well..." Phil chid in with an open smile, clearly less defensive than the rest. "What’s she like? Style? Personality? What kind of vibe does she bring?"
Andrew smiled faintly. "You’ll et her in five minutes."
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