Chapter 6 Nolan

Chapter 6

Nolan

Don't forget who you are.

The dull roar of the crowd rumbled on just down the tunnel that opened onto the field. I could see the flash of the cheerleaders' pom poms as they waited for us to run out. My teammates bounced around next to me, trying to contain the adrenaline rush.

I repeated Adam's words again like a mantra as I waited for our signal to start toward the field.

Don't forget who you are.

I spent all day yesterday rewatching game film after my conversation with Adam Friday night. Except this time, I didn't bother watching any of the film from last season. Instead, I watched film of myself throughout my career. It was a reel of highlights that I hoped would bring back a sliver of the confidence I used to have. By the end of the day, that old excitement that I used to get before the first game of the season had started to come back. It was a completely different experience waking up early for today's game. It felt like Christmas morning, and I was too excited to sleep in. It gave me hope that maybe I was on the right path to the season that I'd been dreaming about.

I had continued to avoid Lottie at yesterday's practice. Which I'd come to realize would be much harder than I thought it would be because she seemed to arrive at the practice facility earlier than anyone else—even me. By the end of the week, the two of us had fallen into some sort of understanding. She would leave a list of exercises for me to do after the initial heat prep and electro-stimulation and I would do them without arguing. Other than that, our interactions had been minimal.

One of the Bobcats' staff members gave us the green light. In a flash, Derek took off down the tunnel as he led the rest of the team out onto the field. The roar of the crowd grew louder to an almost deafening decibel as soon as we emerged. The first time seeing a full stadium with excited fans would never get old. There were fans that had tickets for generations, super fans that would dress to the nines in full team regalia, and little kids watching their very first NFL games. Those were the people that we played for—Bobcat nation—and their energy was contagious.

Media waited around the edge of the field to catch the first photos of the season that would be posted on social media apps within minutes. The average person probably wondered what it would be like to stand in our shoes—the pressure that came from the fans, the attention from the media, the theatrics that the NFL layered on top of anything, and then the fact that this was our job and if we didn't perform, we were reprimanded just like a normal nine-to-five.

As a rookie, it had almost been too much between the pressure and the expectations. Sometimes it still was. But over a decade in and the noise from the crowd faded away, the cameras with long lenses to capture each moment of the game disappeared, and only the field, my team, and the football remained. This was the sport that I fell in love with at ten years old. It was the game that I learned from my father, and he had learned from his. It had taught me life lessons that had made me into the man I am today, even if it had hardened me within these last few years.

The national anthem and coin toss passed in a blur of anticipation as my fingers itched for the first snap and throw of the game. We won the coin toss and decided to receive the kick. After our kick returner got us good positioning on the field near the thirty-yard line, I was running onto the field with the offense.

Coach Randolph, my head coach, called the play, which came in over a headset in my helmet. The cheers from the fans around the stadium were so loud that I could barely hear him. I had to cover the ear holes in my helmet to try and muffle the noise. This wasn't something new when playing at Gateway Stadium. The energy inside was a part of the home field advantage that we had as a team. We'd grown accustomed to the noise the stadium held on game day. We knew how to respond. It was the other team that had to adjust and figure out how to play in these conditions.

After I relayed the play call to the team, we lined up in formation. It felt like slipping back on a pair of well-worn shoes, perfectly molded to my feet. Or getting back on a bike that I hadn't ridden in some time—muscle memory took over.

Scan the defense.

Do I see anything I need to tell my team about?

Should the play still be on?

Set. Hike.

In the moment, it felt as though time had slowed down and minutes had passed between lining up on the line of scrimmage and when the ball was snapped, but in reality, it was only a few seconds.

When I finally felt the leather of the football in my fingertips, I went into autopilot. My eyes scanned for my first intended receiver for this play to see that he was covered before shifting to the next receiver. The second I saw an opportunity, I let the ball fly right into the hands of my target.

First down.

For the first time in months, when I thought about football, I didn't feel the overwhelming need to succeed hanging over me. Instead, I found myself smiling as we executed play after play.

That was until the second quarter.

The first quarter had gone off without a hitch. We'd managed to score a touchdown—a long route for Derek that he'd managed to stretch out for a score—and also get within kicking distance for Hawthorn to get a field goal on a stretch where none of our plays were breaking through for another score. We were winning going into the second quarter ten to nothing, but the momentum changed quickly.

With a few adjustments between quarters, San Diego's offense had managed to break through our defense to make it a three-point game. With only two minutes left until the half, there was an expectation to get another to keep the lead.

But it seemed that San Diego's defense had also made an adjustment.

A moment after the ball was snapped into my hands to start the first play of our possession, I realized I was being rushed. There is nothing more terrifying in this world than a three-hundred-pound lineman running full speed at you with the intent of putting you on your back. Panic seized my body immediately. In the matter of a second, all the memories of being sacked from last season flashed through my mind—freezing, panicking, and being unable to think about anything else for the rest of the game.

It's happening again.

My body slammed violently into the ground with the force of the lineman landing on top of me and smothering me for a few seconds before the pressure disappeared. I was left staring up at the sky above me, the ball still miraculously clutched in my hands. Derek came into my view and extended a hand down toward me.

"Maguire was out of position and missed his block. That's not on you, bud." Derek slapped my shoulder pads before looking at me expectantly for the next play with the rest of my team. But there was a ringing in my head that was disorienting me, and I could barely make out what my coach was calling in my helmet.

The clock was running down, and I had no idea what Coach Randolph had called. Before my team could figure out that I was out of sorts, I called a passing play to Derek with the hope that I wasn't making a mistake. If this didn't work, my coach wouldn't be happy that I'd gone rogue.

As soon as I called for the ball, I found Derek on his route. Luckily, muscle memory took over and my body managed to drop a ball into his arms despite the mess in my head. Derek broke the tackle the guy on him was trying to make and ran the ball in for a touchdown.

Cheers erupted around the stadium. Coach Randolph clapped me on the back and told me that was a much better call than what he had on when I ran back to the sideline. Derek and Hawthorn cheered and said things like "the old Nolan is back."

None of that was true. All I cared about was getting into the locker room before I let my vicious thoughts take over in front of everyone.

The energy in the locker room was high as the coaches tried to calm us down to talk about next half's game plan, but I could barely focus on the white board in the middle of the room to see what the plan was.

A body stepped in front of me and blocked my view of the locker room. "Come with me," Lottie told me with her arms crossed over her chest. The look on her face told me that I wasn't going to avoid her this time.

No one blinked an eye at us as she led me back into the training room off the locker room. The second the two of us entered the room, she turned to look at me.

"What happened out there?"

I blinked. Had she seen me nearly lose it?

"What are you talking about?" I asked. It was better to play it safe and let her reveal her cards first.

"You played the entire first quarter and most of the second quarter like you were back five seasons ago. You looked great." I didn't bother with reveling in her compliment. I had felt great that first quarter and a half, but I knew something else was coming. "Then on that last drive, it was like you froze. It reminded me of some of the film I watched from last year. Any pressure on your right side and it's like you collapse."

Had that lineman come from my right side? How the hell did she connect all of that?

"Here, let me look at your knee." Lottie motioned for me to get onto the training table before she pushed up the leg of my pants. She rubbed her hands together and breathed into them first. "Sorry, my hands are always cold."

My eyes snagged on the way her lips puckered as she blew out hot air. I nearly had to physically shake my head to snap out of the trance the dark red of her lips had caught me in.

"How'd you notice that I panic with pressure on the right side?" I asked as she pressed on my knee.

"I watched film." Her answer was short, which was probably deserved after I had dodged all her attempts to try and help me this week.

"I spent this last week reading all of Roger's notes on your recovery after surgery. You barely completed half of the evaluations you needed to before the team threw you back in last season. Your knee hasn't quite recovered, and I think you know it. You're painfully aware of it on the field. Any pressure from that side has you reeling."

I wanted to glare at her and tell her that she was wrong. I wanted to laugh at her and say that maybe she wasn't as good at her job as she thinks she is, but then … I'd be lying.

When Lottie looked up at me, I realized I had never told anyone what exactly went on in my head during games post-surgery. The war I started with myself once I realized my body would never be the same felt like a slow poison that would kill me before my knee would. If I wanted a shot at winning the Super Bowl during my last year, I was going to have to clue someone in. I wasn't going to last the full season unless I figured out some way to address this.

"The injury happened when I was rushed on the right side two seasons ago." Lottie nodded her head. She must have watched the film from that game. Part of me hated knowing that she had seen me on the ground, helpless. "I did the normal therapy post-surgery. Brace, crutches, the whole nine yards. The coaches had been anxious to have me back on the field when last season rolled around, but I knew I was going to be short of getting my knee back to where it needed to be. I tried to compensate for it, but all I could think about was my knee during the game, which made my reaction times slower. I was more at risk for a sack."

"I can help you, if you'd let me." Lottie's face was set with determination, as if she was expecting a fight.

"I have one season left." It was meant to be a brush off, much like what she had expected from me, but there wasn't much fight to my words.

"Here's the deal, Hill." Lottie faced me as if she were a soldier preparing to head into battle. "You want to win a Super Bowl. That's every quarterback's goal heading into the season. You want it more than anything else you've ever wanted in life— especially this season. You want to leave this game the hero you've painted yourself to be your entire career. But you will only get sacked enough times that you get replaced by the rookie you glared at this entire week during practice if you don't let me help you."

"I didn't glare at Caleb all week," I managed to mumble through the partial shock of her words.

"I'm not going to even argue with you on that, because you and I both know you were." Lottie pulled tape from her bag and started adding extra support to my knee. When she was done, she pulled my pant leg back down and gave me a look that I knew she'd used many times throughout her career whenever she faced opposition.

"Let me do my job, Nolan."

Lottie had called me out on what I wanted most—to win. If I wanted to do that, the two of us were going to have to work together.

"Fine."

"Great, we'll start tomorrow at six in the morning."

Six in the morning? Was she crazy?

I opened my mouth to protest, but she silenced me with another scathing look.

"Now, you still need to win this game. So, here's what we're going to do. This should provide you with enough support that when you do get pressed from the right side, it over-compensates for you. But we're going to try and keep that from happening. Work out of the left side of the pocket, no matter what side the defense is pushing from. And trust yourself, for fuck's sake—you're Nolan fucking Hill. You're a two-time Super Bowl champion and you own about ten different records in the NFL. Now go win the damn ball game. I hate losing."

I had to stop my jaw from hitting the floor as I watched Lottie leave the room. Her thick blonde hair was in a braid that swished from side to side in time with her hips as she walked away. I had to give it to the woman, she had teeth, and she knew how to use them.