Chapter 33
Landon
The whistle blows, and Johnson’s lying on the ground.
“What the fuck,” says one of the offensive linemen.
From the scene, it’s apparent that Johnson was knocked down by Manny, who stands over him.
While we’re in pads, and will start full contact practice soon, it’s an absolute no-no to hit your quarterback in team scrimmages. Johnson’s wearing a yellow pinnie to mark himself as off limits. Manny screwed up.
“Oh shit,” he says, a look of horror on his face at his actions. “I’m so sorry, Johnson. I got carried away.”
Carter and another offensive lineman start mouthing off to Manny, while our center gives Johnson a hand to help him stand up. I almost feel bad for Manny—almost. The rookies are out here trying to prove themselves so they don’t get cut.
“No problem,” Johnson says, shaking himself off. “No harm from it. Just watch yourself.”
I step in to pull Manny out of the crowd of offensive linemen, still ready to defend their quarterback. Dragging Manny to an open space on the field, I embrace my duties as leader of the linebackers.
“Rook, what was that? You know better,” I say.
“I’m so sorry, Landon. I got myself too hyped, being put in against the starters. I found a hole in the line to run through, and then momentum carried me right into him,” he explains.
“I get it, but that kind of shit will get you cut,” I say. “You cannot jeopardize the franchise quarterback.” I’m telling him things he already knows, but maybe he needs to hear it again.
He nods, and I pat his helmet, feeling satisfied he has heard the message. “Everyone knows how talented you are, and you’ll get many chances to prove yourself. Take it down a notch and play by the rules.”
“I hear you, Landon. I do,” he says eagerly. “Please tell Johnson I’m sorry again if you talk to him.”
Manny’s a huge part of our potential success this season, and based on what I’ve seen over the last week, I suspect he’ll be lining up with us starters quite a bit. At a minimum, he’ll be a key backup. So we don’t want him in his head too much about this incident.
I pat him again and bring him back over to a group of defensive players. “Okay, gentlemen, Rook fucked up, and he knows it. Can everyone share their best story of screwing up as a rookie?”
The guys chuckle, and one of our cornerbacks launches into a story. Manny seems to relax, and any tension from the incident passes quickly.
That night, I knock on the door to Johnson’s hotel room. “Hey, it’s me. Can I come in?”
The door swings open and Johnson’s in a t-shirt and athletic shorts, likely his bedwear for the evening. “Yeah, man. Come on in.”
Our playbook is open on the desk in Johnson’s room, and there are various scraps of paper everywhere that look like they are covered in his scribbles.
“I’m memorizing all the new plays,” he explains. “Drawing them out myself so they really stick in my head, like I used to do when we were roommates at Bama.”
I nod. Anyone who thinks football players are dumb doesn’t understand the demands of the sport.
You’ve got to commit countless plays to memory, adjust for tactics on the opposite side, and constantly be learning new information week-in and week-out.
No one has more responsibility than a QB to get this information right.
“So you okay? Looked like Manny knocked you down pretty hard,” I say. I’d heard that Johnson was uninjured by the hit, but wanted to confirm for myself.
“Yeah, thankfully my ass took the brunt of the fall. It’s a little sore, but I’ll be fine,” Johnson says, shaking his hand like he’s waving off any concern.
“Well, good. I talked to him after the hit. He was genuinely remorseful. Gotta love rookies,” I reply.
He grunts and sits down on his desk chair, body facing toward me. “So how’s it going with Rori?”
On Tuesday night, Johnson and I had a little one-on-one, so I’d updated him on everything. This is the first time we’ve been alone in the two days since.
“Same. We’re talking every night, our normal FaceTimes, catching up on our days, all that. But then neither of us brings up the bigger picture questions, the gala, going public. All those issues are still hanging out there.”
Johnson’s brow creases. “That sucks, and it’s also a little weird. Why don’t you just ask her at this point? It’s been a week since the Trinity stuff first went down.”
I put my hand through my hair and head to sit down on the armchair in his room. “Yeah, I’m thinking when I see her Sunday that I will, if she doesn’t raise it sooner. I just haven’t wanted to drive a conversation she isn’t ready to have. Worried it could blow up on me, you know?”
He nods. “Sure, I get that.”
“But she leaves for her tournament in Toronto on Sunday night after we see each other. So it would be good to clear the air before she’s gone.”
Just then, Johnson’s phone goes off. He picks it up off the desk and spends a minute scrolling through whatever he was sent.
“Um, Landon,” Johnson says while clicking on his phone and sending a text. “I hate this, man. But I need to show you something.”
I walk over to where he is standing by his desk, and look over his shoulder. Immediately the headline, from an influential football e-magazine First and 10, jumps out at me.
RAWLEY BATTLE – UNLIMITED PROMISE OR HUGE LIABILITY?
Below the headline is a photo of Rawley with hair askew, half-hooded eyes, and a blank stare. Looking absolutely like he is on something. Surrounding him are a bunch of college age looking kids. Best guess—someone took this snap at a campus party.
I quickly scan through the actual article, and it insinuates Rawley is partying his way through college and doesn’t take academics seriously. Basically, that he may be a fuck-up and risky for NFL teams.
“This kid, I swear to god,” I say to Johnson, unable to keep the anger out of my voice. “He’s going to screw up his entire future.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions here,” Johnson says in a placating tone. “You know how pictures can be manipulated. It could be anything. And there’s a lot of speculation here without any actual proof, the kind of BS reporters write for clicks.”
Except that I know there’s probably some truth to the article. On the positive side, I see now as I read further that it’s also acknowledging that whatever Rawley’s off-field activities may involve, it isn’t impacting his football performance.
Suddenly, Johnson’s phone is ringing. “It’s Grace,” he says. “I texted her about the article and told her I was with you.”
He picks up the phone. “Hi Grace, putting you on speaker with Landon.” He pushes the speaker button so I can hear her.
“Wait, why are you texting each other,” I ask, confused. Since Grace moved to Orlando last fall, they haven’t interacted more than casually at my house on occasion.
“Not the point right now, but I knew you and Grace would want to talk about this right away,” Johnson explains.
“Okay,” I say.
“I just read the article, thanks for sending it, Johnson,” Grace says, her voice full of anxiety. “Landon, we need to call Rawley. He’s probably spiraling.”
“Okay, yes. Johnson, can I use your phone to add him to our call?”
He hands over the phone and I call Rawley, merging him into the group call with Grace once he picks up.
“Rawls, it’s Grace and me, and Johnson too. Just saw the First and 10 article.”
He groans. “Landon, I’m sure you’re so pissed at me, but I swear that I didn’t do anything at that party in the photo other than have a couple of beers and talk to people. It’s a shitty picture, they probably took a ton and picked the worst one.”
“Okay,” I respond. “But let’s put everything on the table. I need to hear it from your mouth. No drugs while in college? Not even weed?”
“No, I haven’t done any of that since high school. I promise.”
His tone is urgent and sincere. I believe him.
Grace jumps in. “Landon, enough with the interrogation. Rawley, it’s going to be okay. We’re going to figure it out.”
He sighs painfully. “I don’t even know what to do. Coach has asked me to come talk to him tomorrow morning.”
Johnson covers the receiver, wanting only me to hear his words.
“Landon, I know you can’t get Aiden involved.
” As a college athlete, Rawley can have a NIL agent—someone who helps them with brand opportunities for use of the “Name, Image and Likeness”—but not a full-blown sports agent like Aiden.
“But shouldn’t you call Jim? Get some PR and messaging type advice? ”
“Yeah, good idea.” I gesture for him to take his hands off the receiver. “Hey Rawls, Grace. Give me a few minutes. I’m going to reach out to my PR rep, Jim, on my phone.”
They keep chatting, even Johnson now trying to be reassuring to Rawley. In the meantime, I text Jim the article and ask if he can speak.
He calls me four minutes later, and I step into Johnson’s bedroom for the call.
“I read it. The reporter is a bit of a pot-stirrer, so NFL teams will know that. Still, this could set off a narrative which could stick for Rawley. You want to jump on changing that. If he drops in the draft because teams think he’s a risk, it could cost him millions in his rookie contract.”
I knew that last part, but hearing it out loud sends a jolt of fear through me for Rawley. “Okay, how do we address this and put it to bed? He’s really been trying to stay on the straight and narrow during college and says he’s had nothing other than alcohol.”
“His numbers certainly show he’s serious about football, which helps,” Jim acknowledges.
“I can step in as a ‘representative for the Battle family’ if you want. What I would do is threefold. Get Rawley some talking points so he’s prepared to answer the likely questions.
Put out a statement that denies any inappropriate conduct.
And then set up a high-profile live interview so people can see who he really is, not make up their minds from the article. ”
“That all sounds great. Hang on, let me talk to Rawley to confirm.”
I walk back into the main part of Johnson’s room and interrupt their conversation.
“Hey Rawls, Jim laid out a good plan for you, and he’s going to take on a spokesman role for us on this. Listen carefully and do everything he says,” I say.
“Okay, thanks, Landon. I will,” Rawley replies, sounding relieved. We arrange for Jim to call him directly and catch up with me after. Everyone hangs up so that they can do that call.
I collapse back into the armchair, and Johnson looks at me sympathetically.
“You’re a good brother. Jim will get this nipped in the bud, if anyone can.”
I nod. “Yeah, that was the right call to bring him in, thanks for the suggestion.”
With a moment to think for the first time in twenty minutes, my mind turns to Rori. This isn’t anything like the Trinity situation, so I’m not worried about her reaction. Instead, I just want to be able to talk to her about it, like we talk about anything and everything—well, almost everything.
I text her the article link with the message, “Not great for Rawley, but got him some PR help.”
A minute later, her reply comes in.
RORI: UGH, that’s rough. How’s he doing?
LANDON: I can tell he’s a little scared. We need to make it right, so I had my rep Jim get involved.
RORI: Good.
RORI: He’s in college! He should be able to mess up sometimes.
I don’t disagree with her, but when you’re dealing with multi-billion dollar industries, things can be pretty unforgiving.
Johnson turns on a baseball game, and we watch while I wait for Jim to call me back. He does about fifteen minutes later.
“Had a productive conversation with Rawley,” he starts out by saying. “I had him go over every possible thing that could come up in his past. To confirm with you too, he’s never been arrested, never failed a drug test, never had anything come up with a girl that could raise questions?”
I can answer that with confidence. “No, none of that. He’s fundamentally a good kid, just likes to have fun and hates schoolwork”
“Perfect, that helps a lot. Just wanted to hear it from you too. When we get off, I will draft the statement for you guys to review, reach out to the school, and keep things moving in the right direction.”
Thank god for Jim. “Awesome. I appreciate it.”
“I also reached out to one of my contacts at Jalen Nash’s show,” he continues. “They’d love to do a feature interview before the pre-season games airing on Sunday.”
That would be major. Jalen’s show is one of the must-watch football shows still on network TV instead of streaming. His interviews come with a lot of eyes—and credibility.
“One more thing,” Jim adds. “They want you there too. Want to position it as a joint interview with the ‘Battle brothers,’ one tearing it up already in the NFL, the other about to. Play it up as one of those feel-good brother stories.”
Hmmm, I think. I’m in the middle of training camp, and Rawley’s football schedule isn’t much better as they officially start his pre-season college practices in a few days.
“Of course I’m willing to do it, but how’s that going to work? Would it be remote?” I ask.
“No,” he responds. “They want you both to come to New York on Sunday, make it a real in-person, sit-down vibe.”
Shit, my one day off.
“You can charter planes to go there and back on Sunday, and it won’t be an issue for either of you,” Jim says.
“It would be the best thing possible for Rawley to rewrite the narrative. We’ll get him nice and prepped.
I love that they want to include you, because you’re going to be more polished in dealing with everything. ”
He’s totally right, and this is something I can’t say no to for Rawley’s sake. But yep, I see my one time to be with Rori for the next two weeks evaporating before my eyes.
“Well, we got to do it, I agree,” I finally confirm to Jim. “I’ll talk to Grace to get the logistics in motion.”
Once Jim and I get off the phone, and I text Rawls and Grace the update, I look up to Johnson. He’s studying me with understanding in his eyes.
“So, that conversation with Rori is going to wait again, isn’t it?”
Yes, it is.