Chapter 2 Nolan

Chapter 2

Nolan

"The Chicago Bobcats could be poised to have another successful season. They have an extremely veteran staff on both sides of the football. Their defense is expected to lead the league this year again after coming off last year's season where they allowed the least number of points," the commentator, Daniel Rice, said.

"They'll need that same performance this year, Scott, if they plan to have the kind of storied performance they are hoping for with keeping Nolan Hill at the helm of their offense," the other commentator, Micky Rice, added.

"I still can't believe that their GM would go and take a first overall pick in the draft with the star rookie quarterback, Caleb Willis, and not start to build their staff around a kid like that. With the experience they have on this team, they have more of a chance of pulling that kid along rather than putting their faith in Nolan Hill for another year. He started last season fresh off rehabilitation for his ACL tear from the previous season and he just never quite looked like the Nolan Hill we all know. Then he went on to throw the most interceptions in NFL history. Who decides to give someone like that one more chance?"

"Can you turn that shit off?" I growled.

One of the new athletic trainers rushed to grab the remote from where it lay on one of the training beds and turned the channel to the Chicago Cougars baseball game. Adam Steel, the star pitcher for the team, was in the middle of delivering a fastball that tallied him another strikeout. The reporter noted it as his tenth of the game.

I made a mental note to send him a message later tonight.

When the athletic trainer turned back around and saw the hard set of my jaw, he quickly diverted his eyes and scurried back to his station.

"Can we not scare the new people already? Our first game is in just over a week," Derek Allen, one of my best friends and the best tight end to ever be in the NFL, asked me from the table next to mine.

I didn't bother giving him a response.

"Derek's right, Nolan," Hawthorn Smith, my other best friend and starting kicker for the Bobcats, added from across the room, where he was submerged in one of the hot tubs. The guy barely did anything at practice compared to the rest of us, but he made sure to always take advantage of the hot tub every day. Who could blame him?

"There's no reason for you to treat any of the staff like that, and to be honest, if you keep that up around the team, the camaraderie this year is bound to be low," Hawthorn continued.

I pressed my lips together to avoid a snide remark from escaping. This wasn't my friends' faults. It was only mine.

"Don't listen to that bullshit." Derek lowered his voice so only I could hear him. "You are going to leave this league a hall of fame guarantee."

"I can't handle a repeat of last year, Derek." I could barely get the words out. I hadn't spoken those words out loud to anyone. Instead, the fear of going from the face of the NFL to the laughingstock played out in my head nearly every day.

"Have you been meeting with the sports psychologist?" Derek asked me.

I nodded, but didn't tell him how I was beginning to realize that it was going to take more than visualization and mental exercises to fix the fucked-up landscape of my head. My injury from two seasons ago hadn't just changed me physically. It had taken every piece of confidence I had ever had and obliterated it into dust.

Last season was a perfect example.

I had never played like that before—so unsure of my skills. I had been in the league for thirteen years. I had an endless amount of experience to rely on to remind myself that I was capable. But the moment I had stepped on the field last year after trying to rehab my injury, all that previous experience felt like it belonged to a different person. My legs felt unsteady beneath me. My brain was three beats behind the pace at which I needed to be playing at. I had been too busy worrying about the strength of my knee to focus on who was open or notice when one of my guys was being covered deep on their routes. I threw the most interceptions of my career.

I hadn't felt like Nolan Hill, two-time Super Bowl champion and two-time MVP.

"We're going to make this your best year yet. I refuse to let your old sack of bones leave without a third ring to put on your fingers."

"I'm only eight years older than you, asshole." I tossed the towel I was using to cover the ice pack on my knee at Derek.

Derek caught the towel effortlessly. "Round that up and that's a decade, dearest Nolan."

"Did you guys hear about the new physical therapist we hired?" Hawthorn asked from where he was still submerged in the hot tub, his eyes now closed.

"What happened to Roger?" I asked about our old physical therapist. I was sad to hear Roger was gone, but the two of us had nothing more than a surface level relationship.

Therapy was the worst part of my day. Not because I disliked it or thought it was a waste of my time. I knew that it wasn't. Therapy reminded me of my failure. It reminded me that my body couldn't withstand the demands of this game much longer. Therapy reminded me that soon, I would be nothing more than a name and a stat line. Roger hadn't pushed me that hard with my recovery, and I could only hope that the new hire wouldn't either because I wasn't sure I could mentally take it.

"Sounds like him and his wife had to move back closer to his parents. Health scare with his dad," Hawthorn told me. "From the sounds of it, it might have happened as recently as a few weeks ago."

"I heard the new physical therapist is some kind of sports therapy guru," Derek added. "I think some of the guys on the Lynx have gone to her before. She got Nash Rausch back on the ice in record time."

Great.

"I'm sure she'll be a great addition to the staff." I slid my ice pack back into the freezer by the door before putting my sweats back on.

"Apparently she's hot, too."

I rolled my eyes at Derek's enthusiasm.

"Keep it in your pants." Hawthorn eyed him with the look of a father with three young daughters as he got out of the hot tub and toweled off.

Derek gave him an incredulous look. "I don't shit where I eat."

"And that is why you haven't had a serious girlfriend," I mumbled as I waited for my friends.

"I'm doing just fine, thank you very much." Derek crossed his arms over his chest. "You don't have much room to talk. You haven't dated anyone since Rachel."

Hawthorn winced at the mention of my ex-fiancée.

"Eventually you'll have slept through the entire city of Chicago and regret it." Hawthorn clapped Derek on the back as the three of us exited the training room. "Alright boys, I have three beautiful girls waiting for me at home. I will see you two bright and early for practice."

The sun was just starting to set as we walked out to the parking lot. The three of us had used today as a prep day for the week to come. Preseason games had come and gone. The pressure and intensity of those games was never very high, and it had been a decent start for me to get my headspace under control. But this Sunday we were opening against the Nashville Cowboys, who were runner-up in last year's Super Bowl.

It wasn't a match-up that would ease us into the season. I had to be at the top of my game.

"Want to grab a drink?" Derek asked me as we walked up to our cars.

"Not tonight. I have some things I need to do before tomorrow," I told him. Derek nodded like he understood before he slid into his car and left me standing alone in the parking lot.

I waited until the taillights of his car disappeared before I turned and walked back into the facility. I hadn't lied to Derek that I had things to do, but I wasn't going to tell him that my plans were to rewatch my games from last year. I could hear him trying to talk me out of it, saying that the staff sports psychologist would advise against it.

He was probably right, and I was probably a glutton for punishment.

The building was nearly empty. I slipped into one of the empty film rooms and pulled up the file of videos the coaches had made me. I flipped the lights off and settled into one of the chairs in the back of the room.

The film was a mash-up of every play I was a part of last season.

The plays bled into each other as the hours ticked by.

Missed snaps.

Overthrown receivers.

Sacks.

It was hard to reconcile that the quarterback on the screen was me because I didn't recognize him.

I wanted to leave this game, which had been all I'd known for most of my life, on my own terms. I wanted to be a three-time Super Bowl champion. Part of me knew that a win or a loss wouldn't make the transition out of the league any easier, but it would give me the chance to write over the past two seasons of mishaps. It would solidify my legacy and all my hard work.

By the time the film was over, a tightness had settled in my chest. The sky had faded into an inky black. It was well past a reasonable time to still be in the facility, but I had one more stop I wanted to make tonight to complete this twisted idea of therapy I was trying to give myself.

There weren't many cars on the roads this late at night as I drove toward the stadium. When I turned off the interstate onto Lake Shore Drive, I felt the tightness in my chest free—only a little—at the sight of the stadium butting right up to Lake Michigan. The lights were off and the parking lots around it were empty.

I found the switches for the stadium lights and threw them on before making my way out to the field. To some, seeing an NFL stadium completely empty and without life might give off an eerie feel. To me, it was peaceful .

I'd sacrificed so many parts of my life to achieve all I had in my career thus far, but there was a piece of me that felt like it still wasn't enough. I hadn't done enough .

My devotion to my craft had ended a relationship—even though that relationship was bound to crash and burn eventually. It had taken up most of my free time to enjoy much else in life besides chasing the ultimate dream I had laid out for myself from a young age.

This job was a privilege. For many people, this was more than just a sport. It was a national pastime. Families shared traditions with their favorite teams. They looked up to their favorite players as idols. Thanksgivings and Christmases were had with the games of the day playing in the background.

I didn't take any of that lightly.

I was entering a quest this season to figure out how to fulfill my potential as a player without driving myself crazy with the standard I was asking of myself. However, I knew none of the success I wanted would be achievable if I didn't consider the person I was as well.

I understood that holding myself to such a standard could be a miserable place to live because I could be setting myself up for failure. But I wouldn't accept anything less than my best this season, and that started with getting myself in the best physical and mental shape possible to lead this team to a championship.

I couldn't allow any outside distractions—like the talk shows—to get to me this year. I had a mission to accomplish and there would be very little that would stop me.