Epilogue
Micah, February: Indianapolis
My last college season is a blur of long days, hard-fought wins, and big headlines. I play the best football of my life—my blocks are strong, my hands steady. Each catch slowly adds to a tape filled with beautiful highlight material.
It’s amazing what a body can do when the mind is no longer busy counting every penny.
Money might not be the key to happiness, but the day I cancel the regular transactions to my parents’ account while sitting in Dr. Ellis’ office, the knot in my chest loosens.
I’m not sure what’s harder to deal with—my father’s lack of understanding about the missing funding for his “needs” or my mother’s quiet indifference.
Dr. Ellis and I try to work through that, one session at a time, but I suspect it’ll take more than just a few months to get to the bottom of it all.
And yet, despite all of that, my thoughts keep circling every night when the facility’s lights cut out and I shoulder my bag to cross the dark parking lot: Is it love or need? Is this what I really want?
I still don’t have the answers to that when I arrive in Indianapolis on a bleary February evening alongside Seb, Felix, and Evander, pulling our carry-ons behind us.
The NFL Scouting Combine is, at its core, nothing more than a very expensive cattle auction.
I understand that during my medical examination, while several team physicians poke and prod at me from all angles in a room full of people, asking borderline invasive questions about old injuries and pulling on my limbs.
“He has a good frame, but we need to look at that elbow again,” one of them says, his fingers digging into my skin to rotate the elbow in question.
“The papers say he broke it at age nine; we’ll need a scan of it before we decide on anything.”
“There was also that hamstring tightness last season,” a voice chimes in while a pair of cool hands glides over the backs of my thighs, making me grit my teeth.
“He’s explosive off the line. That’s what you want,” another comments while taking notes on her tablet.
“What was his weight again?” a fourth interjects as he measures my arm length.
They don’t bother lowering their voices, all of them speaking with a level of detachment that makes it clear I’m an asset—and a potential risk—rather than a person. I’ve heard Brandon use more empathy while planning out the breeding cycles of his Holsteins over Christmas break.
On day two, when every part of my body has been fully photographed and cataloged by half of the NFL teams present, I get ushered into a stuffy conference room and seated in front of a bunch of middle-aged men.
Their faces and ball caps change every few minutes, but their questions are all variations of the same thing:
“Do you consider yourself a team player, Micah?”
“What’s your biggest weakness, Micah?”
“Draw up an offensive formation, Micah.”
“Draw up another.”
“And another.”
I draw. I smile. I answer. I fold and bend into every shape and form they ask me to for the duration of eighteen interviews.
“You’re very versatile,” they tell me, and I have no idea how to feel about that.
I barely see Seb throughout all of this.
Quarterbacks are treated like raw diamonds here—separate schedules, separate rooms, and constant media attention; everything for the future faces of the franchise.
When we do cross paths—in the hallways, at mealtime, or late at night—he looks almost too composed, like he’s barely holding himself together through sheer force of will.
By the time the athletic testing day rolls around, I finally have an answer to my questions.
I’m done. Whatever comes after this—I’m done.
My position group goes last, which means I miss Evander’s and Felix’s performances but arrive just in time for the quarterbacks.
They’ve taken the attention in a swoop, the entire stadium holding one collective breath.
Media representatives crowd the sidelines, spectators lean forward in their seats, and cameras and scouts are focused on the players as they warm up for the exercises.
My eyes scan the seats for Linden, Kelly, and Brandon.
I find them in the first row, Linden between his parents, his head bowed deeply over a book, its spine roughly cracked in the middle, so the juicy cover is invisible to the public eye.
Even from the field, I can make out his focus, his lips moving silently as he absorbs the story, his brows furrowed.
I already know what he’s reading—the final installment of Noah and Owen’s story was released yesterday.
I can’t help but grin, raising a hand when Kelly spots me and starts waving.
She elbows Linden, who looks up, confused for a moment, until his gray eyes find me across the field.
He doesn’t wave, but his lips send a quiet message: good luck.
He quickly glances left and right before mouthing a hasty ‘I love you’.
My heart jumps straight into my throat, and for one small moment, I’m tempted to walk over to him and abandon this day.
I’m still distracted by that exact thought when Seb steps up to the line, his back ramrod straight, hands flexing at his sides, probably fighting the urge to scratch.
He’s stressed as hell, and I can feel it radiating all the way over to us.
I’m not worried, though. I’ve seen Seb run thousands of these drills, all clean, all with beautiful times.
His eyes are focused on the ground as he gets into position, fussing for a moment, his fingers positioning and repositioning on the line.
He rises into the running stance, weight leaning forward, his left hand coming up to his side, and then he fires off, takes five, six big strides, and I can already feel this is going to be a personal best, when suddenly his foot catches or slips—I don’t even know, it’s happening much too fast to tell in that moment—and he stumbles, one knee going down to the turf.
He catches himself fast, pressing up from the grass with one hand almost immediately, and finishes the dash, but the damage is already done, a personal best turned into a disastrous time.
The whole stadium sucks in a single, horrified breath, all eyes on my best friend, the legacy quarterback, who carries a ton of expectations and just buckled under the weight in front of all of us.
Seb straightens slowly, his eyes fixated on a spot of grass right in front of him.
He doesn’t look around, doesn’t check for the reaction of the media or scouts.
Instead, he shakes out his hands, a deliberately loose gesture, and walks off the field, already shaking his head when the trainers swarm him with questions about pain levels.
He’s taking some time to recuperate before his second try—because there’s no doubt he’ll take the second try—his fingers shaking when he accepts a bottle of water.
He looks fine on the outside, but I can see the shock sitting between his shoulder blades and in the tense line of his jaw.
If he was stressed before, he’s definitely freaking out now.
My first instinct is to jog over to him and bump our foreheads together, the way I’d do right before a game, but when I make the first step, a staff member grabs my shoulder, politely but decisively maneuvering me backward.
“Please wait with your group,” he says, probably assuming I’m eager to get into the action myself. I’m about to argue when the energy in the stadium shifts hard. Cameras swivel around, pointing at the stands rather than the athletes, heads turning, fingers pointing, phones shooting up.
I crane my neck in an attempt to spot the distraction.
At the top of the steps, Leo Davenport emerges in loose sweats and an LA Lions hoodie, blond hair pulled into a messy manbun, and overall giving the appearance of having rolled out of bed five seconds ago.
He smiles easily at the cameras, waves, then finds another man in the stands and makes his way over.
They greet each other like old friends, and it takes me an additional second to recognize Coach Wagner.
He’s wearing a plain ball cap pulled low onto his forehead, but the moment Leo greets him, his face opens in a way I haven’t seen before.
They both settle into an easy conversation, Leo’s arm resting comfortably on Wagner’s shoulder.
Roman Hearst arrives separately, dressed sharply in a dark coat, with a pair of sunglasses perched on his nose and his earbuds in.
He doesn’t wave at the cameras, and he doesn’t look at Wagner.
Instead, he makes his way down to the railing, picking a seat firmly apart from everyone else.
He searches for Seb, and that’s all he looks at: his brother on the sideline, one hand holding the water bottle, the other flexing, performing to be calm and collected.
I watch Seb’s eyes as they find me first, then Leo, then Roman. For a second, he just stares, then something shifts in his shoulders, causing them to sag maybe half an inch.
Every available camera in the stadium is still firmly fixated on the two NFL veteran players, and for about half a minute, Sebastian Davenport’s fall becomes only the second most interesting thing around.
Which is, I quietly suspect, the entire point of this entrance.
Seb breathes in deeply, then steps back to the line, head held up high.
I lean forward as he takes his stance again, muttering quietly, “C’mon, Seb.”
The timer starts.
Seb runs a 4.38.