Page 92 of Best Year Ever
I step in to pull Manny out of the crowd of offensive linemen, still ready to defend their quarterback. Dragging Manny to an open space on the field, I embrace my duties as leader of the linebackers.
“Rook, what was that? You know better,” I say.
“I’m so sorry, Landon. I got myself too hyped, being put in against the starters. I found a hole in the line to run through, and then momentum carried me right into him,” he explains.
“I get it, but that kind of shit will get you cut,” I say. “You cannot jeopardize the franchise quarterback.” I’m telling him things he already knows, but maybe he needs to hear it again.
He nods, and I pat his helmet, feeling satisfied he has heard the message. “Everyone knows how talented you are, and you’ll get many chances to prove yourself. Take it down a notch and play by the rules.”
“I hear you, Landon. I do,” he says eagerly. “Please tell Johnson I’m sorry again if you talk to him.”
Manny’s a huge part of our potential success this season, and based on what I’ve seen over the last week, I suspect he’ll be lining up with us starters quite a bit. At a minimum, he’ll be a key backup. So we don’t want him in his head too much about this incident.
I pat him again and bring him back over to a group of defensive players. “Okay, gentlemen, Rook fucked up, and he knows it. Can everyone share their best story of screwing up as a rookie?”
The guys chuckle, and one of our cornerbacks launches into a story. Manny seems to relax, and any tension from the incident passes quickly.
That night, I knock on the door to Johnson’s hotel room. “Hey, it’s me. Can I come in?”
The door swings open and Johnson’s in a t-shirt and athletic shorts, likely his bedwear for the evening. “Yeah, man. Come on in.”
Our playbook is open on the desk in Johnson’s room, and there are various scraps of paper everywhere that look like they are covered in his scribbles.
“I’m memorizing all the new plays,” he explains. “Drawing them out myself so they really stick in my head, like I used to do when we were roommates at Bama.”
I nod. Anyone who thinks football players are dumb doesn’tunderstand the demands of the sport. You’ve got to commit countless plays to memory, adjust for tactics on the opposite side, and constantly be learning new information week-in and week-out. No one has more responsibility than a QB to get this information right.
“So you okay? Looked like Manny knocked you down pretty hard,” I say. I’d heard that Johnson was uninjured by the hit, but wanted to confirm for myself.
“Yeah, thankfully my ass took the brunt of the fall. It’s a little sore, but I’ll be fine,” Johnson says, shaking his hand like he’s waving off any concern.
“Well, good. I talked to him after the hit. He was genuinely remorseful. Gotta love rookies,” I reply.
He grunts and sits down on his desk chair, body facing toward me. “So how’s it going with Rori?”
On Tuesday night, Johnson and I had a little one-on-one, so I’d updated him on everything. This is the first time we’ve been alone in the two days since.
“Same. We’re talking every night, our normal FaceTimes, catching up on our days, all that. But then neither of us brings up the bigger picture questions, the gala, going public. All those issues are still hanging out there.”
Johnson’s brow creases. “That sucks, and it’s also a little weird. Why don’t you just ask her at this point? It’s been a week since the Trinity stuff first went down.”
I put my hand through my hair and head to sit down on the armchair in his room. “Yeah, I’m thinking when I see her Sunday that I will, if she doesn’t raise it sooner. I just haven’t wanted to drive a conversation she isn’t ready to have. Worried it could blow up on me, you know?”
He nods. “Sure, I get that.”
“But she leaves for her tournament in Toronto on Sunday night after we see each other. So it would be good to clear the air before she’s gone.”
Just then, Johnson’s phone goes off. He picks it up off the desk and spends a minute scrolling through whatever he was sent.
“Um, Landon,” Johnson says while clicking on his phone and sending a text. “I hate this, man. But I need to show you something.”
I walk over to where he is standing by his desk, and look over his shoulder. Immediately the headline, from an influential football e-magazineFirst and 10,jumps out at me.
RAWLEY BATTLE – UNLIMITED PROMISE OR HUGE LIABILITY?
Below the headline is a photo of Rawley with hair askew, half-hooded eyes, and a blank stare. Looking absolutely like he is on something. Surrounding him are a bunch of college age looking kids. Best guess—someone took this snap at a campus party.
I quickly scan through the actual article, and it insinuates Rawley is partying his way through college and doesn’t take academics seriously. Basically, that he may be a fuck-up and risky for NFL teams.
