The morning of the UCLA game, I woke up alone, cold, and frustrated. My dick was rock-hard as normal, my brain scattered, and my mood shot to shit.

Irritable was an understatement of how rotten my mood had gotten. I stuffed my food down with tightly clenched silverware, most of my conversation skills involved grunts and swear words. I pushed my muscles past heated fatigue in the weights room, pounded my legs and feet on the turf in practice, and had every defensive play UCLA had used all season memorized

Lack of patience challenged me every day that I only sent Harper one to two text messages, but I held back sending each one. They piled up in my drafts into a string of desperation as almost two weeks had now passed, with zero contact from her.

I called Ellie again, fuck I even called my mom. Both were still beyond livid towards Harper's mom on Harper's behalf and I turned my ears off whenever their Italian tempers flared up.

The worst decision I'd made was when I visited her dorm room at four pm yesterday afternoon. Li met me at the door, her eyes tired and strained full of sympathy. "She's sleeping," she whispered in an apologetic voice that suggested the lump in Harper's bed really wasn't asleep.

Football-wise, I was more than prepared for today's game. Academic-wise, I'd set myself up so that I coasted into my finals. Fuck, two of my professors had let me already take their final exam earlier.

Selfish, but I was also backed up worse than a plumber's nightmare. Sure, I'd tugged myself some shower relief that dulled the edge of my anger but... I was worried.

Fuck, I even miss her insults.

"Jake..." a familiar voice grunted quietly at me.

"What," I mumbled and scrolled through my text messages.

Not a single fucking one from her.

"Jake," another guy called to me as I shot off a quick message to Mom.

me: Do you need to be picked up at LAX?

Mom: I'm good. See you tonight, good luck! ❤️

I pinched the bridge of my nose between my finger and tip of my thumb.

That's... ambiguous.

My thumbs paused over my phone as I internally debated whether I asked my Mom again for an update on a girl who was twenty minutes away who wanted nothing to do with me.

"Jake?" A throat cleared next to me and a hand might have slapped on my shoulder but I ignored both.

Fuck it.

A slight stretch sensation pulled in my upper back as I rounded it and hunched over my screen.

me: U hear from Harper?

Mom: No, sorry. Hang in there.

Before I responded, not that I had a response, a hand clamped over my phone and snatched it out of my grasp. "Jake!"

My eyes lifted and traveled up the hand's tensed wrist, forearm, and bicep until Evan's face came into view. His blue-gray eyes glared at me, with a backdrop of concern, but he still looked completely pissed off.

"Bro," he half-stated, half-grunted out. "Snap out of it."

"Huh?" I blinked at him a few times.

He cleared his throat again, then shifted his eyes around the breakfast table. Ten pairs of eyes stared back at me, each with varying levels on the spectrum between concern and irritation. Griff had even stopped eating for once, although he still held a fork in one hand and spoon in the other.

"The fuck's gotten into you?" Jackson's fingers snapped an inch in front of my nose and I shoved them aside.

"Nothing," I growled out and met their weirdass looks with a heated glare. "Fuck off. All of you."

"Is it about Harper?" Zach asked from across the table, his dark brown eyes swimming in sympathy and thick eyebrows drawn together. "We haven't seen her but -"

"No." I shook Evan's hold off me and glared at Mister Relationship Advice. "She's sorting out some shit. Not related to me... this time."

"Bro, like that's stopped you before," Evan pointed out the obvious and handed me back my phone. "You need all of us for backup at UCLA? It's game day, so you'll need -"

"What? No." I sighed because one, I'd just gone there yesterday with no luck and, two, he had a point.

Three days ago, half our cars had gotten shot up with blue and yellow paintball guns.

My car somehow had been spared, maybe pity for its old and rusted existence. Inadvertently, the prank had given us a small bonding moment, since Jax set up speakers and blasted out music while we held an impromptu car wash in the driveway and street to get it all off.

Since I imagined we weren't the quietest neighbors, I also called over some of our rookies and they washed our adjacent neighbors' cars. One of them responded with a batch of cookies but she handed the plate to Griff, so none of the rest of us got any.

Of course, some of the guy's girlfriends came over, but thankfully Emily was nowhere to be seen.

Hopefully she finally listened or, even better, grew some common sense.

"True..." Griff tapped the end of his spoon over the outside of his lips, then pointed it at me with a flick of his fingers. "Too dangerous on game day. You could get kidnapped, Jake."

He says that like I'm not six-four and two hundred thirty pounds.

Discussion, complaints, and these guys' version of support brought out loud phrases thrown around the table... like who got to punch Ethan Burke first.

Not that I'd mind but that can't happen.

"Listen," I lifted my hands up. "I'm not going to UCLA but if I was, thanks. I appreciate the, uhh... sentiments."

"Bro." Griff's eyes stretched so wide that white surrounded his brown irises. A plop of oatmeal fell out of his gaped open mouth and back into his bowl. "She dumped you again, didn't she? Fuck, I'm sorry."

Before I reacted with a resounding 'fuck no,' the table noise increased. Even Adonis threw me puppy eyes. "I liked that one."

"Liquid sympathy run to Trojans and house party?" Jackson eyed me over his phone. "Always helps me feel better when Nevaeh breaks up with me."

I groaned quietly and shook my head. "Fuck, she -"

"Hate to be that guy but he doesn't need alcohol right now," Zach started with a warning look at Jax. "None of us do."

"It'll be okay." Evan squeezed my shoulder with his hand, then patted my chest with his fist. "If you need a shoulder to cry on, go ahead. Unless Delilah's here, then cry to Zach."

Fuck, this is not happening.

I shoved his hand away, then palmed my forehead and rubbed over my eyebrows. "No. Fuck no. We didn't break up, everything's fine."

My eyes slid closed because the last thing I wanted to see was a table full of disbelief starting at me. A low groan vibrated my throat and chest and I dragged both hands down my face. With a heavy sigh, I exhaled sharply because I didn't entirely believe me either.

What in the fuck is happening during the coin toss?

Without a look in either direction, I felt Griff and Evan's confused looks on me. Fuck, I had no idea how this happened.

All week, campus security was heightened, even present at every practice and film session that led up to today's game. Given that, how someone had hacked into the stadium's feeds was beyond my intelligence level. The blood drained from my cheeks when I recognized the same hazy party video my teammates taunted me with.

Personally? My social media accounts, email, even a few anonymous text messages led me to keep my phone off more than it was on. I still screened for a particular contact that kept me on Unread status since I'd seen her almost ten painful days ago but personally I hadn't posted anything other than flagged pregame articles.

I should've been in game mode as we walked out onto the field, but Harper was all I saw once I lifted my eyes up from the turf. My heart squeezed tight in my chest. I only got one brief look but she looked fucking beautiful, with her eyes bright under the lights and hair lifted up by the night game's breeze. For once, I hadn't even noticed what she wore because my eyes stayed glued to her face and searched for any sign that hinted how she was feeling.

"Why doesn't she love me back?" my obvious voice rasped out pathetically through the stadium speakers, followed by smatters of laughter.

Oh fuck.

Even among USC's fans, chuckles rippled through the stadium like airwave static. I closed my eyes and cupped my forehead with my palms at the anger that rose up and simmered inside me. My spine trembled, shoulders hunched up to my ears, and I wanted to rip my hair out.

The worst part was Harper stood two yards from me, frozen completely still as her eyes burned with an unrecognizable emotion and lips pressed together tightly. My eyebrows squeezed together because she didn't seem as shocked or surprised as someone who'd never seen it before.

The fuck did Burke mean, practically thanking her?

My heart swelled when a show of support came in the form of a ninety-eight year old man who we were supposed to honor today. His simple message, in the form of USC's rallying cry, carried the unspoken message not to give up, to look bullies straight in the face, and not let them beat you down.

And shoot them a middle finger... figuratively, since we're on TV right now.

Normally I took whatever result chance gave us but, fuck, I was glad we received the ball first. After we won the coin toss, Ethan's smug face stepped in between my view of Harper and Earl.

"Good luck, Harrison," he pressed in a tight voice, then curled the corner of his lip up in a sneer. "You'll need it."

I squeezed his outstretched hand as tightly as my hand clenched down, leaned forwards, and growled in his ear, "I know you were behind this."

"You haven't seen shit yet," he squeezed my hand tighter, then pulled back and shot Harper a wink. "She's something, Jake. A real firecracker."

Both my fists clenched tight and only the sight of an honorable, elderly man prevented me from smashing both of them in Ethan's face before he stepped away. Blood surged through my veins and my right index finger's knuckle cracked from how tightly I squeezed it.

Fuck, I really want to punch that asshole.

Don't do it, Jake.

With my usual pregame prep block and the video prank at my expense, I hadn't gotten a real, long look at Harper. But once Ethan stepped away, her sky-blue eyes were focused right on mine and my gut clenched at the sight of them. A rush of emotions surged against the wall of restraint I used to shut out every outside distraction and my brain argued with itself.

Don't do that either, Jake. She'll fucking ruin you.

She already fucking has.

My heart pounded hard because, fuck, I couldn't have blocked this distraction if my life depended on it. Two weeks of nothing and my reaction was still how fucking beautiful she was, even in a simple white shirt and jeans. The ends of her long blonde hair flipped up from the wind and her skin glowed lighter from the white stadium lights overhead. My eyes dropped down when her lips twitched and rounded into a soundless, single-worded apology.

Sorry? She should be sorry.

And I should be mad at her. Or surprised she's even acknowledging my existence.

Unlike Ellie, whose apologies I knew exactly what they meant, Harper's 'sorry' was completely ambiguous. A slight shine came over her eyes, which illuminated the faint streaks of green embedded in my favorite shade of blue.

For that second, football was the last thing in my mind. Hundreds of Harper-related reactions rushed through my mind, which included my hands grabbed her and I smashed my mouth on hers in front of ninety-three thousand people and millions on TV.

But I first needed to know what the fuck that 'sorry' meant.

Is she sorry for ghosting me? Pushing me away for two fucking weeks?

Or is she sorry for what Ethan did?

And why the fuck wasn't she more surprised? Did she know about it, or is that tool still planning something else?

My jaw tightened as my thoughts generated a self-induced internal pressure and snapped my thoughts back to tonight's game. The muscles in my legs unlocked as I stepped towards Earl, who placed a shaky, wrinkled hand on my shoulder and patted it softly.

"Bastards," Earl spat out. "Beat their pathetic asses, Jake."

"I'll do my best," I promised in a tight, strained voice and stretched out my hand. "Thank you, Sir."

His fingers trembled against mine as he dropped his hand from my shoulder and squeezed mine gently. Warmth filled his gray eyes, creased with age and experience, and he shot me a crooked grin.

As much as I wanted to act on my earlier initial reactions to Harper, I had to push them down until after the game. My nose twitched slightly at the faint vanilla smell the wind carried over to me.

"Jake." Harper's hand clutched my elbow as I turned away. Her voice was quiet, meek, and almost unrecognizable as hers. "I -"

"Not now." I shook my head and clenched my teeth. If I needed any further motivation, Burke flashed me a smirk and trotted his sorry ass back to their side. "Take Mister Roberts to his seat?"

"Of course. Let's go, you old fart," she teased with an edge of her normal sarcasm slipped back in her voice. She closed one of her eyes in a wink at me and looped her elbow inside his. "Before you die on the field and they churn you up into fertilizer."

"Arm in arm with a beautiful angel? Worse places to go out," he tossed back with a laugh. A huge grin split my face when he raised his other hand and hollered out weakly, "Fight on!"

"Fuck..." Evan's elbow nudged me as we trotted back to our bench side, chins tucked down. "I want to be like that when I'm old."

"Goals." Griff laughed quietly from my other side, but it died quickly. "Jake, listen..."

Their subsequent conversation went in one of my ears and out the other because my eyes tracked Harper and Earl's exit on the field, even as we passed them. They stopped for a moment at the thirty yard line, where a game photographer knelt down in front of them and snapped a picture. My chest warmed when Harper handed over her phone and asked if he could take another one.

My anger at Burke, who shot me another smirk from where he stood on their side of the field, simmered long enough until I reached our sidelines. Electricity surged through my veins, charged by the mental image that he drowned in his own tears after the game and his last season ended. I squeezed the leather in my gloves so tight that it groaned quietly.

The Trojan's sidelines parted for me to take my position near Coach Campbell, who shot me a conflicted, tight-lipped look as I slipped on my head. Instead, I stood at his side, my hands clenched into tight fists, squeezed my eyebrows together, narrowed my eyes into thin slits, and paced. The more my feet stomped a back and forth path parallel to the field, the more I felt the weight of the stadium's eyes on me.

"What the fuck pregame show was that shit!?" Coach Campbell palmed my pacing and glared at me.

"I... need a moment," I shouted into his ear, then walked off the field while each side's special teams lined up for the opening kickoff.

My cleats clicked as I stomped into the cement tunnel and my breath hitched harder with each step. One of my hands palmed the cool wall for a quick breather. I wanted the eyes, the weighted expectations, the judgment, off me until I composed myself. My hand slid down, over the bumps and crevices in the cement, smoothed over with paint. Rougher concrete hit my right knee as I knelt down in the concourse and gripped my hair with both hands.

Strong, fast beats of my heart pounded in my chest, my breath wheezed out in short, sharp pants, and I squeezed my eyes so tightly shut that my eyebrows pinched down into my cheeks.

A sharp ring pierced through the throbs in my ears. I wanted to rip something apart, run off the field, smash my fists through the nearby wall at my back, tear every locker door open, all because -

Stop thinking about Harper!

Fuck, why didn't she look surprised? Doesn't seem like her but was she behind this?

Stomped footsteps approached me and by the horribly tacky white New Balance tennis shoes that appeared in front of my downed knee, he needed to be on the field right now.

From where he stood over me, Coach Campbell cast his eyes down and roared out, "Harrison! Why the fuck did you walk off? Get your ass out there now!"

I hung my head low, rose up as he yanked on my jersey, and returned in what felt like a walk of shame. He stopped at the tunnel's entrance, where the crowd noise grew and swelled around us but I blocked out the comments thrown in our immediate vicinity.

"Jake, the personal drama." One of Coach's hands held his game tablet on his hip while the other pinched the bridge of his nose. "How many times have I told you to silence that shit?"

"I know," I mumbled as heat stained my cheeks. "I didn't do it, I swear, Coach."

"No shit. Give me some credit, I can sense a UCLA prank a mile away," he deadpanned and shifted his eyes to the opening kickoff. "You motivated it somehow but it's too late for your intentions. I warned you to lock your personal shit down, Harrison. And if anyone asks why we're here, you needed an equipment adjustment before the game."

Coach was right, and not just on the fact I had needed my brain reset, but I hadn't leaked anything. Fuck, I hadn't even taken that video, although every guy who lived in the same house probably had a copy by now.

So, who the fuck spread it outside the team?

While I had my definite suspicions, like Harper, they had to wait until after the game ended.

"Jake, however the fuck it happened..." Coach's hand slapped down onto my right shoulder, my throwing arm side. In a tight voice, he handed me my helmet and only offered one piece of advice. "Use it."

He's right. Burke has no idea the gift he just gave me.

The tightness in my fists was only slightly dulled by my strapped-on leather gloves. Loud roars of the crowd became muffled when I lifted my helmet overhead and strapped it into place. The black night sky backdrop behind the bright overhead lights blurred out of my consciousness as I focused on what laid in front of me.

The fucking point that I have to prove.

I'd never felt so... blood-thirsty in a football game as I did when I first took the field against UCLA.

Red flashed over my eyes, my blood surged hot through my veins, and my teeth bit down hard into my mouthguard. With my chin lifted high and shoulders stacked, I trotted onto the field after the opening kickoff had started us off on our twenty-yard line.

The soft turf depressed and molded around my cleats with each step. My breath and heart rate both steadied and my body relaxed out the tension. All of the game noises blurred into unimportance as my focus zeroed in on the field matchups all that film study had ingrained in my brain.

With no huddle, I flashed the hand signal and screamed out the slant route for Evan, "Red-ninety-three! Red ninety-three! Get set!"

My center Grant crouched down, his large hand curled around one top of the ball. After one more scan, I barked out, "Hut hut hut, hike!"

In a snap of his dropped down wrist, Grant flicked the ball into my hands with perfect precision. The leather gripped into my gloves and my feet motioned back one, two, three steps before I planted them firmly.

Tunnel vision swept over my mind as the field narrowed into the X's and O's we studied over and over and the expected matchups unfolded, turf-level and right before my eyes. The muscles in my thighs, quads, and calves fired up as I looked to the left side of the field, where Zach and Griff were tangled up with their defenders.

A grunt passed through my mouth as I drew my right arm back with the ball, then heaved it forwards without a look at the right side of the field. The defense shifted a step where I'd looked left, which gave Evan all the time he needed and snatched the ball up in the air with a loud smack of impact.

"Fuck yeah," I grunted under the cheers that rained down as Evan ran for ten, twenty, thirty-two yards before he got shoved out of bounds.

With one look I shot him as we reassembled on the line of scrimmage, we silently agreed we were both for the next challenge. One quick snap and drop back later, his feet made the post-reception yards look easy, to the roaring approval of the home crowd.

With my arms fanned out, I spread the offense out without a huddle. UCLA had a new defensive coordinator, a guy who wanted to make a statement this season. The Bruins were vastly improved under him, with a more aggressive and, almost violent, attack-first defensive core.

Their eager feet also made them susceptible to the fact that two of my receivers capably ran forty yards, ten yards short of half the field, in under five seconds.

And it was my job to get them open.

Almost two full weeks of planning and practice paid off. We moved the ball fluidly, pass for pass, as I spread out the Bruins' defense and tested their patience. Every time they anticipated another pass, I handed the ball to Jackson and watched as he smashed his way forwards through the holes our offensive linemen opened up.

Pushed back on their heels, UCLA's corners and safeties dug in but my go-to guys were faster. Within the first six minutes of the game, we trotted off, up 7-0 on a rushed touchdown from Jackson that left me with a bruised shoulder when one of the defensive lineman's helmets smashed into my block.

Points are points, as long as we get more of them.

My head stayed down for most of the first half and, with the score 14-3, we switched sides. Only then did I raise my eyes up towards my seats. For the first time tonight, I took in the sight of where Mom sat, with an empty seat between her and Delilah.

She's not here.

The thought closed my eyes for a moment. When I opened them, Earl's bald head nodded from his seat and he shot me a thumbs up. Instead of the usual middle finger salute I got after touchdowns, Mom just beamed at me and cheered loudly.

Harper's absence bothered me more than I wanted to admit, or more accurately what I could admit at this point, so I buried that shit down and added it as fuel to my second-quarter fire.

At this point, it's all I have.