The words land where I keep the fourteen-year-old who thought respect only came after the hit. “Trying not to be benched by my own life.”
“Attaboy.”
I lose her to a dead zone, and for a few blessed miles, it’s just me and the hum of decisions I haven’t made yet.
Nashville looks like itself—glass and steel and murals and men with microphones. The facility looks like a spaceship wearing a varsity jacket. I park in the staff lot because old habits don’t surrender easily, clip my visitor badge to my hoodie like I still belong, and walk in through the door where the custodians smoke on their break. They nod; I nod back. Tribe recognizes tribe.
The lobby smells like new rubber and old money. Screens loop footage of me and not-me: touchdowns, sidelines, a slow-motion smile someone once told me to save for fourth quarters and commercials. A receptionist with lashes for days gestures me toward Conference B. “They’re ready for you.”
They always are when there’s something to take.
I pass the weight room—empty this time of day—and feel my body tilt toward it like muscle memory is magnetized. I pass the film room and catch my reflection in the dark screen: a manwho learned to read defenses and is learning to read himself. I pass the hall of framed jerseys and stop at mine, the one from the season the city decided winning was everything. I touch the glass. It’s colder than it looks.
“Crew.” Harris’s voice is the same it’s always been—pleasant over a blade. He’s at the end of the corridor, hands in his pockets like a reasonable man. David’s next to him, smile pinned tight.
“Harris. David.”
We shake hands because being a professional is a habit too.
“Appreciate you coming in,” Harris says, pivoting into the conference room. It’s gray and glass and very impressed with itself. A carafe of water sweats on a credenza. Three folders sit at my seat like decisions have already been made for me.
“We’ll keep this quick,” he says. “We know you’ve got… coastal engagements.”
Land mines called books and porch lights. “Quick works,” I say, and don’t sit.
David clears his throat. “Sponsor slate is excited about your ‘journey.’ We just want to capture a little texture. Let folks see you’re stilltheirguy.”
“I’m not,” I say, and watch the sentence land like a fumble in a quiet stadium. “I’m Bailey’s guy. This town’s guy. My own, for once.”
Harris’s smile doesn’t move. “We can hold both things.”
“You tried,” I say, nodding at the folders. “Which one’s the ‘I surrender my spine’ packet, and which one’s the ‘I pretend to be contrite about fabricated clauses’ packet?”
David goes pale. Harris’s eyebrow does a trick it does when he’s impressed and furious. “You’ve been talking to your agent.”
“Like she’s my friend,” I say. “Because she is.”
“Agents investigate,” Harris says. “They don’t advise.”
“They do both when the people being investigated make it easy.”
Harris steeples his fingers. “Let’s start over. You’re here because we want to support your next chapter—mentor track, analyst deals, civic leadership. You get paid, we look smart, and the town gets its little lighthouse on a brochure with our logo somewhere tidy. Everyone wins.”
The way he sayslittle lighthousemakes something old and volatile light match after match along my spine. “No logos,” I say.
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“She’s not a backdrop.”
“She?” he says lightly. “We’re discussing property.”
“Language tells on you.”
“Language is what kept you employed,” he says, smiling. “Also, talent. We haven’t forgotten how much you gave us.”
Gave. Past tense like a verdict. I steady myself on the back of the chair and decide not to throw it through a window. “I’m not taking the shoot. I’m not reading your lines. If you want to talk about my future like I’m in the room for it, we can. If you want me on a leash for the sake of optics, call a different dog.”
David flinches. Harris folds his hands. “Poetry aside, we have obligations.”
