Page 47 of The Backup Plan

Coach’s brows rise as his eyes meet mine. “No?”

I shake my head once. “The read’s late. Number 48 is shading inside pre-snap. He’s telegraphing the jump. If you fake the slant and hit the flat off a half-second delay, in most instances the linebacker will overcommit giving the QB broad daylight.”

Cole turns from where he sits a few rows below me and to my left. His eyes narrow. “That’s not how the play’s drawn up.”

“True,” I say evenly. “But that’s how it plays out against a fast linebacker with good film study.”

Coach folds his arms. “And why wouldn’t that delay result in your receiver being lit up?”

I point to the screen like someone can tell where I’m aiming. “Because the safety is already cheating deep. He’s worried about the seam,” I say, referring to the gap between zones of coverage. “The window is there to throw if you trust the timing.”

The room is silent. I know I’m right, but for some reason my pulse thunders in my ears.

My comment can either be taken as a know-it-all try to prove that point or a team player trying to help out.

Coach studies the screen. Rewinds. Watches it again. Then very slowly, his mouth curves.

“And that,” he says, tapping the remote against his palm, “is why experience matters.”

Pride washes over me, subtle, but real and welcome. It’s amazing how good it feels being recognized by Coach in a room where I’m trying to prove my worth.

A couple other players murmur. One of the linemen nods like I just confirmed something he already suspected. Cole doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t argue either.

The meeting continues on. More plays reviewed. More feedback given and coaching received, and while I listen, I feel validated—as if my record and my thirteen years in the league aren’t enough—in this new place where some players still question why I’ve been signed.

The meeting wraps up. Chairs scrape. Conversations spark. As I stand, Mason claps me on the shoulder.

“Good call in there,” he says.

“Yeah,” another guy says whose name I don’t remember quite yet. “You see shit different. I like that.”

I shrug it off with a smile and a thanks. His words mean more to me than I’d like to admit.

As I head down the hallway toward the medical wing, my thoughts drift somewhere they probably shouldn’t.

Doc.

To our morning runs that have become a thing. Not on purpose—or maybe a little on purpose. She leaves at the same time, and I’ve decided to start later so that when she heads out the front door, I’m there stretching. Waiting. Acting like it’s a fluke to be standing there when we both know it isn’t.

I’ve begun to look forward to our runs.

Most of the time they’re done in silence with little talking. Other times there are small snippets of conversation, and I’ve been amused by her keen sense of humor.

And that sense of humor is way better than the doubt she had in her eyes on that first run where I felt like she was expecting me to criticize or call her on something.

The electrostimulation room hums softly when I step inside. Machines beep. Low voices murmur.

“Hale. I’ve got you set up over here,” Brian, one of the techs says, and waves me over to a table beside one of our wide receivers, Lamar Weston. His quad’s been giving him trouble, so no doubt he’s here to have some work done to it like I am.

Within minutes, I’m hooked up to the machine with leads and wires and sitting back to let the current do its work on my shoulder.

“This is like torture before practice.”

“Torture?” I ask Lamar, as I open my eyes and look over at him.

“Yeah, man. It makes you sleepy. Relaxed,” Lamar says. “But you know you have hours of impending torture waiting for you out there.”

I bark out a laugh. “Never thought of it that way.”