UW largely had the same core team as the one we'd beaten in last year's PAC-12 conference, which included their starters. With another year of experience, they'd looked even more impressive in their own 4-0 start this season. My personal record against the Huskies pre-Hightower was 2-0, but 1-1 after he'd taken over the offense. In high school, we were 1-1 in the state conference finals and even 2-2-1 in the regular season games.

Definitely time to settle that tied score.

Offensively, UW ran a west-coast offense, led by Hightower and involved a pass-first approach. A lot of his plays involved blind passes, which were a lot harder to defend against because his eyes looked away from his intended targets. It also required a smart, accurate, and mobile quarterback.

UW's version used two running backs in the backfield, usually split on either side of Hightower, who picked up extra blocks and bought him more time. He split three receivers across the line with a tight end, usually stacked up right near his linemen. Their version differed in that they relied less on short, horizontal routes across the field and deeper routes that matched their receiver's speeds, but still required the same rhythm, timing, and ball protection.

The West Coast offense was just as a mindfuck as it was physically grueling on a quarterback. Each play designated a certain number of dropped back steps, so the quarterback understood the timing and where to slot the passes. While I never gave Hightower credit, he'd been one of the few high school quarterbacks who played like he saw the field two-to-four steps ahead of all the other twenty-one players on the field.

At a higher level of play, our defense had put in extra hours this week, where they ran man of man coverage, while offensively my team matched up well against the Huskies' zone defense. Like every week, we'd tweaked the receivers' routes, they whined in response. This time their routes were slotted between the linebackers' and corners' zones.

All week Drake had muttered with a quiet determination about how important this game was to him. He still hadn't gotten over the missed field goal he'd kicked at Huskies Stadium last year that ended up being a difference-maker in terms of the final scores. I'd assured him over and over that he'd redeemed himself in the PAC-12 championship game, then the Rose Bowl, that followed but he gave me a look like he was completely unconvinced.

Drake, like most of our team, was as equally as seasoned. Only Adonis Grant, my center, was a third year. My spread offense started quicker since we skipped most of the huddles. Our run-first, short yard pass pickups were a lot less flashier than Hightower's bag of tricks but we ran them efficiently and successfully.

My mind was unusually distracted during the warmups. Like usually, I mentally matched up our offensive players against the Huskies' defenders. But when I looked over at the Huskies' number ten's warmup, Logan's stupid facial reactions from dinner resurfaced in my mind. Each time, he silently but clearly showed his opinion on my and Harper's relationship.

Do I like what we have? Fuck yes.

Do I want more? Maybe, but -

"Harrison!" Evan zinged a ball right into the center of my chest. I grunted at the contact but snapped my fingers around the ball before it fell past my torso.

"Head in the game," Griff chirped out next to me. "Big night tonight, smile for all the cameras."

"Don't need the reminder," I huffed quietly but my eyes lifted straight up to my two seats, where Harper and Ellie sat.

At first glance, both reclined back in their seats with casual smiles and traded conversations that led to one or both of them laughing every few moments. But even from thirty yards away, I sensed the strain in Ellie's eyes because it sat there from the second after Harper opened up her mouth and blurted out the truth.

At In-N-Out, I felt Harper's tension without touching her but her thigh quivered underneath my palm. Mom's disappointment in me carried its own weight but I knew that, even from a distance, Ellie's opinion was potentially crushing to Harper.

Even if she never expresses how important Ellie is to her, anyone can see that.

While I probably sounded like an ass, I knew deep down Ellie's empathetic heart sided with blood. Insensitive, yes, but I knew if she'd forgiven me once for doing worse shit with Harper behind her back, then she wouldn't have completely severed ties with me just because she knew about it this time around.

Knowing Ellie like I did, she absorbed the information and mentally chewed on it for more time than humanly possible. Afterwards, her real opinions came out when they were ready. Her smile was bittersweet because even though we called and stayed connected regularly, there was no substitute for seeing each other in person.

Even if she's wearing a Huskies number ten and sitting in Mom's seat.

Ten minutes into warmups, I nearly fell over on the field. I couldn't have been more surprised, no absolutely shocked, when I saw Harper sat sandwiched between Ellie... and Mom.

How the hell did she get here!?

While I'd stood with my jaw practically dropped onto the turf, Mom just grinned and wiggled her fingers at me. The sparkle in Harper's eyes, combined with the easygoing way she greeted Mom with a casual hug then scratched her temple with her middle finger at me, showed she wasn't at all surprised that the woman who said last week she wouldn't be here actually showed up.

She didn't... she did.

With the pregame pressure that mounted in my brain, I packed down my emotions and snapped my mouth shut. Still, I couldn't have suppressed the grin that creased my face no matter how hard I tried.

Damn, I'm lucky.

"...Fuck," Evan cursed next to me as we stepped onto the field for the coin toss. "I swear that fucker Hightower got even bigger this year. I forget until he's up close."

"You know I'm only one inch shorter," I snapped over my shoulder. "And watch it, he's..."

My voice faded off because 'sister's boyfriend' seemed like the world's lamest label. So I just coughed and cleared my suddenly dry throat. "A big rival threat."

"Thanks for the confidence, Jake." Griff's mouth tensed as he took long steps forward. "But he was your high school rival?"

"We did beat them." I rolled my eyes as his usual lack of a supportive comment and waved a hand up to the concert-level of excitement that surrounded us. "And this is our house."

The Trojans' marketing department pushed a promotion night where they requested that fans showed their strongest team spirit. They responded, per usual, by more than just wearing the same red and maroon jerseys that we did. With a quick glance around, I saw a lot of signs that insulted Hightower, most likely bedsheet togas, guys half-naked with their stomachs painted, and a flurried red blizzard from the red plastic pom-poms that were handed out to every fan when they entered the Coliseum.

My words were true about Hightower; he'd never won a game here in person. He'd also technically never played here, since the last two games against the Huskies had been up in Seattle. Technicalities aside, I wasn't about to let him start a mini-win streak that he bragged about every time we saw each other...

Even when we're old, when we reminisce in recliners with beer bellies and blown out knees, he'd still mention it.

"Right." Evan chuckled quietly and lifted his eyes up to my seats, where I assumed he focused on Ellie. With a hand palmed over his red jersey number, he smirked at me. "Your sister needs a new jersey, Jake. She'd look good in a USC number twelve."

"There's already enough of those." I shook my head but snapped my attention to the three purple Husky jerseys that waited for us in the middle of the field, right at the edge of the USC logo.

"Harrison." Logan nodded at me, then leaned forwards and slapped a bro hug on me. Basically, we bumped chests, slapped each other hard on the upper back, and ensured that no other part of our bodies except our chests touched.

"Hey, bro." I pulled back, nodded tightly, and shook his hand. "Good luck eating our turf."

His large frame froze for a moment before a huge grin broke out on his face. In the cockiest voice, he replied, "Just sit back and watch, might learn something Jake."

While Griff and Evan both glanced at me out of the corners of their eyes, I just tipped my head back and laughed. After we lost the coin toss and Hightower elected they received the ball, Drake pinned the Huskies down on their eight-yard line with a bomb of an opening kickoff.

Instead of the frenzied ninety-three thousand fans who roared so loudly I barely heard my own thoughts, Hightower trotted out to the field as casually as if he was on an empty practice field. With a few hand signals, he set his receivers, then flexed his skillset with a thirty-five yard pass to his favorite target, Wes Brown.

With screens, wheel routes, and options, in deep and shallow passes, Hightower moved the ball with ease. He almost abandoned their run game but, pass after pass, Logan threw the ball around our defenders like they were pylons. The Huskies ate up large chunks of yardage at a time and his calmness as he hit cleanly hit every target fluttered nerves inside my chest.

As the Huskies rolled over our field faster than its lawnmowers, the Coliseum's initial excitement subdued like air that leaked out of a pin-pricked hole in a tire. By the time Hightower stacked up his line eight yards from the end zone, a collective dread was silently shared through clasped hands held in breaths.

Fuck, he's on fire tonight.

After he easily connected on a short pass, I shot up onto my feet when I realized Hightower gestured for a two-point conversion instead of the usual extra point field goal. One step away from the field, I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. My hands wrenched my helmet and glove straps closed, then my fists tightened at the aggressive play-calling.

He's sending a message.

Hightower hammered home his point, personally, as he charged through the line of scrimmage and into the endzone for a 8-0 lead. Right before he slammed the ball down, he pounded it against his chest, then pointed one end at a familiar location. I didn't even turn around to know the fucker acknowledged my sister.

"Fuck," Griff cursed out in a low voice, then turned towards me with raised eyebrows. "He's better this year."

"Relax, Griff." With a slight shake of my head, I assured him, "We got this."

Griff just slipped his helmet into place, then patted his hand on my closet shoulder like he consoled me. I swatted away his hand but internally, a tiny thread of doubt weaved its way into the back of my mind. While on paper the same offensive guys had taken the field, within six minutes of the first quarter, they proved that they weren't the same team we'd beaten last year.

Here we go.

Nearly three hours later, Hightower's two-point conversion was the game changer. We left the field, our heads hung lower from a 36-35 loss. We'd fought hard, by far the hardest game all season, clicked on all offensive cylinders, and still fell short.

Our talented defensive team's confidence was rattled by the silently dropped heads in the locker room. A few angry outbursts intermixed with quietly muttered self-deprecations that bothered me a lot because I'd witnessed first-hand, up close and personal, how hard our defensive unit worked tonight.

And Hightower picked them apart like they played pee wee level, not the sixth ranked defense in the country.

My chin dipped down into my chest while the sound of my cleats clicks on the cement floor deafened my ears. A loss like this, such a close one too, left a bitter taste in my mouth and a sour attitude in my mind.

"Fuck!" With a grunt, I tossed my helmet forwards. With a loud bang, it smashed into my locker, dropped down, and landed on the bench. It spun a few times before it toppled over the edge.

My foot swung forward, cleared the helmet out of my way, and I threw myself down. I'd stormed in here past any and all interview requests and knew I was on borrowed time before the reporters stormed me down for my pathetic, "We played our game well, they played theirs, and tonight just wasn't our night" spiel.

"Harrison." Coach Campbell's white athletic shoes appeared beneath me, the only hint I needed that my presence was required in the media room.

For the next twenty minutes, I spewed out the same 'good sportsman bullshit' to every camera and microphone pointed at or shoved in my face. Thankfully, the reporters moved the focus of their questions from me onto Coach. He just clamped my shoulder with his palm as a sign he'd dismissed me.

Bright flashes blinded me and I blinked away the spots from my vision. I almost passed Hightower while I made my way out of the press room before I realized he stood in the hallway.

"Good game Jake," he uttered quietly. Just like he'd done on the sidelines after the game, he patted one hand on my upper back and gently bumped his chest against mine.

"You too." I gritted my teeth since the admission was painful, but I returned the hug and gave him credit where it was due, "Fucking clinic you put on tonight."

"Trying my best," he admitted quietly. I just nodded because I knew without any further explanation how all thirty-two NFL teams had their eyes on tonight's game. Thankfully, I'd avoided the pregame hype as usual but heard the chirped up soundbites from the locker room.

He's the one they're watching. For now.

"Aww, such a touching moment, boys." An annoyingly familiar female voice chirped out behind me, "How about a dual interview?"

I knew by the way Logan clenched his jaw tighter that Rachel Sorenson now stood behind me. After a few seconds of silence, a small hand pressed lightly onto my lower back. The contact stiffened my spine and I turned. 

With a slowly lifted arm movement, I attempted my best effort that avoided elbowing Rachel in the ribs but she stood so close that her breasts framed around my arm. I nudged her gently off me and stepped so far into the wall I probably looked like I held it up.

Hurt flashed through Rachel's grayish-blue eyes but she wet her lips with the tip of her tongue and tucked a strand of hair behind her ears. "It was ESPN College Day's Game of the Week. Quite the publicity we got for both USC and U-Dub tonight."

"Ask your questions in the press room," I reminded her that room was technically the only area she was allowed to be in. While press reporters were allowed post-game access to the players in both locker rooms, they were kicked out when Coach Campbell himself left for the press room. "What are you even doing out here?"

Her shoulders lifted under her black suit coat. "Bathroom break. So, how about that interview?"

"No comment, Rachel." Logan's voice sounded flat and completely devoid of any and all emotion.

Just what she deserves, as far as I'm concerned.

The bitch actually flexed her boldness when she pressed Logan, "Not even about Ellie?"

His eyes darkened and hands clenched into fists at his side but he maintained his neutral, "No comment."

"I see," she muttered quietly then lifted her hand and rested it on my forearm. "Jake?"

I turned my shoulders towards her and, by the way my nostrils twitched, I knew they flared out. As gently as possible, I grabbed her wrist with my other hand and lifted it off my forearm.

My voice however, was anything but gentle, "Don't touch me Rachel." With narrowed eyes, probably the worst possible words tumbled out of my mouth, "It's unprofessional and I doubt my girlfriend would like that."

Oh shit. I should've stopped at unprofessional.

Rachel couldn't have shown less of a reaction in the bored expression she shot me. "Don't try to convince me your 'relationship' -" her fingers hooked air quotes. "- with Miss Reynolds is anything but a PR cover up. Your... reputation says you're anything but tied down."

The longer I glared at Rachel, the less attractive she became. While nothing happened between us physically, at one point I'd been attracted to her. Her television-heavy makeup gave her complexion almost an orange tint, some of which rubbed onto the pink collar of her dress shirt, and her black mascara clumped some of her eyelashes together.

Internally, I questioned my sanity at how I'd ever possibly considered more than a professional relationship with this woman. She'd demonstrated her own selfish intentions were in how she put her stories before decent human treatment.

"Believe what you want, I don't give a fuck," I spat out and crossed my arms over my chest. Internally, my heartbeat raced faster at the idea Harper and I's relationship was already publicly known, not for my sake but Harper's. "Stay away from me, Harper, or anyone else in my family. My personal life is none of your business."

While I've told everyone who's close to me, I have no idea if her dad knows.

Since I haven't gotten any Dad threats yet, I'm going with no.

"I see... Jake," she replied in a serious enough voice that I believed her. If she needed any further convincing, I stared her down with as much invisible heat I burned through my eyes until she swallowed quietly. In a quiet and thankfully defeated voice, she told Logan, "Guess I'll see you back in the press room."

He nodded silently and stood next to me in a similar stance with his arms over his chest. We didn't speak, only watched as she retreated with soft clicks of her black heels with each retreated step she took.

Once she walked into the media room, Logan chuckled and spoke up first, "Not like I'm going to answer any of her questions. Nice move sticking up for your girlfriend though."

"I'll get shit for that later." I rubbed one hand over my forehead. "Sorry you're heading back so soon."

Unlike me, Hightower was dressed in his post-game suit. While I always wore black, he opted for a light gray with a white dress shirt and black tie. Up close, I saw just from the perspiration that colored his blonde hair darker at the edges that he sweated in the monkey suit just as much as I did.

"Storm's moved on," he replied and shifted his eyes towards the press room behind me. I glanced back and saw his Coach stood with an obvious hand wave gesture, so Logan just patted me in the center of the chest and stepped forwards.

"Take care," I called back quietly. "Hightower."

"Get your shit together, Harrison," was all he offered in response.

I assumed that he had a follow up, most likely 'Ask your girlfriend to be your girlfriend since we both know that's what you want' by the way he smirked at me. Thankfully, his Coach barked out his name again, so he just offered me a quick wave goodbye and stepped into the press room.

I happily left the roar of renewed press questions and lightbulb flashes and dragged one hand through my damp hair. The soft clicks of my cleats sounded quieter, subdued as I headed back to the locker room. My tired brain circled around the words he hadn't said, or maybe I'd just imagined them up myself.

Ask my girlfriend to be my girlfriend...

An unfamiliar warmth flowed through my chest at that thought. I didn't have time to process what it meant when I thrust my palms into the locker room doors.

Once I stepped inside, I got smacked with the usual post-game smell of bleach and BO masked with various deodorant and cologne scents. It was empty, except for one person and I swallowed hard when I saw who it was.