Chapter 22
Melody
Minnesota is frigid—is it ever not?—and I’m sitting across from Chet Arnold wishing I’d stayed home. His producers have us out on a dais with a giant screen between us and speakers all around like we’re color commentating the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.
Luckily, I packed my white puffer coat and flannel-lined jeans. I grabbed a scarf from one of the PAs, but I wish I’d remembered gloves as I fold my hands on the table in front of us. We’re both wearing headphones, which at least keep my ears warm.
“I have an idea for a fun segment we can try.” Chet gives me that game-show host smile like he’s got something really exciting planned.
“What’s that, Chet?” I do my best to appear interested, but I’m on guard.
Chet’s been antsy and eager all morning like something is coming, and I can’t help thinking about the way he sprung my fallout with Susan on me the last time we were together.
“It’s inspired by you. It’s called, Hit the Checkdown Challenge, and it asks the ever-burning question, ‘Will K-Brad take the easy five yards or not?’” He lifts his chin, barking a laugh. “Spoiler alert: He won’t!”
A flood of laugh-crying emojis fill the big screen behind us. Chet’s segment title is splayed in a playful font across the top of the screen along with his spoiler alert, and the comment bubbles pop up as animations in real time.
I force a laugh, but even I can tell it’s so fake. “I don’t know, Chet, we’ve been seeing a lot of growth this season, a lot less hero ball from our favorite player. I think he might be leaving bad habits behind.”
“Come now, QP, you know K-Brad can’t resist going for the win with every turnover.”
“There’s a lot to be said for drive,” I counter. “You can criticize his mechanics, Chet, and trust me, I have, but his team rallies around him. That demonstrates leadership. The team has his back.”
Text bubbles fill the big screen, but I don’t allow myself to read them. The skin on the back of my neck is tight, and my phone buzzes in my pocket. I know it’s Lindsey, and I can practically hear her screaming You’re doing it again all the way from New Orleans.
Our eyes are on the field where Knox just fired a pass directly into double coverage. I wince, and the words I should say are on the tip of my tongue. I can hear myself saying them, yet my mouth won’t move.
I don’t have to worry because Chet beats me to the punch. “I tell ya, QP, watching K-Brad throw into coverage is a lot like hearing ‘Sweet Caroline’ at karaoke. It’s painful, unnecessary, and somehow still happening.”
“I’m not going to fight you on that one, Chet.” I shift in my seat, forcing the words. “Do I think K-Brad is undisciplined? Yes, but he’s talented enough to get away with it. He’ll turn this around.”
The defense trots onto the field, and the Vikings’ O-line is ready for them.
“Let’s talk about the Saints’ defense a little bit,” I happily jump on the mic to let these guys take some heat. “My mom’s an antiques dealer, Chet, which makes me a bit of an expert.”
“An expert in what?” He grins widely.
“I’ve seen two-hundred-year-old grandfather clocks move faster than that pass rush.”
“Ow!” Chet leans back in his chair holding his fist in front of his mouth. “They’re giving JJ Justice all the time in the world out there.”
“Tell me about it,” I grouse. “They’ve recorded as many sacks as I have today. The difference is no one’s paying me ten million dollars.”
I tilt my head slightly to see how the big screen responds to these remarks. Laugh-crying emojis rise up like a volcano erupting, and the text bubbles I manage to see contain things like, Girl’s still got game! and The old QP is back! and This is why we come here for game coverage…
Of course, they’re mixed with the few comments letting me have it for daring to criticize our darling Saints, but my brand is built on calling out messy plays.
Finally the Vikings quarterback makes a bad pass, and I’m able to let him have it as well. “Chet, I’d say Justice threw that ball like a drunk guy sends texts.”
“How’s that, QP?” He tees me up.
“Too much confidence and no self-control.”
Chet falls back in his chair clapping his hands, and I don’t have to look at the board to know I’ve clawed something of my reputation back. I can’t seem to direct any hot takes at the man I’m falling for, but it makes the ones I do give that much stronger.
We’re heading into the end of the fourth quarter, and the Saints have fallen behind by two points. My throat is tight, and I know a lot is riding on how Knox handles these final plays. Last year, his errors cost us the playoffs, and if it happens again… well, I guess I’m back to driving for Uber.
“K-Brad’s coming off the field without moving the ball. We’ll see if the defensive line can keep Justice from scoring any more points.” Chet doesn’t sound as worried as I feel.
I remind myself it’s because he’s not a Saints fan, like I am. Chet’s an equal-opportunity insulter, he built his brand on taking down all the teams.
I’m a local reporter, which focuses my coverage on one team for better or worse. And I’ve specialized it even further to one player in particular.
“It’s like that sometimes,” I say, my eyes still on the game. “K-Brad plays like he was born to stress us out. Can I get an Amen, Saints Nation?”
I look at the board to see Amens flooding in as well as the thumbs-up and sweating emojis. We’re down to the final minutes of the game, and Brady Armstrong breaks through the line to sack Justice at the twenty-yard line.
I’m ready to jump in with a nice hot take on the way Justice went down like a hooker in Storyville when Chet turns the tables on me.
“That was a great play,” he calls loudly. “Too bad K-Brad wasn’t in on it.”
“We’ll take whatever great plays we get,” I smile, feeling a million times better after coming here. “The Vikings are a great team, a historic franchise, but we all know the old saying, ‘Offense scores points, but Defense wins games.’”
They line up for another try, and Armstrong powers through the line, going straight at Justice, putting the pressure on hard. The Vikings’ quarterback clearly panics, attempting a toss before our lineman nails him.
By some divine stroke of luck, the ball lands directly in the hands of a Saints inside linebacker, who turns and takes off flying down the field. We’re all on our feet screaming him on, and he takes the ball all the way to the fifteen-yard line before being stopped.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” I reach out and grab Chet’s arm, shaking it as we return to our chairs. So much for professional composure.
“That was some kind of turnaround,” Chet laughs, clearly caught up in the excitement in spite of himself. “Let’s see if K-Brad will take the opportunity he’s been given.”
I don’t comment. My throat is tight. Every muscle in my body is tensed as the Saints offense takes the field. The air is buzzing, and we’ve got ten seconds left to make the score. It’s enough time for one stellar play, and the pressure is so intense, my head hurts.
The guys line up, and Etienne makes the snap.
The ball is in Knox’s hands, and I can’t breathe.
I see him looking down the field for anyone, but Baker and Kyler are both covered.
He’s under pressure, the clock is running out, and all at once, a hole opens in the defensive line.
Knox digs in and runs straight through it fast as a rabbit, making the touchdown and winning the game.
We’re on our feet again, screaming. I’m laughing, holding Chet’s arm and giving him a hug. His eyes narrow at me as he smiles back, but I don’t pay any attention. It was a gorgeous play, and I wish I could be down there, going onto the field to celebrate with him.
As the kicker scores the extra point, we regain our composure, taking our seats to prepare for the post-game show. I’m still smiling, watching Knox high fiving and celebrating with his friends.
“That’s not hero ball, Chet, that’s simply a hero handling the ball.”
“It’s interesting to see you evolve around K-Brad,” Chet is still grinning in that suspicious way. “We’ll toss it to our guy on the field, but be sure and stick around for the post-game, folks, we’ve got something you do not want to miss.”
The cameras flicker off, and I stand, removing my headset. “I’ll just hit the ladies’ before we come back.”
“Five minutes,” Chet warns, and I give him a quick thumbs-up before stepping into the wings.
I slide my phone from my pocket, and as expected, my screen is full of texts from Lindsey going from scolding me for being too soft on Knox to congratulating me for roasting the Vikings and the defensive line.
I shake my head, quickly dismissing them as I shoot a text to Knox.
Melody
That final play was Gridiron Gold. Wish I could’ve been on the field to celebrate with you.
He won’t see it for a while, but I want him to know how I really feel. I couldn’t resist using his silly catchphrase, and my chest is warm and zippy as I return to the dais for our post-show chat.
The makeup artist powders our noses then steps to the side as the lights come up and we’re live on YouTube. I’ve come a long way from not wanting to have my face out there. Now I’m everywhere.
“And we’re back to talk about the New Orleans Saints’ stunning victory over the Minnesota Vikings. It’s been a series of early-season nail-biters, and that was some serious last-minute heroics, QP.”
“It’s true. K-Brad has been a little distracted this season, but he still pulled out a win every time. That’s what matters.” It’s a protective comment that flows effortlessly from my lips.
Lindsey will hate it. I expect even Knox will say he prefers constructive criticism, but I tell myself it’s what the fans are thinking, which is also part of my brand.
The only problem is all my warm feelings blind me to the gotcha bullet Chet’s loading into the barrel of his shotgun.