Date: January 8, 1990 (Monday).
Location: Highland Park High School / The Cooper Residence.
Event: The First Full Practice.
**03:00 PM. The Locker Room.**
The atmosphere in the Highland Park locker room had shifted.
Last week, it smelled like expensive cologne and entitlement.
Today, it smelled like fear.
The three empty lockers next to mine—previously occupied by Preston's clique—were now occupied by the "Transfers."
**Larry Allen** sat on a stool that looked dangerously fragile under his weight. He was 6'3" and 325 pounds, but it wasn't fat. It was dense, gravitational mass. He was trying to squeeze into a standard XXL practice jersey. It looked like a wetsuit on him.
**Zach Thomas** was taping his wrists. He did it with a ritualistic intensity, tearing the tape with his teeth. He didn't look at anyone. He stared at the floor, vibrating with stored energy.
**Jimmy Smith** was leaning against his locker, chewing gum, looking completely relaxed. He held his helmet in one hand like a toy.
The returning Highland Park players—the "Country Club" survivors—were huddled on the other side of the room. They were whispering.
"Look at the size of that guy," a sophomore linebacker whispered, pointing at Larry. "He's gonna eat me."
"Just stay out of his way," another guy muttered.
George Sr. walked in. He didn't blow the whistle. He didn't need to. The room went silent instantly.
"Pads today," George said. "Full contact."
He looked at Preston's old locker, now Larry's.
"We have some new faces," George said. "They are here to help us win. You treat them like brothers. Or you answer to me."
George turned to leave, then stopped.
"Oh, and Braden?"
**Braden**, the senior QB who had survived the purge, looked up. He looked tired. He knew his starting job was gone. He knew I was the guy. He was just trying to figure out how to survive his senior year with some dignity.
"Yeah, Coach?"
"Wear a receiver's jersey today," George said. "White, not red."
The room went deadly quiet. A QB wearing a white jersey meant he wasn't a QB anymore. It was a demotion.
Braden's face flushed. He looked at me.
I stood up. I walked over to him.
"Trust me," I whispered. "You aren't a benchwarmer, Braden. You're a weapon. Just get open."
Braden hesitated. He looked at the white jersey George tossed him.
Then he looked at Zach Thomas, who was currently smashing his helmet against his own locker to get hyped.
"Fine," Braden muttered. He pulled the white jersey on.
***
**03:45 PM. The Practice Field.**
The wind was whipping, but nobody felt the cold.
The stands were mostly empty, but a small "Scouting Party" had gathered on the bottom bleachers.
**Meemaw** sat with a thermos of "special" coffee.
**Sheldon** had his notebook out, tracking efficiency metrics.
**Eric van der Woodsen** sat next to Sheldon, holding a stopwatch.
And **Serena**. She sat a few rows up, wrapped in a cashmere coat, watching intently.
"Why are we watching them run into each other?" Eric asked, adjusting his glasses.
"We are observing kinetic energy transfer," Sheldon explained. "Specifically, the displacement of mass caused by the new subject, Mr. Allen."
"He's big," Serena noted.
"He's a refrigerator with legs," Meemaw grinned. "I like him. I bet he eats his vegetables."
On the field, George blew the whistle.
"OKAY! Oklahoma Drill! Offense vs. Defense! Let's see what we got!"
The Oklahoma Drill is football in its purest, most violent form. Two players lying on their backs. Whistle blows. They stand up and collide.
"Larry!" George yelled. "You're up. Defense... Edwards! Get in there!"
**Edwards** was the starting defensive tackle for Highland Park. He was 6'2", 240 lbs. A rich kid who lifted weights and thought he was tough.
They lay down in the mud.
*TWEEEEET!*
They popped up.
Edwards charged. He had good form. He lowered his shoulder.
Larry Allen didn't charge. He just... expanded.
Larry took one step. He punched his hands into Edwards' chest plate.
*BOOM.*
It sounded like a car crash.
Edwards didn't just stop. He went *backward*.
Larry lifted him—actually lifted a 240-pound human being off the ground—and drove him five yards into the dirt. He planted him like a tent stake.
Silence. Absolute silence.
Larry stood up. He offered a hand to Edwards.
"You good?" Larry asked, his voice surprisingly high-pitched and polite.
Edwards stared at the hand. He looked like he had seen a ghost.
"Next!" George yelled, hiding a smile.
"Jimmy! Braden! Get in there!"
It was a 1-on-1 passing drill. I stepped under center.
Jimmy Smith lined up wide. Braden lined up in the slot.
I took the snap.
Jimmy Smith didn't run. He glided.
The cornerback tried to jam him. Jimmy swatted his hands away like he was shooing a fly and accelerated. In three steps, he had five yards of separation.
I didn't even have to aim. I just flicked my wrist. The Mahomes release.
The ball hit Jimmy in stride. Touchdown.
"Again!" George yelled.
This time, I looked at Braden in the slot.
He was guarded by a linebacker. A mismatch.
"Slant!" I signaled.
Braden nodded.
Hike.
Braden was quick. Quicker than he looked. He cut inside. The linebacker was too slow.
I fired a bullet.
Braden caught it. He turned upfield.
*WHAM.*
**Zach Thomas** came out of nowhere.
He didn't tackle Braden. He stripped the ball.
In one motion, Zach hit him, ripped the ball loose, and spun away with it.
"Fumble!" Zach screamed, holding the ball up. "Defense wins! Defense eats!"
Braden lay on the ground, winded.
I jogged over. I offered him a hand.
"You got open," I said. "That was a good route."
"He's a psycho," Braden gasped, looking at Zach Thomas.
"Yeah," I grinned. "But now he's *our* psycho. Get up. Let's run it again."
***
**06:00 PM. The Cooper Kitchen.**
The practice was a massacre. The "Country Club" culture died at approximately 4:15 PM when Larry Allen blocked two people at the same time.
Now, we faced a bigger challenge: **Logistics.**
The recruits didn't have parents in town yet (Remington was still finalizing the "jobs"). They were staying in the corporate apartments, but the fridges were empty.
So, they were at my house.
"Mary," George whispered, looking at the dining table. "We're gonna need more potatoes."
"I've mashed ten pounds, George!" Mary hissed, looking frantic. "I don't have a shovel!"
Larry Allen sat at the head of the table. He looked like a bear sitting in a dollhouse chair.
Meemaw placed a platter of fried chicken in front of him.
"Eat up, big man," Meemaw said. "Put some meat on those bones."
Larry took a drumstick. The bone snapped like a toothpick.
"Thank you, ma'am," Larry said politely. "This is real good."
"He calls me ma'am," Meemaw winked at Sheldon. "Take notes, Moonpie."
Sheldon was staring at Zach Thomas.
Zach was eating his peas one by one, organizing them by size.
"You possess an obsessive compulsion for order," Sheldon noted.
"I like things neat," Zach grunted. "Messy defense loses games."
Sheldon nodded respectfully. "Acceptable logic."
Serena and Eric were sitting on the stairs, plates in their laps. There wasn't room at the table.
I sat down next to them.
"Your house is a zoo," Serena whispered, taking a bite of a roll.
"It's an ecosystem," I corrected. "We're at the top of the food chain now."
"That Larry guy," Eric said, eyes wide. "I saw him lift a guy. Like, physically pick him up. Is that legal?"
"In football? Yes," I said. "In society? Probably not."
Serena looked at me.
She wasn't looking at the chaos. She was looking at how calm I was in the middle of it.
I had just led a practice with future NFL Hall of Famers, and now I was managing a dinner crisis.
"You're enjoying this," she said.
"I like winning," I said.
"No," she shook her head. "You like leading. You walked Braden through that route. You didn't embarrass him. You gave him a job."
I shrugged. "He's useful in the slot. Quick feet."
"You're a good guy, Georgie Cooper," she said softly.
She reached out and picked a piece of lint off my shoulder. Her hand lingered for a second. Just a second.
"But you smell like mud."
"It's the smell of victory," I grinned.
***
**09:00 PM. The Driveway.**
The food was gone. All of it. Larry had consumed roughly 4,000 calories.
Meemaw was driving the recruits back to the apartments in the Cadillac.
"Shotgun!" Larry had yelled, running for the car with surprising speed.
I stood in the driveway, watching the taillights fade.
It was quiet again.
The front door of the mansion next door opened.
Serena walked out. She had gone home to change, but she was back.
She walked to the edge of the hedge that separated our yards.
"Hey," she whispered.
"Hey," I said. "Forget something?"
"No," she said. She wrapped her arms around herself. "It's just... quiet over here. My mom is still in Aspen. The housekeeper goes home at 8."
I walked over to the hedge.
"You can stay," I said. "Meemaw is watching TV. Mom is doing dishes. It's loud, but it's warm."
"I have homework," she sighed. "Algebra. I'm failing."
"I can help," I lied. (My 40-year-old brain remembered basic math, but Algebra II was a stretch). "Or Sheldon can help. He'll insult you, but you'll learn."
She laughed. "Maybe tomorrow."
She looked up at me. The moonlight hit her face. She looked tired of being rich and lonely.
"Georgie?"
"Yeah?"
"Are we gonna be okay?" she asked. "The school... people are talking. About your dad firing Preston. About the new guys. They say you're ruining the tradition."
"We're building a new tradition," I said firmly. "And yeah. We're gonna be fine. I've got this."
She nodded. She believed me.
That was the scary part. She trusted me to fix it.
"Goodnight, Quarterback," she said.
"Goodnight, Neighbor."
She walked back to her empty mansion.
I walked back into my chaotic, loud, overcrowded home.
I looked at the stopwatch in my pocket.
**Day 1 of the New Era: Success.**
**[Quest Update: The New Standard]**
* **Recruits:** Integrated (Physically dominant).
* **Braden:** Converted to Slot WR (Loyalty secured).
* **Romance:** Serena Trust Level Up.
* **Logistics:** Food Supply Critical (Need Costco run).
* **Cost:** $0 (Remington Account).