Modern Family: New Life-Chapter 91: Summer Tournament III

Andrew, who was calmly stretching, looked up at the stands, which were more packed than he had imagined.

It took him a moment to spot his friends, but he finally saw them,Leonard and Howard, sitting on the right, in one of the highest rows.

Howard was holding the camera, ready to record, since when Andrew celebrated, it had to be seen from a third-person angle. Otherwise, the video wouldn't make any sense.

When Howard noticed Andrew had seen him, he gave him a big thumbs-up with a wide grin and a mischievous expression, the kind that, in his unspoken language, said: "Create chaos."

Andrew lowered his head slightly. He smiled on the inside.

At that moment, a guy from his team, slim and holding his helmet in one hand, came trotting up. He wore number 11.

"You're a running back?" he asked in a friendly tone.

Andrew gave a small nod.

"Cool. I'm Noah. Wide receiver. And if you didn't know... welcome to the black team. Or as I like to call it: the emotional support group for unlucky players," he said while glancing toward the other teams warming up.

Andrew wanted to ask why he was being so pessimistic, but he stayed quiet.

Noah raised an eyebrow at him. "You don't talk, or are you just nervous?"

Andrew shook his head, then made a gesture with his hands: I'm mute.

"Mute? Seriously?" Noah asked, eyes widening in surprise.

Andrew nodded, a little surprised that the guy understood him.

"That's wild. I know sign language. My sister's deaf," Noah said, forming the words with his hands smoothly.

"Why so pessimistic?" Andrew asked through sign language.

Noah let out a chuckle and replied, "Because we're in a tournament with three teams that look like they came out of a video game."

He paused, then tilted his head to the right.

"Check them out. Red team: Davante Adams. Elite wide receiver. I saw some of his plays on MaxPreps... he's on another level. It's like he's got turbo in his feet. Changes direction effortlessly," Noah said, then fell silent, watching Davante as he focused during warmups.

"I'm a receiver too. Sophomore. And I know I don't have half his explosiveness. Or his control. You see the way he moves and just know he's one of those guys that's going far," he added, his shoulders drooping slightly.

Andrew, from behind his visor, watched him silently.

He noticed that subtle look in Noah's eyes. A flicker of inferiority. But what caught his attention even more... was the name.

'Davante... Davante Adams?!' Andrew thought, holding himself back from speaking and blowing his alter ego.

Andrew knew that name, he had seen him play in the NFL. One of the best wide receivers of his generation.

With Aaron Rodgers in Green Bay, they formed a deadly duo. Later, he moved to the Las Vegas Raiders.

In 2022, he signed with the Raiders for $140 million over 5 years! One of the highest contracts ever for a WR.

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While Andrew was in high school, Davante was a star in the NFL, still active. He made the Pro Bowl six times and was selected as an All-Pro three times.

The Pro Bowl is the NFL's all-star game. Every year, the best players at each position from both conferences (AFC and NFC) are selected based on votes from fans, players, and coaches.

Being chosen for the Pro Bowl basically means: "You were one of the best at your position this year."

Although it's an honor, it's not as prestigious as being named All-Pro, since the Pro Bowl can sometimes be more about popularity than true performance.

The All-Pro title is more exclusive and respected. It's awarded by the Associated Press (AP) at the end of each season.

A group of experts selects the best players in the entire NFL at each position—regardless of conference.

There's only:

1st Team All-Pro (the best)

2nd Team All-Pro (the almost-best)

Being All-Pro basically means: "You're the best in the entire NFL at your position."

Although Davante never won a Super Bowl, he was truly an elite player, one of the best in the league at what he did.

'I'm going up against an future elite player...' Andrew thought, unable to suppress a smile. This might be more interesting, and more complicated, than he imagined.

He had thought of winning this tournament as just a formality, show off his alter ego, take home the $1,000 prize, and go to Comic-Con.

"Who else?" Andrew asked impatiently, signing quickly with his hands. Maybe there were more future stars in this tournament.

Noah recovered fast. He took a breath through his nose and spoke again.

"Green team, number 77: Arik Armstead. Defense. Massive. Looks like a building with legs. I saw him warming up and I swear, even his own teammates looked scared of him. If he tackles someone, I'm pretty sure he could knock them out."

'Another familiar name,' Andrew thought.

If everything stayed the same, Arik would eventually become a key piece in the 49ers' defensive line, especially during their run to Super Bowl LIV (2019 season). He'd also sign a massive contract: $85 million over 5 years.

Andrew nodded for him to continue. It was nice to have a teammate who had that much information, he was like a walking encyclopedia of high school players.

"Last one, gold team: Andrus Peat. Offensive lineman. Don't run to his side. That guy has to be hard as a rock," Noah finished, pointing to a very tall kid.

Andrew recognized that name too. Part of a future top-tier offensive line. Three future Pro Bowl selections. A contract worth nearly $60 million over five years. Not the most media-hyped player, but he played a key role in the Saints' offense. Highly respected for his solid presence on the line.

After a few seconds, Noah let out a long sigh.

"And here I thought I'd get lucky. Since the teams are put together randomly, I was hoping I'd land with a strong group, with a standout or a future star, you know?" he said, then paused and shook his head.

"Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying you or anyone on our team is bad or anything. It's just... we don't have any top-division guys or big-name players or future elites, you know? Like... Andrew Pritchett-Tucker."

Andrew raised an eyebrow at hearing his name.

"You know him? The guy from YouTube. Scored 72 touchdowns in his first year. Insane. Even though he played in Division V, no freshman quarterback pulls off something like that..." Noah said, clear admiration in his voice.

Thankfully, the helmet, dark visor, and fake name were still protecting his identity.

But that moment made him realize something he hadn't fully considered.

'I underestimated how far my channel has reached,' he thought, slightly worried.

If Noah knew him, taking off his helmet at the wrong time could be a real problem. He glanced at his backpack a few meters away. He had brought a cap, but nothing else.

If it weren't for that cap, he probably would've been recognized while changing.

Noah kept talking enthusiastically about how one of Andrew's videos had motivated him to quit soda entirely and start running every morning before school.

He had no idea that he was sharing his admiration with the very creator of the channel.

Just then, a voice called out from the other side of the field.

"Hey! You two! Come here. Our leader's calling a strategy meeting!" shouted a kid, waving his arm impatiently.

Andrew and Noah turned their heads at the same time.

The player wore the same black uniform, with a white number 81 on his chest.

He was tall, thin, with a long, bony nose and protruding teeth that became more noticeable every time he spoke.

Andrew looked at him for a few seconds. 'There's something... rat-like about him. Like a rat-man,' he thought.

The boy didn't wait for a response, he simply turned around and walked toward the rest of the group, not bothering to hide his irritation at the delay.

Andrew said nothing. Noah didn't argue either. They just followed him in silence, knowing it wasn't worth starting conflict before the game even began.

When they arrived, the rest of the black team was already gathered, standing in a makeshift semicircle.

Each team had 14 players, seven for offense and seven for defense. Andrew had been mistaken earlier; it turns out Brady Hoke was offering $14,000 to the winning team, since there were 14 players.

"Alright, listen up. None of us know each other, I get that. But someone has to take charge, and since I'm a quarterback, it makes sense that it's me. My name's Edward," said a tall kid with a confident smile. He wore number 5. His shoulder pads looked custom-fit, clean, and shiny. His helmet rested under his arm, and his hair was perfectly styled despite the heat.

Before he could continue, a deep voice interrupted from the left.

"You should've had that confidence when you tried getting that cute girl's number..."

Laughter followed quickly.

The comment came from a stocky guy with a wide build, wearing number 96. His head was shaved, he had a bandage on his left wrist, and a sarcastic grin on his face.

Edward squinted, clearly irritated. "Got anything else to say, or are you just gonna talk about things that don't concern you?"

"No, no. Just thought it was fair to bring it up. It was an unforgettable moment," the guy replied, still grinning.

"My name's Malik. I'll be leading the defense. So if you're tackling, intercepting, or covering, come with me. We don't need to talk to this pretty boy to do our jobs," he said, then turned and started walking toward a more distant area.

The other defensive players looked at one another, then quickly followed him.

Edward ignored them. Though it was clear he didn't like the division, he didn't protest.

It was obvious he wasn't going to have authority over the whole squad.

Noah let out a soft sigh. "This just keeps getting better."

His whole family had come to watch him play, and it looked like they might be eliminated in the first round.

Edward picked up right where he left off, as if nothing had happened.

"We're keeping the plays simple. Nothing complicated. No one try to be a hero. If we work as a unit, we can move the ball. Understood?"

Noah and the others nodded.

As for Andrew, he stayed still, didn't nod, didn't move.

Edward had no idea that behind that dark visor wasn't just a regular player, but an alter ego with zero intention of following orders, zero interest in teamwork, and a very clear mission: bring the show, win... and do it with controversy for a special video on his YouTube channel.

A voice boomed through the stadium speakers, interrupting the huddle:

"Attention, players. All teams must leave the field. It's time for the tournament matchup draw."

The group slowly dispersed. Malik and the defensive players walked off without looking back. Edward sighed, adjusted his shoulder pads, and began heading to the sideline. Noah and Andrew followed without saying a word.

The sun was beating down on the grass at the old Balboa Stadium, and the atmosphere was already buzzing from the stands.

Families, coaches, onlookers, teammates, friends... all with cold drinks, snacks.

In front of a long table decorated with tournament logos and the emblem of San Diego State University, Brady Hoke took the microphone.

"Welcome to the Youth Summer Development Tournament, brought to you by SDSU. Eight teams. Single elimination format. Full-contact. Let's begin the draw."

Next to him stood event assistants with a transparent urn filled with folded papers.

Each paper had the name of a team.

One by one, they started drawing the matchups.

"First game... Team Black... versus... Team Green."

A murmur rippled through the stadium. Several assistants turned to look at Team Black.

Then at Team Green, where one number stood out clearly: 77. Arik Armstead. Big. Intimidating. Unshaken. A living wall towering over the others like a skyscraper among houses.

Edward let out an audible sigh. "Great. Just had to be the team with the defense who looks like a tank," he muttered, glancing toward Arik with a hint of fear.

If that beast manages to get past his blockers and reaches him for a tackle, it's going to hurt, a lot.

On top of that, the time he'd have to throw a pass would be shortened, since he didn't trust his two blockers to hold him off for long.

Finally, it was game time.

Andrew's team would start on offense.

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