Page 5

Before he’s even open, I flick my eyes to the defense, clocking Pierce and Sutton.

I pull my arm back to throw, and thanks to the correction we made before the play, Owusu shows up right where I need him. He secures the ball, keeping his stride as he crosses the field.

The defense trails behind him.

Sutton catches up after Owusu gains twenty yards and tags him.

Coach blows the whistle to end practice.

Owusu jogs over to me, tossing the ball to Coach on his way.

“Thanks for the correction, QB.”

“Great play,” I answer him. “Let’s get some slant reps in tomorrow.”

Owusu nods, smiling as Pierce catches up to us and claps him on the shoulder.

“Gave me a run for my money, rookie,” Pierce says.

“That’s the plan,” Owusu says, beaming. Then he looks at me and says, “Thanks to Delaney telling me to fix my split.”

“Brown-nosing will get you everywhere,” Pierce teases. “Be careful, though. We still need to fit in the locker room with Delaney’s ego when you finish getting him all puffed up like that.”

I laugh, even though my “ego” has been the subject of media attention ever since the final playoff game of last season.

I had a charley horse after the final play. It felt like my calf was going to explode. All the cameras were on me. I gritted my teeth through the pain and smiled a tight-lipped grin as I strode toward the tunnel, fully focused on reaching my trainers in private. I didn’t want to draw attention to my condition and possibly start rumors that I was injured.

In the process, I forgot to shake my opponent’s hand.

In all my years, even in Pop Warner as a kid, I always shook hands with the opponent, no matter the outcome of the game.

The one time I missed, the media had a feeding frenzy.

Our PR policy is to always let the story die out instead of fanning the flames with a rebuttal, unless one is absolutely needed.

Kate, our director of communications, has told me to let my past reputation and this year’s performance be the rebuttal—along with some PR she has lined up for me to do. I trust her guidance, so I’m enduring the misperceptions for the time being. I shouldn’t have to prove I’m not a jerk. But I’ll do whatever Kate says will help, especially since everything she sets up for me is for a good cause, not just a stunt to redeem my image.

Most fans have given me the benefit of the doubt.

And my teammates have all had my back through this.

“Ready for this afternoon?” Pierce asks me.

“Ready as I’ll be,” I answer. “You?”

He flashes me a smile. “I’m picture-perfect.”

Treyvon Harris walks up. “The camera loves me. The ladies love me. Gentlemen, I was made for an afternoon like this one.”

I shake my head. He’s not wrong. I’m used to being the subject of photos, but not like this. Showing up to shoot pictures with a stranger? Flirting? Posing as if we’re a couple? Not so much.

We shower and then Pierce, Keller, and Harris load into my Escalade to head to the photo shoot together.

“Why do you drive a mom van?” Treyvon asks as I’m pulling out of the facility parking lot.

He glances around my leather interior with executive seating, a mock taunt on his face.

“How is this a mom van?” I ask him. “Do you not notice how many times we are greeted at the airport by drivers in Escalades?”