Everyone around me screams like we’re in mutual, mortal pain. Jake Grayson just threw the perfect long ball… I mean the perfect spiraling pass for well over thirty yards…and Aaron Heckerling let the dang ball slip right through his fingers! Oh, the humanity! That was third down! Damn! As the offense jogs off the field and the punting unit jogs on, I take my seat again, groaning along with everyone else on my half of the stadium.

I’ve never had so much fun at a football game in my life. And I’ve been to lots of them with my dad back home, so that’s saying a lot. I had no idea how much fun it would be to sit in the student section with my fellow Bruins, my face painted blue and gold, and cheer on my school. Not to mention the fact that I’m here with Clarissa and Dimitri and his friends, and they’re the sweetest, funniest group, ever. Oh, and to top it all off, we’re playing our cross-town rivals, the Trojans of USC—Boo!—and currently beating them by fourteen points—Yay! Oh, and did I mention the best part of all? I’m watching Tyler play like a god among men down on that field.

Speaking of which, Tyler makes a bone-crushing tackle on the field, and the crowd roars. I glance at the jumbo screen, hoping to catch a glimpse of Tyler’s thug-face. It’s the scary face he almost always makes right after making a big hit, and it never ceases to turn me on.

The view on the jumbo screen switches to an up-close shot of Tyler, but he quickly turns, and the camera catches nothing but his backside as he jogs away from his crumpled opponent. But that’s okay. If I can’t see Tyler’s thug-face, a tight shot of his ass jogging away in his tight little pants is a lovely consolation prize.

I look at the scoreboard. There are about seven minutes to go in the third quarter. Please, God, let us hold onto this lead and clinch the win. So far this season, we’re undefeated, and Tyler’s a huge reason for that. He hasn’t forced a turnover yet today, but he’s been blocking passes and tackling like a man possessed. Plus, in the second quarter, he brazenly stripped the ball right out of a Trojan’s hands, a maneuver that made Tyler look like a Rottweiler and the other guy look like a Chihuahua. I’ve got to think if any NFL teams are watching today to gather intel before the draft in the spring, Tyler’s strip of that ball alone was enough to move him up several spaces on everyone’s list of top prospects.

Of course, I’m thrilled Tyler’s having yet another stellar game, any way he can get one, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’m hoping he’ll grab an interception today. First off, I know that’s the stat the NFL boys love to see from a guy in Tyler’s position, and I want him to have every possible chance to make his top ten dreams come true. Second, I also want to see Tyler make an interception simply because I’m a card-carrying Bruin now. And that means I want our boys in blue and gold to not only kick those Trojan boys’ asses today, but do it in a fashion that makes every student clad in cardinal and gold on the opposite side of this huge stadium go back to their sparkling campus across town with their designer tails between their waxed and spray-tanned legs and sob relentlessly into their high-thread-count pillow cases all night long. But, third, despite all that, the biggest reason I want Tyler to get an interception today is that when I texted him this morning to wish him luck in the game, he replied:

If I get an interception today, watch me close. I’ll send you a secret signal, eager beaver.

On the field, Jake counts off hard from the line. The ball is snapped. Jake hands off to his running back and, immediately, the guy gets stuffed hard at the line like he ran into a brick wall. Everyone wearing blue and gold groans in vicarious pain while the trust-fund babies on the other side of the stadium cheer wildly.

“You girls want some popcorn?” Dimitri asks, drawing my attention away from the action on the field.

“Thanks,” Clarissa chirps, taking a handful of popcorn from Dimitri’s bag.

I shake my head. “No, thanks. Too nervous to eat.”

“Nervous?” Dimitri says. “Look at the scoreboard.”

“It ain’t over ’til it’s over, son,” I mutter. “That’s why they play the game.”

“True.”

“I’m mostly nervous for Tyler,” I admit. “He says every single game is critical for him. His goal is to go top ten in the draft.”

“Wow, that’s a tall order for a free safety,” Dimitri says. “But, hey, if anyone can do it, it’s Tyler. He’s definitely having the season of a lifetime.”

I return my attention to the field just in time to see Jake connect with his tight end for a first down. Everyone on our side of the stadium cheers.

“So how are things going between you and Tyler?” Dimitri asks. “I saw you two walking through South Campus the other day holding hands. You looked good together. Like Beauty and the…Beauty.”

Clarissa giggles.

“Things are good,” I say. “We’re not officially dating. We’re just, you know…” I press my lips together. We’re just…what? Two junkies who are totally and completely addicted to each other? Because, truthfully, that’s how it feels—like neither of us can ever get enough. It’s enthralling and terrifying, all at once. If I feel this addicted now, I can’t imagine how I’m going to feel three weeks from now when Tyler and I are supposedly going to flip some magical switch and become nothing but friends.

A collective gasp erupts in the stands, abruptly drawing my attention to the field. I gasp, too. A long pass from Jake to Aaron is spiraling through the air. Aaron is open. Running at full speed. Aaron extends his arms as he runs, and the ball lands smack into his hands midstride. The place erupts. Aaron evades a tackle. And keeps right on running. Touchdown.

The place goes nuts. The extra point is good. The kick-off is uneventful. And now the defense, including Tyler, is jogging onto the field. Nerves grip my stomach. Come on, Tyler.

I watch Tyler take his position in the backfield. He shouts something at his teammates. Points. Shouts again. He’s in command. He barks something urgently at one of his teammates in particular. The guy must be out of position. Either that or Tyler’s read something in the Trojans’ formation, and he’s letting the guy know what he sees. God, he’s so dang good at this game.

The ball is snapped. The quarterback for the University of Spoiled Children drops back and lets loose a beautiful spiral headed for his star receiver. And Tyler’s right there. He leaps up and grabs the ball, making the entire stadium explode. He returns the interception for about twelve yards before he’s taken down and, again, every Bruin in the stadium goes ballistic.

I scrutinize Tyler closely. He told me to watch him for a shout-out if he got an interception, and I can’t wait to see what he’ll do. But Tyler gets off the ground and calmly jogs toward the sideline, cradling his precious contraband in his bent arm. I hold my breath and wait. But, nope, he heads off the field with his entire defensive unit, without displaying even the slightest hint of excitement about his spectacular grab.

“Talk about acting like you’ve been there before!” Clarissa shouts to Dimitri over the crowd.

“He doesn’t want to get flagged for excessive celebration,” Dimitri explains, and the minute he says it, I realize he’s absolutely right. Of course. I know about that stupid rule against celebrating—so why’d I think he’d do something outwardly detectable for me after an interception? Clearly, he just meant he’d send me a little telepathic shout-out if he snagged a pass. I sit back down, feeling stupid for my high expectations.

“He can’t celebrate at least a little bit?” Clarissa asks, taking her seat next to me.

“Nope,” Dimitri says. “He can’t do the slightest thing after the play, or he’ll get dinged and the play will be negated.”

As our offense heads onto the field to take over, I find Tyler on the sideline. He’s seated on a bench behind the coaches and players standing along the sideline. He’s getting high-fives and helmet slaps from his teammates. A cameraman for the jumbo screen makes his way over to the bench where Tyler’s sitting and, suddenly, his gorgeous face fills the massive screen.

And then it happens.

My secret signal.

Tyler looks straight into the camera, brings the football up to his face mask, and moves it back and forth lengthwise across his face several times. And then, following that bit of awesomeness, Tyler lowers the ball, sticks out his tongue, and makes the exact face I’d imagine a cannibal would make right after eating another guy’s face off.

Clarissa laughs. “What the hell was that? Was Tyler eating corn on the cob?”

One of Dimitri’s friends posits another theory. “Maybe the ball was the heart of the dude Tyler just picked off. Tyler’s saying he’s a fucking cannibal, man.”

I don’t say a word. Of course, I know they’re both wrong. Obviously, that first thing was Tyler pretending to be a beaver gnawing on a log. And that maniacal tongue-face he flashed after that? That was yet another coded message to me. To my crotch, specifically. Tyler just secretly told me he’s going to eat—and savor—his eager beaver’s beaver tonight. There might be a prohibition against “excessive celebrations” on the football field, but clearly, Tyler and I are going to have our own private “excessive celebration” of his triumph tonight.