Football was ingrained into the University of Southern California as much as academic learning. Traditions, superstitions, and rituals traced back decades, longer than I'd been alive. While I projected the expected cocky, confident quarterback and leader persona, internally I felt blessed, even humbled, with my temporary place in the Trojans' football history.

USC's home games started days before Saturday. The team's Fridays before game days were pretty chill in comparison to some fan rituals like the rallies on campus near the iconic Tommy Trojan statue. I had no idea where some of the traditions came from, like 'kicking the pole,' or one of the three flag poles outside Exposition Boulevard leaving campus towards the Coliseum for the clanking sound effects that erupted just as much as stubbed toes.

Our pregame routine was much more low-key, a light practice, team dinner, and our house movie night. Each game day, unlike most home teams who showed up individually and met in the locker room, our home game approaches were more like away games. Instilled since Head Coach Pete Carroll's dynasty days, once the entire team assembled outside of various hotels in downtown Los Angeles, we boarded chartered buses and arrived collectively at the Coliseum together for the 'Trojan Walk.'

Face-to-face, once we arrived from today's location of the Radisson Midtown, the whole team passed through the parking lot crowd of early arrival spectators. From kids to students to lifetime fans, everyone got arm's-distance access to the players for a fist bump or high five on our way under the Olympic torch, across the field, down a set of red painted stairs, through the club suites, and backwards into the tunnel towards the locker room.

Like every time I stepped onto the Colosseum's turf, even before the pregame warmups, a rush of indescribable feelings surged through me. Behind my cocky expectations that we dominated Stanford on both sides of the ball today, a thrill of anticipation mixed with the awe and humility from how I played my favorite childhood game for my dream team, like thousands of kids only dreamed of.

Just like the tradition that no player's name was put on their jersey, only their number, I knew my USC experience here ended at some point. So I made damn sure that I made the most out of every experience and left my mark to the best of my abilities and maximum efforts.

Before every home game started, I took one moment and disconnected myself from my job on the field and savored the moment. The reality that I attended my university of choice, on an athletic scholarship, and played on the same team I dreamed about since I was seven years old was both a blessing and huge responsibility, both of which I welcomed and took more seriously than any other aspect of my life.

From the midday sun that warmed the top of my dark-haired head, the warm early fall breeze that flowed over my neck and cheeks, the constrictions from my uniform, the warmth in my back, shoulder, and arm muscles, the dull hum of pregame conversations, faint smell of concession stand foods, the rough leather of the ball over the pads of my fingers, I took in the environment that surrounded me.

In my own weird tradition, I put on my helmet only right before we took the field for the game start. During a few pregame warmup tosses to Griff, Evan, and Zach, I paused and took a visual tour of the sea of red seats to the second row, middle aisle pair within Section 121B, near the forty-five yard line and behind USC's bench.

Every cell in my body was beyond grateful that my parents had occupied both those seats during every home game, even the first two years when all they watched was I rode the bench as the backup. The distance and long miles on both their cars and bodies went beyond any words of appreciation that I knew of.

Twenty minutes before the teams took the field for warmups, Mom always sat in seat 13 on the left and Dad in 14 on the right, which sat empty every home game after he passed away. Dad had been my biggest supporter, taught me the first catches of the pigskin, and Mom draped his number 7 jersey over the back of the seat as a somber reminder.

A tightening sensation pulled in my chest when I saw that both seats now sat empty. For one thought, my mind clicked back to Zach's words about important people being worth the effort.

One slight upwards glance showed a stream of Section 121B fans waited patiently halfway up the access stairs, behind an older man that I recognized immediately as Earl Roberts. Earl was a ninety-two year old man who sat in the first row, right in front of my parents. His weathered expressions, giant lensed sunglasses that almost wrapped from his nose to his ears, and unwavered support made him a near USC icon. Earl also hadn't missed a USC game since he'd gotten the season tickets in the 1980's and knew more about USC football than I did, even if he took almost twenty minutes to climb down to his seat.

A flash of long, straight blonde hair on Earl's right arm drew up the corners of my mouth. Dressed in a pink short-sleeved shirt, black shorts, and white canvas shoes, Harper herself escorted Earl down the steps. I fully understood the gigantic, beaming smile that wrinkled Earl's face and, before my brain registered my movements, I stepped towards Section 121B and climbed onto the cement barrier wall.

My eyes tracked Harper's movements as she moved slowly down the stairs, one calculated step at a time. Her breasts jiggled slightly like she moved in one of my wet dreams, but a deeper feeling took root inside me, especially when she tipped her head back in laughter when Earl leaned over and spoke into her ear.

The skin over my knuckles strained as I gripped the railings tightly. Her sky blue eyes were lowered down to each step she helped Early down the last step to his seat and widened when they lifted up to mine.

"Didn't know Earl was your date," I teased her.

"In his dreams," Harper chirped back, but reached her hand off Earl's elbow and patted his shoulder. She even leaned over and kissed his cheek, but kept her eyes focused right on me when she added, "I'll take experience over asshole anyday."

"If only I was twenty years younger and my hands didn't shake," Earl joked but his mouth creased with smile lines. "Thank you for the escort, Angel."

She winked at him and her response sounded coy but still looked straight at me, "Anything for a gentleman, tell this meathead that Earl."

"Jacob Harrison," Earl huffed out as Harper directed him to his seat, where he sat down, clenched his hands around the head of his cane, and grinned up at me.

"Sir." I reached over the railing and shook his weathered hand, which trembled in my grasp so I squeezed it firmly.

"Nice start," he shot right back, withdrew his hand, and wagged his index finger at me. "Better run that spread offense well today. Even for some damn Christmas trees, Stanford is no Colorado."

"No, Sir." I chuckled quietly then stepped sideways a few steps as Harper retreated back to the center aisle. Right before she turned her back to me, I called out, "Didn't know you had such kindness in you."

"Maybe you don't know me as well as you think you do," she called over her shoulder but the smirk that followed stretched a grin across my face. "Old people are adorable, Jake. They don't give a fuck anymore."

She's not wrong, I guess.

Before I questioned Harper's logic, she turned and pointed at a short, Asian girl who stepped into the second row and stood next to her. "This is my roommate and your biggest fan, Li."

Li's lips parted and an unrecognizable, whisper-level sound escaped her mouth. I leaned forwards and strained my ears against the pregame noises arounds us. A frown tensed my forehead since she almost sounded like she said, "Ohmyohmyohmyohmyohmyohmy," on repeat.

"Hi." Since they stood out of my arm's reach, I just offered a small wave.

The girl shrunk into Harper's side and her pale face turned as white as my new, stupid bed comforter and sheets I still hadn't replaced yet. A tiny, "H-hi," squeaked out from Harper's armpit, followed by a quietly mumbled, "Shit, he's bigger in person."

In person?

Of course, Harper capitalized on her friend's choice of words and smirked at me with, "Don't worry, he's not that big."

"Nice to meet you. Anyone who can live with Harper must have endless amounts of patience." I smiled at Li, rolled my eyes at Harper, and got back to my warmups.

By the time I leapt down to the turf level and processed whatever that exchange meant, Harper stood over my parents' seats. She paused, her eyes glued on mine, and shifted her index finger between them as to which seat she should sit in.

Before I realized my arm had moved, I pointed to the one on the right and she sat down in Dad's seat. My spine stiffened for a moment but when Li sat down in Mom's seat, smiled brightly at Harper, and chatted comfortably with her, I realized I wasn't bothered at all by that seating arrangement.

When I met back up with my usual warm up group, Griff and Evan both threw me wary glances from twenty yards away. Zach elbowed me and grinned like he held insider information on me. "Her, huh?"

I just shook my head but definitely noticed a lighter sensation in my chest than the usual emptiness that sat in my chest just like Dad's seat.

I'm... glad she's here.

At my brown wood locker inside our white-walled and dark gray-floored locker room, guys went through their pregame routines as usual. I ate a small pregame snack of a protein bar, handful of bland, cooked chicken, and a banana, then heartily ignored Evan's bragging about his late Friday night experiences.

No doubt amped up by our 1-0 start, even through the cement walls of the locker room, we heard how loudly the USC fans roared through the pregame rituals that flashed up on the locker room's sole television screen. The crowd roared louder when the band's leader marched alone onto the field, stabbed his sword down, then the rest of the band joined him. One of the last images I saw was one of college football's most famous mascots, Traveler the white horse, ran across the screen as he was ridden by a Trojan warrior onto the field.

Once all our uniforms were on, I took a backseat on the pregame amp-up speech to Jackson, who more than happily pumped up the entire room with his shouted taunts of 'bring it!' My thoughts went inward as I repeated the planned set of plays for each defensive setup we'd gone over in film study and practice this week.

After the team prayer, staccato cleats clicked in unison behind me as Coach Campbell and I led the army of white jerseys and gold pants toward our stadium, our fans, our house. We stopped at the black curtain drawn down over the tunnel's entrance, where Coach Campbell casually bumped my shoulder in a signal for my helmet placement. I grinned at him then slipped it on and adjusted my chin strap in place.

Ruckus echoes bounced off the walls as Jackson led us through the usual 'Fight on' chant. My hands strained my gloves as I tightened my fists and, once the curtain parted open, the late afternoon sun filtered through with the deafening cheers of ninety-three thousand strong.

Through the muffled sounds of the band's school song, my feet pushed into a trot through a fog of yellow and red smoke. Led by the cheer squad's flag holders, we were welcomed out like fucking kings.

Now we need to earn it.

My heart pounded harder in my chest through the rest of the pregame activities, which included our winning the coin toss again. A restless sensation ran through my legs and feet, so I paced and shifted my weight as my quarterback Coach McGuire, fed into his mic from Offensive Coordinator Coach Colbert from his seat up in the coaches and press box, ran me through the first offensive play plans. Since I'd already memorized the plays from practice, I nodded and focused my eyes on the opening kickoff, which Jackson fielded for a decent return and we started on our thirty-two yard line.

Yard by yard, as we pushed forwards offensive, the crowd roared until it resembled a concert-level decibel. Eleven no-huddle offensive plays, six runs and seven short-yardage plays, and six minutes of game time chewed up later, we bore down on Stanford's twenty-eight yard line. I stacked Griff and Evan on the right but slotted Zach as an extra receiver on the left, fanned out my receivers wide, which stretched the defense in response.

"Fuck," Zach gasped out for a few breaths, his palms braced over his knees.

I glared at him from within our first, and unusual for us, huddle. "Need a break? I can get a backup -"

"Fuck no." His helmet shook a few times and he pressed himself upright. "Just, gimme a second."

"There's your second." I spread my hands for a clap and paused. "Fight on."

"Fight on," the huddle echoed with a synchronized clap

Under my direction, we spread out on the line of scrimmage, where I set up an option play. Once the leather hit my hands, I whipped a short pass to Jackson, who cut a short inside wheel route around the left defensive guard that charged at me for a blitz. Even though the ball left my hands a second before the likely three-hundred pound defender reached me, he palmed two large hands into my chest, which exploded on contact and I was flung back.

The view of the field and stadium flipped around me until I looked up to the late afternoon sky, which showed the first appearances of a few faded out white stars and an equally dim moon. A loud grunt left my mouth as my head slammed back into the turf, then another when the defender's heavy frame landed right on my stomach.

"Fuck off," I growled, rolled over, and shoved him off me.

"Stay down, bitch," he responded and dug his elbow into my ribs in a cheap shot as he pushed himself off me.

My helmet cage smashed against his as I stepped flush in retaliation. "Next time I'll be in the endzone while you stand by and watch," I promised him.

Before he responded, shrill whistles and a pair of hands separated us, followed by a much-appreciated yellow fabric tossed in our direction from the back referee.

"Personal foul," the head referee announced, flashed the penalty gesture for roughing, then stuck his hand towards the endzone we marched towards. "Defense, roughing the passer. Five-yard penalty added onto the end of the play, resulting in automatic first down."

I smirked at all of what the defender's hotheadedness earned him, another five yards in the hole and us closer to scoring. He cursed at me but his coaches pulled him off the field for the next play and slotted in a replacement.

"You ready?" Evan looked down at the hand I clutched around my stomach once we huddled up at the seventeen yard line.

"To score first?" I glowered around the ring of red faces that circled around my knelt position. "Fuck yeah I am. Oh-seventy-eight for Evan's proof. Grant, need your best blocks."

"Consider it done," number seventy-six nodded.

"Let's punch it through." I stood up and spread the guys out in a faked pass place, with Jackson my running back next to me in shotgun. "Hut hut hut, hike!"

As soon as Grant's hands thrust the ball backwards, I snatched it up and pushed my feet forwards. Jackson's flashed speed got him a step up on me as expected and he smashed his shoulder enough into the gut of the right defensive guard that he stalled and a hole opened up on the line of scrimmage.

The muscle fibers in my quads, hamstrings, and calves twitched and fired as I surged forwards, clenched the ball tightly into my elbow, and lowered my shoulders. The dropped back linebacker charged at me and I grunted on impact as his arms wrapped around my stomach, but forward momentum and my larger frame dragged both of us two further steps forwards, where we fell down into the endzone.

The weight of heavy bodies, grunts, and swear words piled on us and I hugged the ball tighter into my stomach at the hands that clawed for it. After a few whistles, the weight and pressure that smashed me down into the turf were slowly lifted until I sucked in a deep breath of fresh air, dropped the ball, and stood up for our celebration.

Like every time I scored after Dad passed away, my index and middle fingers lifted upwards in two "V" shapes. While I smacked helmets with Grant and Jackson for the blocks, the stadium erupted around us. The band broke into 'Tribute to Troy' while fans waved their own V-hand signs, the Yell Leaders pressed out six pushups on the sidelines, and my efforts earned me a stiff nod from the coaching staff.

"That's it," Coach McGuire pounded one of his palms into my back when I joined him on the sidelines.

I gripped the water bottle he extended to me and, by the time I splashed a few cold drops onto my tongue, my eyes lifted upwards to Section 121B's fans...

...and met one blatantly raised middle finger.

My choked cough turned into a bark of laughter and I nearly swallowed my water into my lungs. With a slight head shake, I turned back to the field with a grin on my face.

Only Harper.

"Someone please tell Jake being up four scores is enough," Jackson complained in a tone that implied he wanted us - technically, him - to conservatively run out the clock.

I glowered at him because the decision wasn't his and circled one hand around the packed stadium air. "Do you think they're happy if we just rest on our heels for the last twelve minutes?"

His grumbled reply hit my deaf ear and I called out the next deep passing play, which now went to Evan since he actually complained the least when I ran the hurry-up offense.

"Drive," I grumbled out the next play option. "Hit your marks, Zach you line up right next to Griff."

"Not this," was a few groaned responses from my whiney receiver core, which only earned them two pointed index fingers for their positions.

A drive route started with a shallow post route, with the hopes one of them broke through their defensive coverage. It put the pressure on the receiver's natural running abilities to outmaneuver their closest defender, which my guys had in spades. They were also the first who celebrated when we connected, so I ignored their egos and stepped into my position behind Grant in shotgun.

"Blue ninety-two! Blue-ninety-two!" With Evan on my left next to Calvin Holby, a second-year receiver lined up as a decoy, and Griff next to Zach as an extra receiver on my right, I called out the drive route play. After a scan that our formation was set, my head snapped down between Grant's legs for the incoming snap. "Hike!"

Once my hands clutched around the football and our offensive line surged forwards, my feet moved back, two, three, five steps from my shotgun position. My eyes scanned my offensive options as I waited painfully for two lifelong seconds as my four receivers pressed into their designated routes. Calvin, my left decoy, drew his cornerback defender as intended, Evan ran straight into a linebacker's stonewalled coverage, Griff hit his internal slant route but the inside linebacker was on him like a second uniform, which left...

Only one option.

Zach burst through the line of scrimmage like his life depended on it, a flash of his white jersey zipped past the first blocks, then stutter-stepped right around the cornerback like a dance-off. My legs tensed as I planted my feet, reared my arm back, and flung the ball high, long, and hard.

Zach's feet churned up the field, closed the gap of the ball's trajectory, and roars erupted from the USC fans when he snapped it up. Tucked against his side, he ran ten yards, eight yards, right into the endzone.

All four of my index and middle fingers lifted skyward in another double-V shapes before I slapped helmets with Grant, who lifted me off the ground and roared, "Fuck yeah!" in my ear. The stadium's cheers roared around me but once my feet hit the turf again, my eyes zeroed into midfield, second row, where a certain blonde sat in Dad's seat and flashed me yet another subtle middle finger and smirk for extra insult. For payback, I pointed one of my fingers straight at her before I realized my arm had moved. The gesture earned me a tipped back head and laugh I wished I could've heard as I trotted to the sidelines.

"Bro..." Griff slapped one of his palms right into the center of my chest while we sat on the bench, up 38-10 near the end of the fourth quarter. "You're doing it again."

"What," I snapped more angrily than I was comfortable with.

"You're on fire tonight, that's all," Evan chirped up, although with one touchdown catch for him and two for Griff, neither had any room to complain. His eyes shifted slightly over his shoulder, to the seats behind us, and a smirk pulled across his mouth. "The sense of urgency bro... It's a bit much, even for you."

The fuck does that mean?

"I don't think that's pent up rage in his eyes," Griff remarked as his stupid face came closed to mine and his eyes narrowed as he inspected mine. Once I palmed his face with my most likely smelly glove and shoved him away, he leaned back, and rested his elbows on the metal bench behind us. His brown hair was wet with perspiration and plastered flat against his forehead and small swirls of steam lifted off his head in faintly white, smokey swirls.

"Nah, me neither," Evan spoke like I wasn't sitting right in between these two idiots. "I think he's showing off... maybe for that smokin' hot blonde sitting in his seats tonight. Fuck, I'd take her friend too if I wasn't afraid of breaking her tiny ass in half."

"Evan," I shot him a warning look. "Fuck off. Respect the off-limits rules."

I wasn't wrong, one of the team's personal code of conduct rules, inflicted on them from me, was that guys didn't hit on anyone who sat someone else's designated seats. Since a few of the guys had attractive younger sisters, the rule was just better for minimizing the strain on everyone's relationships.

A quick glance behind me showed that Harper spoke to the small, Asian girl she'd brought with her, who'd looked at me for most of the game with stars in her eyes. Harper though, flashed me another not-at-all-subtle middle finger, as she'd done every time I'd looked in her direction today.

"Very impressive tonight, Jacob..." a microphone was thrust in my face during post-game interviews. The female voice behind the bright camera lights sounded familiar, so I shaded my eyes with one hand and clutched my helmet cage tightly in the other. "Any comments?"

"Whole team pulled together," I replied tightly and inwardly groaned at the reporter. While her shoulder-length blonde hair, blue eyes, and tight body attracted any guys' eyes in the locker room, once I recognized Rachel Sorenson, reporter and overall ratings-bitch from ESPN, I clamped my mouth shut and turned away.

"Any comments on who you pointed at during the fourth quarter?"

"Earl Roberts, lifelong fan," I replied dryly to my locker. "You should interview him."

"We have," she deadpanned quietly. "Twice."

"I'm sure he has more stories," I shook my head, unclipped my pads, and peeled them off like she wasn't standing here and I wasn't ignoring her.

After Rachel had drawn unnecessary attention towards my sister Ellie's court case against Ryder, which included blowing Ellie's anonymity as a witness, I'd refused any and all interview requests whenever I saw her.

Least I can do.

"But I'd like -" Like in training camp, Rachel pushed with a whine of insistence in her voice.

My chest heaved with a sigh and I closed my eyes for one breath. With a slight twist in my torso, I leaned over, directed her microphone closer to my mouth, and answered, "No comment."

Rachel snapped her fingers at the cameraman, threw me a heated glare, and muttered a "Fuck you," so quietly only I heard her.

You wish, sweetheart.

Her insult, the same two words Harper had texted to me more times than I counted in the past two weeks, prompted the grin to return to my face.

The first time Harper flipped me off today surprised me but I'd still laughed. Since I kept my fingers pointed upwards on each score, in remembrance of Dad, the fact she'd repeated her gesture after every time we scored actually hadn't bothered me at all. Her silent challenge only pushed me further so that, once this game ended, my real celebration started.

And, with no doubt in my mind, there was only one person I celebrated with tonight.