Chapter 27
RAWLEY
“Shhh, I want to hear her press conference.”
Landon nods. “Oh yeah, sorry.” He and Connor have been chatting away since the game ended.
We’ve just flipped to the Surge YouTube channel so we can listen. Okay, so I can listen.
Connor shoots me a look. He can’t say anything in front of Landon, but I can guess at what he’s thinking. Dangerous territory.
It’s just a continuation of our conversation from earlier. He made me explain why Avery came home with me as soon as she left. So I told him about it all. The kiss, the bet.
“Rawls, I don’t think this is a good idea,” he warned after I gave him the update.
I sighed, and said, “Probably not. But I don’t want to stop.”
He just shook his head at that.
I flush that memory away for now while I listen to Avery speaking.
REPORTER: Avery, this performance today was quite a statement from you. How are you feeling?
AVERY: I’m a little emotional, not going to lie. I’ve been trying to be patient about finding my comfort zone here at the pro level, but it won’t surprise any of you to learn that patience is not my strong suit.
The reporters laugh.
REPORTER: There’s been a lot of chatter about you not starting yet. Would you expect to now?
AVERY: This is a team game. Coach Anker and the rest of the coaches decide what’s right for the team. Our record is now ten and four, so they know what they’re doing.
To my ear, that answer sounds more rote than her normal tone. But it doesn’t seem like the reporters pick that up.
REPORTER: Have you talked to your dad?
AVERY: I have. It was nice.
Despite the short answer, this sounds more genuine. Soft, even. Interesting—since I know her dad isn’t a favorite topic.
REPORTER: What about Rawley?
AVERY: We texted right before I came in here and it was also nice. Yes, that is all the info you’re getting.
She’s smiling at the tail end of her reply, and the reporters chuckle again.
Damn, this is making me want to see her, sooner rather than later. She’s in Orlando for the week, so technically we could find time to hang again even tomorrow. And I really want to.
But fuck, it’s not part of our plan. The next time we’re supposed to see each other is the concert in a few days.
So all I do is text her again, around the time I think she’ll be back at Sarah’s.
RAWLEY: You home now? Or did you go out to celebrate?
AVERY: Home. I need quiet. My brain is
RAWLEY: I can imagine.
RAWLEY: This is probably the wrong time to do this, but I just wanted to say I had a good time last night.
AVERY: Me too :)
AVERY: And who knows, maybe that mattress is my good luck charm.
There’s a really bad joke somewhere that I could make, but I restrain myself.
RAWLEY:
AVERY: So with the concert coming up, have you started your homework?
RAWLEY: What homework?
I truly don’t know what she means.
AVERY: Leading up to a concert, you’re supposed to listen to the band’s music a lot. That way you can really get into the songs live.
RAWLEY: I didn’t know that was a thing.
AVERY: It is.
I guess I’m listening to a lot of TriPostal this week.
Because if that’s what Avery wants from me, consider it done.
Our texting winds down, and I drift to sleep.
I wake up hyped about everything that’s happened the last two days—and for the day ahead, even if it doesn’t involve Avery.
With the last OTA coming up and his field closing for Grace’s track renovations soon, Johnson has invited me over to go through more plays.
Only, when I show up, playbook in hand, I see Bailey there too. Not a bad thing at all; I know he’ll offer a lot of guidance on top of wanting to practice himself.
As I approach them, I realize how similar the setup is to when I visited last summer and played here with just the two of them.
But then, I was only a college kid about to start my junior year. Now, I’m a teammate.
Fucking crazy.
“I hope you don’t mind that I crashed the party,” Bailey jokes.
“I hope you don’t mind me being the weak link today,” I say without thinking.
Shit, I need to stop doing that. Putting myself down as a default reaction. It’s not helping anything.
“You’re right where you need to be, Rawley,” Johnson reassures me.
“Truly. I was clueless as fuck until halfway into my first season,” Bailey adds.
“Thanks,” I say, not sure what else to reply. “But, yeah, it’s awesome for you to be here. I’m sure I’ll have a million questions.”
“Bring ’em on.” Bailey turns to Johnson. “What’s the plan today, QB1?”
“Rawley, why don’t you guide us, actually? What plays are not sticking yet? We can focus on those.”
They both level their eyes in my direction, waiting for me to take the reins. A perennial Pro Bowler in Bailey, and our starting quarterback of four years, Johnson.
It’s unreal, and a little startling, to have these two guys so nonchalant about handing the buck to me.
Football may be a source of confidence for me, but they are the best of the best.
And fully grown men, not the kids I’ve been playing with since my flag football days.
“Okay, sure.” Wanting to meet Johnson’s call, I mentally click through the most important plays that I’ve yet to nail down. “Why don’t we start with…” And I go through an initial list of five.
Fifteen minutes later, we start working through the third play I’ve selected. Looking over the diagram in the playbook first, I close my eyes and recite the play call name while also “seeing” my part in the play.
When I open my eyes, I see Johnson watching me.
“You visualizing the play?”
“Yeah, it helps me hold on to the info.”
“Totally, it’s actually a great way to learn. I do something similar; I like to draw everything out.”
“Like literally draw it?”
“Yeah, it’s my version of what you’re doing. Landon and Grace can attest to all the scraps of paper I leave around during this time of the season.” He chuckles lightly.
“It’s good to know I’m not weird.”
He looks at me thoughtfully. “If you’re weird, so am I. But whatever it takes, right?”
“Right.”
He keeps studying me. “You know you’re doing great, don’t you? I hope you see that for yourself.”
Too often, I still don’t feel that way, but I appreciate his words of affirmation.
“Thanks, Johnson, that means a lot. Seriously.”
He nods. “Well, let’s keep this train moving. Practice the one you just picked.”
We go over fourteen plays total, all of which I haven’t mastered yet.
It’s tedious, with lots of corrections.
“No, Rawley, you don’t want to cut there. Wait three more yards.”
“On this one, you should fake going to the inside first. They fall for it every time.”
“You’re going to be too close to the tight end there. Slide toward the sideline.”
But it works.
It fucking works.
We repeat the process the next day, at Johnson’s suggestion. There’s certainly nothing more important on my agenda.
And as we go through the same setup again, with me giving them direction on which play to run, I feel something shift.
I’m meant to be here.
I’m not perfect, but that’s okay.
Because I have something to offer that very few people can, and I’m going to do my very best to maximize that.
And combined with the plays I already had down, I’m suddenly feeling good about more than half the playbook, including almost all the most important plays for wide receivers.
Excited—and ready—for the OTA starting tomorrow.
I update Landon and Connor over dinner after that second day at Johnson’s, unable to contain how happy I am at the progress.
I’d made a spicy turkey meatloaf, and we all scoff it down while I describe everything.
“That’s awesome, Rawls,” Landon says. “I’d hoped Johnson and Bailey would help you.”
Connor responds before I get a chance. “He’s helping himself.”
Landon receives the memo from Connor, and smiles at me. “Yes, absolutely.”
“They did help. But I have to master the routes myself, period.”
“Well, I’m proud of you. How are they setting up the deep options? Are you and Bailey both…?”
As Landon and I start chatting about the actual plays, I notice Connor paying more attention than he normally does. Usually, when we get into it like this, he’s on his phone scrolling to entertain himself.
Still, after five minutes, I feel bad. We never talk soccer like this around the dinner table. “Connor, we can change the subject, if you want?”
Landon is the one who responds. “Please do. I need to call Rori before it’s too late over there.”
Putting his dish in the sink, Landon disappears. It’s got to be around her bedtime in Paris, but that never stops them from their hours-long chats.
She lost in the finals of the French Open earlier, and is flying to the UK tomorrow to start her grass court season.
“So you’re leaving to see Bea tomorrow morning?” It’s become his normal routine when Landon and I get consumed with the OTAs.
“Yeah,” he says, pushing one last bite of meatloaf around his plate.
I’m about to pry when my phone dings. I look—and it’s Stefani.
STEFANI: Hi! We still good for next month?
“Shit.”
“What?”
“I need to handle this. It’s Stef.” He gives me a knowing look before I make my way to my room.
I collapse on the bed, playing with the phone instead of replying right away.
With everything going on, there’s no way I can visit her in New York.
My schedule alone is impossible, but even more important, I’m supposed to be dating Avery. I can’t randomly show up across the country to hang with another woman.
And with Avery and I now physically involved?
Zero chance I can do the trip.
Fuck. I’m not looking forward to this, but I can’t drag it out any more. I’m supposed to be there in less than a month.
Suck it up, Rawls.
RAWLEY: Hey hey, how was your day?
STEFANI: I’m okay. It was a light rehearsal day, since so many people had performances.
RAWLEY: Not you?
STEFANI: Not today, I’m prepping for a show that runs next month tho.
She’s being kind of terse for her, so my antenna is up even more.
STEFANI: Sooooo, I know you and Avery are a thing, but you’re still coming, right?
Shit, here we go.
RAWLEY: Yeah, about that. I don’t think I can come to New York after all. I’m sorry.
I hope that didn’t sound too harsh.
Suddenly, my phone is ringing.
“Rawley Battle, are you really abandoning me?” Her soft Alabama accent is still present after all this time up North. “We’re friends, and nothing has to happen. You always come visit me in the summer. Who’s going to take me to the Met at midnight and dance around the fountain?”
She’d been talking about taking me to the goddamn Met for months. Fuck, this feels weird.
“Yeah, I know, Stef. It’s not going to work out this year, okay?” I try to think of ways to make her feel better. “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just impossible. We’re still friends though.”
“Huh,” she says, and a memory of her pouting face pops in my mind. I bet she’s making it right now. “This is disappointing.”
“We’re going to stay friends,” I repeat.
“Sure. I’m going to go,” she says.
And then she hangs up and doesn’t text me again that night.
Guess I “handled” that.