“Shush.” I swallowed hard when I remembered who I was talking to. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me.”
Lincoln laughed, that low rumble I remembered from childhood, from summer barbecues and football games and all the times he’d shown up to fill the space my father had left. “Listen to me. Holloway’s smart, and he didn’t get where he is by missing opportunities. He’s already interested, or he wouldn’t have asked for this meeting, and he sure as heck wouldn’t have agreed to meet on a holiday weekend. All you have to do is show him what you showed me.”
“What I showed you was a preliminary model and a lot of theoretical projections.”
“What you showed me,” Lincoln said, leaning forward, “was a genuine breakthrough in force distribution technology that could meaningfully reduce concussion risk across every level of play. Don’t sell yourself short, Tanner. You never could see what the rest of us see.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but Nixon cut in. “He’s right, you know. I read through those materials you sent Lincoln. I don’t understand half the engineering, but I understand passion. You’ve got something real here.”
Before I could respond, Lincoln’s gaze shifted to something over my shoulder. “There he is.”
I stood too fast, nearly knocking my water glass over. The man approaching our table wasn’t what I’d expected—I’d imagined someone sharper, more corporate, the kind of person who wore their power like armor. David Holloway was tall but not imposing, his silver-threaded hair neat and his smilesurprisingly warm as he crossed the restaurant. Mid-fifties, maybe, with the kind of weathered face that suggested time spent outdoors rather than just in boardrooms.
“Lincoln.” He clasped Lincoln’s hand, then pulled him into a brief one-armed embrace. “Good to see you. How’s the team looking?”
“Better every day. We’re building something special.” Lincoln stepped back, gesturing toward me. “David, this is Tanner McBride. Tanner, David Holloway.”
Holloway’s handshake was firm without being aggressive. “Tanner. I’ve heard a lot about you. And your father— I knew Patrick, back in the day. Hell of a player.”
Something complicated moved through my chest. “Thank you, sir. He loved the game.”
“He did. And from what Lincoln tells me, you’re trying to make sure kids can keep loving it without paying the price he did.” Holloway’s expression shifted, becoming more serious. “That matters. More than most of the research that crosses my desk.”
We sat. Menus appeared and were ordered from—I had no memory of what I chose—and then Holloway was leaning forward, elbows on the table, giving me his full attention.
“Walk me through it. Your approach to force distribution. Lincoln gave me the overview, but I want to hear it from you.”
I took a breath. Then another. Thought about Dad, about his eyes going vacant in those last months, about all the things this research could never undo but might prevent for someone else.
And I started talking.
It was rough at first. My voice cracked on the technical terminology, and I stumbled over the explanation of my baseline testing methodology. But Holloway listened—really listened, asking questions that showed he understood the science and wanted to understand more—and somewhere around the five-minute mark, something shifted. The nervousness didn’t disappear, but it moved to the background, replaced by the part of me that had spent two years obsessing over this problem.
I explained the multi-layer foam composite I’d developed, how it distributed impact force differently than traditional padding. Pulled out the tablet I’d brought and showed him the simulation data, the pressure mapping from my test dummies, the comparison charts against existing helmet technology. His eyebrows rose when I got to the reduction percentages.
“These numbers are from controlled testing?”
“Yes, sir. Using a pendulum impact system calibrated to simulate hits at various speeds and angles. I’ve documented every trial. I can send you the full dataset.”
“And you’ve run this by your academic advisor?”
“Dr. Okonkwo. She’s been overseeing my methodology. She’s the one who pushed me to make the testing more rigorous.”
Holloway nodded, something like respect flickering in his expression. Then he sat back, tapping his fingers on the tablecloth. “Let’s talk about scalability.”
This was the part I’d been dreading. “The current prototype is expensive to produce. The materials alone?—”
“How expensive?”
I told him. His expression didn’t change, but I could feel the weight of the number hanging between us.
“That’s a problem,” he said. “The NFL will pay for top-tier equipment. College programs might stretch their budgets for it. But youth leagues? High schools? The families who can least afford medical bills if their kid gets a concussion? They’re the ones who need this most, and they’re the ones who can’t pay premium prices.”
“I know.” I’d thought about this constantly, had run the numbers a hundred different ways, looking for solutions. “I’ve been experimenting with alternative materials that maintain most of the protective properties at a lower cost. I’m not there yet, but I think with more time, more resources?—”
“More research.”
“Yes, sir.”
