Chapter 5
Knox
“Lost the recipe?” I growl, looking at my phone.
Chet Arnold caught me on the field after an especially grueling practice in the September heat. I was exhausted and tired. It was a holiday, yet we were on the training field instead of lounging by a pool somewhere with our families.
Then he asked me about that fucking Girl’s Got Game chick. I’ll admit, I took shots, but that female has me seeing red.
Of course she replied with one of her usual snarky comebacks. Does she have comedy writers on staff or something? And TMI pulled her quote and turned it into a viral article on their website. It’s making me crazy.
“These guys don’t miss a trick,” I grouse, ready for Fonz to stop forwarding these things to me.
“They’re having a great time with your beef.” Baker grips my shoulder, giving it a shake. “Are you gonna fuck her?”
“What?” I snap. “Hell, no. She’s probably some old hag who never had kids. Now she’s got too much time on her hands.”
“Nah,” Baker argues, shaking his head. “That voice is young and hot, and she knows football? Sign me up.”
“Sign me off. I want her gone.”
“That’s not going to happen,” my friend laughs, shaking his head. “If that’s how you feel, you gotta go full blackout. Head down. Focus on the game. Starve her out of your system.”
At least one thing is going right for me as we head into the new season. The coaches listened, and I’ve got my boys Baker and Kyler with me now.
Our offensive line is finally coming together. Fonz, Gill, and Etienne create a pocket, and my boys are just waiting downfield to receive.
We’ve been practicing hard since mid-July, and with the first game right around the corner, I’m ready to do as Baker said. I’ll block out all that shit, focus on the game, and flush the Quarterback Princess out of my mind.
The stands surrounding our practice field are fuller than they were during last year’s training camp. It’s the hottest time of the year, yet the place is full of local fans coming out to watch, and as we make our way to the locker room, I can’t help wondering if it has to do with that podcast.
As annoying as it is, they’re engaged, which is a good thing, I guess.
“These guys are loving it.” Fonz walks beside us, nodding at the spectators slowly making their way to the parking area. “You should find out something about her and start dishing back.”
“Not interested.” I shake my head.
“What?” He laugh-cries. “You’re the biggest joker I know. Where’s your sense of humor?”
It’s a good question, and he’s right. I have always been able to joke around, tease. Why does this amateur behind a mic make me so angry?
“I think I lost it when I became K-Brad.” Idiotic nickname.
Don’t get me wrong, I love being on the team, representing the city, being in the spotlight. I don’t care for being a “public figure.” That phrase just gets thrown around a lot to excuse crossing lines and invading our privacy.
“I don’t believe that.” Fonz pulls his jersey over his head and heads for the showers. “You’re the king of nicknames.”
I guess I did name him The Fonz, but that’s because he’s cool under pressure. It’s a compliment, not a cutdown.
“Knox is smart to stay out of it,” Baker argues. “She’s got a mic, a platform. The best revenge is winning games. Who’s with me?”
We all yell, clapping hands. The team is coming together, and we can all feel it. It has us all excited to face the Cardinals.
Baker was always my go-to receiver in Tuscaloosa. Every time I needed him, he would appear. We won two national championships together, and he would’ve come with me last year. He wanted to finish his degree first, not that I blame him.
I was a year ahead, so it made sense. Having a backup plan is a must in this game. You never know when you might have to start all over again.
“Maybe if you went and talked to her?” Etienne stands beside me looking down as he pulls out clean clothes. “My grandma said a lot of times people just want to be heard. Maybe if you asked what she wanted to say to you, she’d say it, and that would be the end.”
“Who are you, freaking Mother Teresa?” Fonz teases him loudly, but Etienne has always been a steady presence on the team. “That girl isn’t about making peace. She’s about going viral, and she’s got that shit on lock.”
I can’t argue with that. “Yeah, I think she’s saying what she needs to say every week.”
My friend shrugs, and the conversation drifts to what everybody’s doing this weekend. Although I dismissed it, Etienne’s suggestion sticks in my brain. I don’t know how I could talk to her. I don’t even know who she is in real life.
It’s probably all a big joke to her like Fonz said, and my reactions make it even funnier. Sort of like when I flirt with Dove, and Maverick goes from love-sick puppy to Hulk monster. The memory makes me snort a laugh.
Or maybe she really is a disgruntled fan trying to get my attention. What if all it took was giving it to her and stealing her motivation?
* * *
Standing in a crouch, I hold my hands at the height of my chest.
We’re playing on real grass in Glendale, facing off against the Cardinals for the first game of the season. The top of the stadium is open, and it’s hot and dry like an oven.
From the outside, the curvy metal stadium gives the impression of a giant, industrial bee hive. We’re buzzing with adrenaline and anticipation. We won the toss, which means Arizona got the ball first.
My mind drifts to images of bees moving in time, focused on a goal, filling those tiny pockets in preparation for the long, cold winter. Drunk on springtime sugar.
We’re at peak performance this year. Our defense is outperforming under the new coach. They form a wall, and the Cardinals quarterback can’t make any progress.
He falls back, searching for an opening, and Brady flies right up the center for the sack. I’m dancing on the sidelines waiting for my turn. I don’t have to wait long.
Jogging onto the field, I’ve got Baker, Fonz, Etienne, Kyler, and Raymond with me. The dream team.
A quick huddle, and we’re on the line of scrimmage. I nod to Fonz, and he signals Etienne, who is crouched a few feet in front of me ready to make the snap.
He gives the line a slight nod of his head, and the ball shoots into my hands as I fall back.
Protection surrounds me. Raymond, Fonz, and Etienne hold the Arizona line of defense, but they dig in harder. The Cardinals aren’t about to get beat on their home turf.
Tuning out all of it, I scan downfield looking for an opening. Kyler is in trouble, but Baker is spinning away from a cornerback, getting in position for a big play.
In my peripheral, I see an Arizona linebacker headed straight for me. I don’t have time to wonder where my protection has gone. I see the opening, and I pull back and shoot it, a tight spiral, twenty yards directly into Baker’s waiting arms.
He does a spin, and he’s out of the corner’s grip. He digs into that sweet, Bermuda grass like a gazelle and flies down the field at top speed. The crowd is on their feet, and even though our fan base here is small, they’re making noise at this play. It’s one for the highlight reels.
A clean pass, a beautiful catch, and a nice, fifty-yard dash all the way to the endzone. We’re on the board in the first quarter.
If only it stayed that way.
The Cardinals coach must have a cattle prod, because after our first magical play, it’s all downhill for the Saints.
We line up in a simple I-formation, and on the pass, I fake a handoff to my running back. As planned, the defense takes the bait, but before I can get it off to Kyler, that same damn linebacker breaks through and takes me down, costing us yards.
Another lineup, another break in the line. I don’t even have time to lock eyes with Baker before I’m forced to throw it away. Our kicker misses the field goal, and the defense heads onto the field.
They hold the line. No points are scored, but when we return to the field, we’re equally held. Again, no points.
It’s starting to look like neither defense is going to break… until ours does.
Their fake-out is successful, and the Cardinals manage to score. They get the extra point, and it’s our turn again. To do nothing.
I’m able to fire off some great passes, but one is over Kyler’s head and the other is out of bounds before Baker can reach it. My jaw is clenched as we leave the field. I nearly break a tooth when the Cardinals come right out of the huddle to score again.
They miss the extra point, but it’s enough. The half ends at 13-7, Arizona in the lead, and we jog to the locker room to regroup.
We have fifteen minutes to get back on track. I’ve got to figure out a way to revive our motivation, help us see the win. We arrived here thinking it would be a piece of cake, but it has turned into a gauntlet.
Every team has been preparing for this moment. We all want that ring, and we’re all starting from the same point, stepping into the arena ready to fight to the end.
“Aw, shit,” Fonz groans loudly from where he sits on the bench.
“My sentiments exactly,” I concur before I realize he’s holding his phone.
In the weeks leading up to this day, I followed Baker’s advice and took a complete social media break. I told Fonz to stop sending me articles, and he did.
“What are you looking at?” I ask.
He shakes his head, sitting up and shoving the device into his cubby. “You don’t want to know.”
Coach walks up to the front, and frustration twists in my chest. I glance around the room at my favorite players. Two of them are here because of me, and I’m not about to let them down.
Coach speaks first, pointing out our weak spots, reminding us what we’ve practiced, ordering us to tighten up. He lays out a game plan for the second half.
I’m still beside Fonz, who’s chewing on the side of his nail, and the only thing worse than his obvious consternation is not knowing the source. “Show it to me.”
His lips flatten into a straight line, and his black eyes are on me. Then he shakes his head slowly. “You told me not to.”
Against my better judgment, I press him. “What did she say?”
Why do I care? Why does it matter what she says?
Tension grips my shoulders, and my stomach is sick. I stand waiting for the words. Instead, he hands me his phone. TMI already has the pull-out quote, and it’s precisely what I’d expect.
K-Brad is the guy who turns the meat every five seconds instead of trusting the process. We’ve got a kitchen full of smoke and no dinner.
I push the phone back into his hands. “She’s really doubling down on the kitchen thing.”
Fonz wipes the back of his wrist over the smile he’s trying to hide. “You started it.”
I can’t argue with that, so I don’t.
“Huddle up!” The team gathers around me, and I do my best to give them a pep talk. “This game is well within our reach. We’ve practiced. We’ve done the drills. We’re ready. All we have to do is relax and trust the process. Can we do that?”
Did I just quote the Quarterback Princess?
The guys shout back a yes, and we do our hype routine. All hands go to the center of the circle, we grip each others’ wrists, then we shout in unison, March In!
Then we head back out to the field.