Page 51 of Broken Play
"Yeah." J.D. grits his teeth. If anyone knows how he feels, it's me. We were both traded from the only teams we had been on, teams we thought would be our forever. But nothing is forever, and we should understand that because we've experienced it firsthand. I let the guys walk deeper in, and I hang back with my brother.
Bumping his shoulder against mine, I add, "You're going to be an even better coach than a player, and you were a great player. And if my memory is right, you told me just a few months ago that moving home would be the best scenario for me, and I'm beginning to believe you were right."
He bites his bottom lip, letting my words sink in. My brother is a thinker. Most quarterbacks are. We're used to running ten different scenarios in our heads over one play—pages of "if-then" statements run through our minds for every play.
"G, all I want is for you to be happy. I was so scared when..." His cheeks round as he blows out a heavy breath.
Dredging up old incidents won't change any of the facts or outcomes, so I go into work mode and remove my backpack from my shoulder. We all wore our practice gear on the bus, but the guys are all slipping into their turf shoes, and I do the same. "Ready? Do you want me to speak to the team?"
"Nah, you can pump them up tomorrow." He blows his whistle, gathers the team in the center of the facility, and lays down the law that he wants us to communicate after each play. The defense and offense will have thirty seconds after each play to determine how they line up forthe next one. "No hotshots today. Today is all about execution."
We warm up for thirty minutes, then Coach drills the offense on timing routes while the defense works with the second-string offense on a few plays that have been giving them trouble during the preseason games. He makes us enact the plays in slow motion, where everyone walks to their spots, and then run them in game-time mode. Then we move to the first string, running plays against each other. Coach calls out anyone who cuts corners, easing up on their angles or cuts. No one is safe from J.D.'s wrath—he wants to win this game.
Redham gets called out for being so easy for the defense to read—like an open book. "If you always head-fake to the left, then they're always going to know you're going right. Mix it up. Come on, Redham."
Redham hangs his head as he walks back to the huddle, and I slap his shoulder. "He's right. But I believe in you, and so does he, or he wouldn't be so hard on you. He's been hard on me my whole life, tweaking every little thing I did. He even called me after we won the conference championship and told me I wasn't moving my feet and reading the defense as quickly as normal. But when I watched it back, he was on point... about both. You can do this. Be my guy."
"You got it, QB." He bounces on his toes, then yells to Coach, "Can we run it again?"
J.D. smiles, bringing the whistle to his lips, saying, "Again," and blowing.
Redham executes the route with precision—zero head fakes, just a straight-upI'm faster than youmentality.
By the time practice is over, I'm drenched in sweat. Theair conditioning in this place can't keep up with the Vegas temperatures. It's suffocating.
The guys disperse to their rooms to shower, and then we meet in the private dining area. Tonight, we're being served by waitresses, so I choose a seat at the table with the defensive line. Part of becoming a leader of a team is spending time with players on both sides of the ball. I ask them if my eyes or stance is giving anything away. Am I telegraphing whether it's a pass or a run or where I'm going with the ball?
They laugh, and Crawford suggests, "Yeah, you better change the name of Black Six. Double Zero. It should be Broken Play because we rip you to shreds on that play."
The way they're whooping and hollering and stamping their feet, you would think Jay Leno had just performed his monologue.
"You know the plays. They don't," I say as the waitresses begin to set grilled salmon or steak in front of us. It's a good thing, too, because if we had to wait much longer, there might be a mutiny. Guys are hangry after practice.
I pretend to listen to the conversations, but my mind's already wandering toward the table where Sutton sits with the coaches. She's deep in conversation with the quarterback coach, Matt Stricker. His claim to fame is that he was Logan Warren's quarterback coach at Kentucky. I mean, was it the QB coach or just the raw talent of Logan? Plus, I have J.D., who's going to dissect every detail of my play anyway, whether he's my head coach or not.
Sutton gives Coach Stricker her patented boss-lady stare—the one that could make a quarterback beg for mercy in front of the whole team. Then she throws her head back in laughter, and I'm imagining her legs wrapped around Stricker's. Not happening.
I text her under the table.
Me: Meet me in my room and bring plausible deniability.
She picks up her phone, reads the message, and turns it face down on the table. Being a good brother, I walk over and say good night to the coaches. "I'm turning in. Do not disturb unless the hotel is on fire." That's code for "I'm having a lady friend over."
Sutton says, "Sleep well. We need you to be on your game tomorrow."
"Sure thing, boss." She hates it when I call her that, but it adds a bit of intrigue to the whole situation.
As I pace my hotel room, Sutton calls. "Almost there. Had to dodge three coaches and the strength trainer in the hallway. If I disappear, avenge my legacy." Her tone makes it sound as if she's a spy committing espionage. She cracks me up. Only Sutton could turn a secret affair into a covert mission.
Opening my door, I see her as she rounds the corner, her eyes darting from side to side. Her heel catches on a rogue gym bag. She trips, and a flurry of papers and spreadsheets showers the hallway. I guess she's not as stealthy as she thinks.
Before I realize it, Coach Stricker comes out of nowhere, swooping down to help her clean up her mess. With a bit of nervousness tinging his voice, he asks, "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. I was just reviewing these charts and tripped."
"Sutton, come in, and I'll get you some ice," I volunteer.
Coach Stricker helps her up. "I'll take her to the trainer, just to make sure her ankle is okay."
