2. Bigger Than Football
Bigger Than Football
Nolan
Three years later, winning still hurt like hell.
Metal cleats clattered against the concrete as I limped down the tunnel toward the locker room, helmet tucked under one arm.
Sweat had soaked through everything beneath my pads, and the turf burn along my throwing elbow stung each time the fabric shifted over it.
Somebody cracked smelling salts somewhere behind me, adding another brutal scent to the mix of sweat, tape, and wet equipment.
All I wanted was the cold tub.
I caught the buckle at my side and tugged. It stuck.
“Come on.”
The latch released on the second pull. I started on the other side as the locker-room doors came into view.
“Nolan!”
Dad’s voice carried over the traffic in the tunnel.
I kept moving.
“Give me thirty seconds, son.”
“Make it fifteen.” I shifted the helmet against my hip and reached for the next buckle. “I’m going straight to the tub.”
He caught up beside me and slapped a hand against my pads.
Pain fired through the shoulder that had taken the brunt of three sacks and more hits than I cared to count.
I stopped.
“Easy on the right side. That shoulder took enough tonight.”
Dad grinned as if I’d told him the weather was nice. His suit looked untouched despite four quarters spent pacing the private box and whatever sponsor obligations he had crammed around the game.
“Then quit trying to peel the pads off in the middle of the tunnel.”
“I’d peel them off in the parking lot if it got me to the trainers faster.”
A pair of defensive linemen passed us on their way inside. One tapped my helmet with two fingers.
“Hell of a drive, QB.”
“Thanks, man.”
Dad waited until they disappeared through the doors before turning back to me.
“That is how a franchise quarterback handles a fourth-quarter blitz, son.” He pointed toward the field behind us. “You looked untouchable out there.”
The praise should have landed better.
We had won. I’d thrown for enough yards to keep every sports desk in the country busy until morning, and the final drive had been the kind of series kids replayed on their phones until they knew every pass.
Right then, I cared more about getting twenty pounds of equipment off my body.
“Thanks, Dad.” I worked another strap loose. “But my shoulder is wrecked. I need to get into the cold tub before the adrenaline wears off and it seizes up.”
“Fine. In a minute.”
I looked at him.
“No. Now.”
“Give me one minute before you disappear behind those doors.”
My hand stayed on the loosened buckle.
Dad had used that tone through college, the draft process, my rookie contract, endorsement meetings—every negotiation where somebody had added another zero because Reid Callahan refused to leave the table. He had built an empire around my right arm before I had understood what an empire cost.
Most days, trusting him made my life easier.
Tonight, I was too tired to enjoy the arrangement.
“What is it?”
“The apparel executives flew in from New York.”
Of course they had.
I tipped my head toward the locker room. “They can meet me tomorrow.”
“They brought Sloane.”
That made me stop working at the pads.
Dad took the opening.
“The digital team wants raw post-game material before the midnight launch. No stage. No scripted interview. Sweat, turf stains, game-day energy. Five minutes.”
I stared past him at the doors.
Ice waited on the other side. So did the training staff, the press schedule, film questions, and whatever else they still needed from me.
“Dad, I just played four quarters.”
“And you were brilliant. That’s the point. They want you before somebody scrubs the game off you and puts you behind a podium.”
“I smell like a locker room.”
“They paid for a football player.”
I rubbed the edge of my helmet with my thumb.
Five minutes.
Dad had spent years getting me into rooms players spent careers trying to reach.
He had fought teams, sponsors, executives, and agencies twice his size because he believed my career should become bigger than football.
If he said the people behind our biggest campaign needed five minutes, refusing over an ice bath seemed childish.
Besides, this was the bargain.
I played.
He handled everything around it.
It kept the circus away from the parts of my life that mattered.
“Five,” I said.
Dad smiled. “That’s all I need.”
I let the loose strap hang from my pads and turned away from the locker-room doors.
Five minutes, then I was going to the cold tub.
Reid headed down the hall before I could change my mind.
“You said five,” I reminded him.
“Then keep walking and stop fighting the pads until we’re done.”
I followed him down the restricted corridor, helmet tucked against my side. Every step pulled at the turf burn on my elbow, and the pads had started to feel like punishment.
The hallway opened into a cleared staging area that looked as if a marketing team had invaded the stadium before halftime. Portable LED lights washed the concrete in white glare. Three executives stood near a branded backdrop while a content creator adjusted a handheld rig.
Sloane Prescott waited in the center of it all.
She wore a fitted version of our team gear that had never touched turf. Her hair fell over one shoulder, and her perfume cut through the sweat and field grime that still clung to me.
“There’s our QB1.” Her smile widened as I approached. “I was starting to think the defense actually managed to slow you down on that final drive.”
“Just trying to survive the pocket, Sloane.” I let the helmet hang at my side. “Let’s get this promo done so I can get some ice on this knee.”
Her gaze dropped to my uniform.
“You look like you lost a fight.”
“I won the game.”
“That wasn’t my point.”
“Then your point can wait until after the trainers.”
The content creator pointed toward a low bench against the wall. “Helmet there, please. I need your hands free.”
I set it down and straightened. Standing still gave every hit from the game a chance to catch up with me. My shoulder ached under the pads, and my knee stiffened.
Reid moved behind the camera.
“Let’s stay on schedule.”
“I’m the one who asked for five minutes.”
“And you’re getting them.”
Sloane stepped closer, studying the turf stains smeared across my jersey.
“This is better than wardrobe could fake.”
“Happy my pain is useful.”
She laughed. “You’re charming after a win.”
“I’m charming when people let me shower.”
The creator lifted the rig and started circling us. A red tally light blinked near the lens.
“All right, you two. Step closer together.”
I moved toward Sloane.
“Closer than that.”
Reid pointed from behind the camera. “Give them what they need, Nolan.”
The trainers were somewhere beyond the corridor, probably wondering why their quarterback had vanished with half his equipment still on.
Five minutes. That was the deal.
Sloane angled one shoulder toward the lens. She had done this a thousand times. There was no hesitation in the way she found the light or turned her face toward the camera.
I had learned a different version of the same skill.
“Should I lose the pads?” I asked.
“No,” the content creator said. “Keep them. I need the contrast.”
“What contrast?”
“The turf-stained grit and the glamour colliding.”
Sloane looked at me. “Apparently I’m the glamour.”
“You’re welcome to take the turf burns too.”
“Tempting.”
The creator kept the camera aimed at us. “Good. Keep talking. That’s the energy.”
This was the part of the job nobody mentioned when they talked about playing quarterback. Nobody put brand chemistry in the playbook. After taking hits for three hours, I was still expected to stand under lights and sell a fantasy before anybody let me put ice on something that hurt.
But Reid had spent years building the machine around me.
He handled the contracts, the corporate obligations, and the noise. I played football. If giving these people a few usable clips bought me another week without having to think about any of it, I could stand beside a supermodel for five minutes.
The creator checked the screen, then raised the camera again.
“Bring it in tighter. Come on, give me the power-couple energy. I need that undeniable campaign chemistry for the timeline.”
Sloane stepped closer.
I let my shoulders drop, shifted my weight off the bad knee, and looked into the lens.
The sooner they got what they wanted, the sooner I could leave.
I surrendered to the camera and let them have the version of me they had paid to see.
The content creator lowered the rig and frowned at the screen.
“No. Too safe.”
I looked at Reid. “What does that mean?”
“It means you look like two people standing beside each other at a charity golf tournament.” The creator raised the camera again. “I need chemistry.”
“I just played a football game.”
“And she didn’t.” He pointed toward Sloane. “That’s the whole visual.”
Reid clasped his hands behind his back. “Stop making him explain it to you, Nolan. Give them something usable so we can wrap.”
My knee throbbed worse every second I stood under the lights. The trainers were still waiting for me in the rehab room, and I had burned through more of Dad’s promised five minutes than I wanted to count.
“Then tell me where you want me.”
The creator motioned between us. “Just close the gap. I need to believe you two actually like each other.”
Sloane stepped directly into my space.
Her shoulder brushed the front of my pads. One hand came up to the collar of my jersey, pinching the damp fabric between two fingers as she studied it.
“We can’t have the face of the campaign looking messy for the launch, can we?”
“The face of the campaign just got driven into the turf by a defensive end.”
“Twice.”
“Three times.”
She laughed and pressed her hand flat against my chest.
The creator stepped to my right. “That. Stay there.”
Sloane’s hand remained there.
I glanced down at it.