Connor
The building doesn’t look like much from the outside, which I’m pretty sure is the point.
Low and modern, tucked at the edge of a sports complex in Orange County, no giant logo screaming for attention.
Just a discreet sign that says Wilson Performance Training, like it doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone.
I pull into the parking lot and sit in my car for a second, staring at the entrance.
So here I am.
The NFC Championship loss still stings when I think about it. We got close. Close enough to taste it, and the offseason has felt like purgatory ever since, all dead time until we get another shot. And if I want to be the guy they rely on when it matters, I need to be better than good.
I need to be uncoverable.
I grab my bag from the passenger seat and head inside.
The lobby is quiet, almost eerily so after months of stadium noise and crowds.
Clean lines, polished concrete floors, floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto a pristine practice field.
No team posters, no motivational quotes plastered on the walls.
Just the faint hum of air conditioning and the distant sound of weights clanking somewhere deeper in the building.
A woman at the front desk glances up, smiles briefly, and points me toward a hallway. “Coach Wilson’s expecting you.”
I nod and head that way. My footsteps are the loudest thing in here. The place is quiet and private, the kind that doesn’t do walk-ins.
Wilson appears just past the entrance to the main training wing.
Mid-fifties, lean like someone who’s been in shape his whole life and has no intention of stopping.
Sharp eyes that track my approach and make me want to stand up straighter.
He’s wearing a plain gray shirt and black athletic pants, no branding, no flash.
He extends a hand. “Knox.”
“Coach.” I shake it once, firm, and then he’s already turning, gesturing for me to follow.
No small talk. No “how was your season” or “glad you could make it.” Just straight to business.
I follow him down the hallway, past offices with open doors and empty desks, past a film room with a massive screen, past what looks like a fully stocked physical therapy suite. Wilson talks as we walk, his voice even and unhurried.
“Five weeks. We’ll split your focus three ways. Route precision, release work, contested catches. Conditioning built around game-speed reps, not volume. You’ll be pushed early and corrected constantly. If something isn’t improving by week three, we cut it or rebuild it.”
I process that, nodding along. It sounds intense. Which is exactly what I signed up for.
“Morning field work starts at eight,” he continues. “Midday recovery. Film sessions twice a week, more if needed. You’ll have access to the facility outside of scheduled hours, but I’d recommend rest over extra reps. Your body’s going to need it.”
We stop outside an office. He pushes the door open and steps inside, and I follow. The space is as no-nonsense as he is. A desk with a laptop, a whiteboard on the wall covered in what looks like drill sequences, and a corkboard with a printed schedule pinned to it.
Wilson gestures toward the board. “Your schedule. Memorize it. If you’re late, you’re wasting everyone’s time, not just yours.”
I step closer, scanning the neat rows of times and locations. Morning fieldwork, strength and conditioning, recovery protocols, film review. It’s packed but not overwhelming, structured and efficient.
“Who else is in the group?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder at him.
“You’ll meet them soon enough.”
That’s all he gives me. No names, no details. Just a vague non-answer that makes it clear he’s not interested in socializing before the work starts.
Fair enough.
Wilson points toward the door. “Locker room’s down the hall, third door on your left. Get changed. Field in fifteen.”
I take the dismissal for what it is and head out, finding the locker room exactly where he said. It’s small, maybe a dozen lockers, all of them empty except for a few in the corner with duffel bags sitting in front of them. I pick a locker on the opposite side, drop my bag, and start changing.
The NFC Championship loss creeps back into my head as I lace up my cleats. The way we were so close. The way I kept thinking if I’d just been a little faster, a little sharper, maybe we would’ve pulled it off. That one’s been riding me ever since, and it won’t let up until I do something about it.
I grab my helmet and gloves and head toward the noise.
The field is perfect. Pristine grass, crisp lines, goalposts standing sharp against the California sky. A couple of guys are already out there, working through their drills. I pause at the edge, taking it in.
One of them I recognize immediately. Travis McKenna, tight end for Seattle, tall and broad-shouldered, with an air of authority that makes a room go still. He’s running routes against air, his movements smooth and controlled.
The other guy takes me a second, but I place him: Griffin Brooks, running back for Denver. Thick build, confident posture, moving through agility drills like it’s second nature.
Neither of them breaks stride as I approach, which is fine. This isn’t a social hour.
I head over and call out a general greeting. “Hey.”
McKenna glances at me and nods once. “Knox.”
Brooks raises a hand in acknowledgment but doesn’t stop moving.
That’s the extent of our introductions, and I’m good with that. We all know why we’re here. To get better, not to network or show off. No posturing, no bullshit. Just work.
I start stretching, working through my usual routine. Hamstrings, quads, hips, shoulders. The sun is warm but not brutal, and the air smells clean, nothing like the beer-and-hot-dog stink of stadiums.
This won’t be so bad, I think. Five weeks of solid work with a couple of guys who know what they’re doing. Nothing to think about but football.
I’m mid-stretch, one leg extended in front of me, when I hear footsteps on the field. I glance up.
Wilson is walking toward us, his pace easy. And there’s someone beside him.
For a second, my brain refuses to cooperate. It takes in the details, the gold chain he never takes off, the dark hair shoved off his forehead, the unbothered set of his shoulders, and just… stalls. Like it’s trying to process something that doesn’t make sense.
Adrian Vega.
Here. On this field.
For a beat, I just stare, because there’s no way I’m seeing this right.
This has to be some stress-induced hallucination, my brain playing tricks on me after months of grinding through the season.
But no. It’s definitely him. Same sharp cheekbones, same calm expression, same infuriating aura of someone who has never been rattled by anything.
And he’s looking right at me.
Wilson stops a few feet away, Vega a step behind him. I straighten, my hamstring protesting the sudden movement, and try to arrange my face into something that doesn’t scream what the fuck.
“Knox,” Wilson says, as if this is completely normal. “You’ll be working with Vega for most of the program. Receiver versus corner. Best way to improve both of you.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Wilson’s tone doesn’t invite argument. “Route running against live coverage is more valuable than running against air. Vega needs work on his press technique and recovery mechanics. You need cleaner releases and sharper routes. It’s efficient.”
Efficient. Right.
I glance at Vega, who is standing there watching this entire exchange with that unreadable expression he always has. Like he’s analyzing the situation and filing it away for later use.
Does he look smug? I can’t tell, which is worse.
“Any questions?” Wilson asks.
Yeah. Several. Starting with why the universe hates me.
“No,” I say instead, because what am I supposed to say? That the last time I saw Vega, he got a read on me I didn’t like and I drank too much because of it, and that I’d rather train with literally anyone else?
Wilson claps his hands once. “Alright. Let’s get to work.”
He turns and starts walking toward the far end of the field, clearly expecting us to follow. I grab my helmet and fall into step behind him, Vega beside me.
We walk in silence for a few seconds before the question’s out of me.
“Did you know about this?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
Vega glances at me. “No. Wilson told me right before we walked out here.”
I scowl, because of course Wilson just sprung this on both of us without warning. Probably thought it would be hilarious.
“Great,” I mutter.
Vega gives me another sideways glance, and for the first time, I catch him smiling. “You could try to look at least a little excited, Boy Scout.”
I glare at him, but he’s already looking away, his attention shifting to Wilson up ahead.
***
Wilson marks off twenty yards of field and waves over one of the younger coaches, a guy named Davies, who looks barely older than me, with nervous energy written all over him.
He jogs up with a football, glancing between me and Vega like he’s trying to figure out if this is about to be entertaining or painful.
Wilson crosses his arms and calls out the first route, and I realize we’re actually doing this.
One-on-ones with Adrian Vega for the next five weeks.
“Slant,” Wilson says. “Knox, work on the push at the line. Vega, stay patient on the release.”
I line up across from Vega. He settles into his stance, weight balanced, eyes locked on my hips. Not my shoulders or my hands. Because he knows the hips are where the truth is. Where my body commits before anything else does.
Davies raises the ball, and I explode off the line.
Vega’s hands are on me immediately, pressing into my chest, disrupting my timing. I shove back, fighting through the contact, and break inside. The ball’s already coming. I reach, fingertips stretching, and pull it in.
“Good,” Wilson says. “Again.”