2. Colton

Colton slammed his helmet onto the field, grinding his teeth together to stop himself from cursing wildly. He was a team leader. He needed to show poise and grace in defeat. Out came the journalists and news channels with questions.

“What did you learn from this game?”

“What can you improve?”

“You threw a whopping three interceptions this game. What do you need to do to get that number down?”

“Is this just a rough patch?”

“Where is that great Super Bowl quarterback we saw last season?”

And on and on and on.

It took every fiber of his being not to shove his way through them and into the locker room where he could get a moment of peace. At least from the reporters. Once alone, he would spend hours dissecting the game, disappointment in himself growing with every play. They were right. This? After a Super Bowl win? Pathetic.

The only redeeming characteristic of the game was that it was a preseason loss. Not ideal, but at least it didn’t tank his team’s record. Even if it was their second loss in as many games. A horrible start to a season. A season he’d been positive would come with win after win after win.

When he finally made it to the locker room, his heart stopped at the faces of his teammates. Some had showered already, but most were still sweaty, their jerseys covered in grass stains. He took their disheartened expressions personally. It had, after all, been his fault.

“Guys, this one was on me. When I play well, we all play well, and today was not my best—”

“No, it was not your best, Beaumont. Sit down.” Coach Mark Turner stood behind Colton, anger clear from his stance and the ripped papers in his right hand. “Absolutely disgusting. You call that football? You should be ashamed of yourselves. This is not a Super Bowl-winning team, and it’s certainly not a Super Bowl-ready team—Rudy, what’s so fucking funny over there? Offensive line couldn’t keep the pocket from collapsing for more than a second or two today. You think that’s fucking funny?”

The smile on Rudy’s face disappeared the moment Coach said his name, but Coach Turner wasn’t done. “Two weeks in a row.” He held up two fingers for emphasis, scanning across the room. “Two weeks in a row! I am sick and tired of seeing mistake after mistake out there on that field. It’s a goddamn disgrace. You’re playing like you’ve barely started college ball. You want to go back to the NCAA? Be my guest. I don’t want to see y’all’s faces anymore anyway. Hit the showers, and be ready for the airport in fifteen.”

After his five-minute shower, Colton checked the ESPN app, ignoring the burning garbage that was his stats. He searched “Landon Beaumont,” noting his brother’s game was in the late stages of the fourth quarter. Even so, Landon had put up a whopping ninety-three receiving yards and two touchdowns for the San Jose Sentinels. Lucky bastard. His chest swelled with pride for his younger brother, but the competitive man inside of him—who conveniently seemed to have his father’s voice—told him he needed to step up.

As if willed into existence, his phone chimed with a text from his father. Below it were ESPN notifications from the games of the day, one of which was titled, “Super (Beau)mont On the Way Out”. How original.

He’d heard them all. Over the previous six years and even in college, the media had found a way to crow over everything about him, from his race to his potential love interests, rarely ever focusing on his actual abilities. He couldn’t even recall the number of times they’d posted some variation of “Quarterback”s Success Spices Up the Game!”. It didn’t bother him nearly as much as it used to, but he still couldn’t fathom why his being Indian warranted so much talk. At least this article discussed his game and not every other aspect of his life.

Before he’d even had time to read his father’s text, Colton’s screen flashed with his contact, taking up the whole screen with the unsolicited phone call. Colton sighed deeply, sweeping his thumb across the bottom of the screen and bringing it to his ear.

“Dad.”

“That performance was abysmal. I’m glad I didn’t fly out to watch like I’d planned.”

And there it was. His shoulders stiffened at his father’s words as they often did. “Hello to you, too.”

“What were you thinking with that pass up the middle into double coverage in the second quarter? Of course it was going to get picked off. That was a rookie mistake, and I taught you better than that.”

He felt a hand on his shoulder as his father rambled on in his ear. When he turned, Cooper, the Sabertooths’ top tight end, cocked his head toward where their teammates were leaving.

“Your dad?” he whispered. When Colton nodded, Coop shot him a sympathetic smile. Cooper Hayes was Colton’s closest friend, all too familiar with the pressure his father put on him.

“Are you even listening to me, Colton? How can you expect the Sabers to keep you as their starter if you can’t get your yards up and your picks down, huh? And what about everything I taught you about looking across the field as you scramble? I’m ashamed to call you my son today.”

The rage that simmered inside Colton any time his father spoke to him like this began bubbling to the surface, but he knew what would happen if he tried to interrupt or explain himself. How dare you talk to me like that? I’m the reason you’re in the NFL. Without me, you never would’ve made it, even as a free agent.

And, unfortunately, that was probably true. His father, the famed Troy Beaumont, would’ve been an NFL great if not for his career-ending hip fracture during the national championship his senior year of college. He’d turned down a college coaching job because Colton was a newborn and their family was already established in Los Angeles. Coached all of his little league and middle school games. Attended every single practice and game through high school. Submitted his highlight tape to college scouts. Sat in the family box during college games, home and away. Without his father’s coaching and sacrifices, Colton wasn’t sure he ever would’ve made it to the top quarterback spot at Crestview College, let alone been an early NFL draft pick and a Super Bowl winner. Colton wouldn’t have been anything without Troy Beaumont. The debt he owed his father was far too great to ever be repaid.

That didn’t change the fact that he hated his father’s ceaseless lectures.

Still, he slammed the door in the face of that simmering rage, nodding as he followed his discouraged teammates to the team bus, police escorts already waiting to take them to the airport. He ducked his head as cameras flashed around him, not interested in having this conversation plastered all over the internet. Especially not when he was limping to compensate for rolling his right ankle during the game. He didn’t need other teams seeing any weakness from him.

“You’re right. I made a lot of mistakes this game. I didn’t do a good job of looking down the field, and my pocket performance was less than stellar. My rush game wasn’t nearly where it should’ve been. I need to get more reps in and practice harder before the next game,” Colton said like a robot, shoulders slumping in defeat.

“That’s right. I’ll send you a lift plan to help even out your game a bit more. Just get in the gym earlier than the rest of the team. That’s the only way to stay ahead of the other quarterbacks. Reps, reps, reps. Get in there early, leave later, and get more reps in.” Colton heard him rummaging through some papers, and he could picture his father sifting through pages of play sketches as he turned on his computer. “Or else you’ll get beaten out by that rookie. He had a good season a couple of years ago.”

“Well, Elijah’s not exactly a rookie anymore, and Coach has no intention of cutting my time.”

“Yet.If you keep playing the way you have the past two games, that will all change. Especially if the GM and owner get involved.”

Colton wasn’t going to ask his father how he seemed to know so much about this when he himself had never been in the NFL. He was exhausted. Physically, mentally, emotionally. He was tired of talking to his father—or rather, being berated by his father—and quite frankly, he was getting tired of the sport that used to bring him all the joy in the world.

“You’re right.” Because that was the only thing his father cared to hear. It was the only thing that would make this call go faster so he could lay his head on the window and try to recover from all the hits he’d taken from giant linemen during the game.

His father hummed his agreement. “I’ll be at next week’s game.” Of course he would. The man had bought a house in Charleston and moved his whole life there when he’d found out his eldest son would be the star quarterback for the Sabers. “I expect a much better performance Friday.”

“Of course. I’ll be sure to get in the gym before and after practice every day this week.”

“Good. And have your brother call me.”

As if he couldn’t be bothered to pick up the phone and call Landon himself. Colton sighed and checked the time on the call as he climbed the stairs of the bus, noting it felt like it’d been ten times longer than it actually had.

“I’ll let Landon know. He played well today, so don’t expect a call tonight. I’m sure he’ll be celebrating.”

“Fine. See you Friday.” And just like that, the fever dream that was nearly every conversation with his father was over.

Colton sat in Coach Turner’s office, staring out the tall windows that overlooked the training field. They’d gotten back late from the game the night before, and their “rest day” hadn’t felt very restful for Colton. He’d gone to the trainer to tape his rolled ankle, taken an ice bath, and then had a meeting with Coach Fillmore, the quarterback coach. He’d thought his day was done, but then he’d been told Coach Turner needed to see him in his office, which was never a good sign. Maybe his father had been right and they were going to cut his playing time.

Mark Turner swept into the office, his clipboard and earpiece clattering onto his desk. He took a seat in a very expensive, plush-looking, white chair and cleared his throat. He waited to speak until Colton met his eyes.

“How’re you feeling?”

Like shit.“Fine. A little banged up, but that’s nothing new.”

Turner nodded. “We’re going to have to push o-line a little harder at practice this week. Their performance was subpar at best.”

“Coach, it was just as much my fault. I struggled in the pocket and couldn’t seem to connect, even when they did a good job.” His performance had been laughable at best, and he couldn’t put any blame on the men who blocked for him.

Turner was already shaking his head. “You were certainly not at your best, but I won’t let you take the brunt of the shitshow in that martyr way of yours. The whole team needs to get it together this week.”

Colton nodded, not sure what else his coach wanted to hear.

“Look, I didn’t call you in to shit on you or cut your time. I know how good you are, and I know you have it in you. I’ve seen you at your best. Hell, you helped me turn this team around. I don’t know what’s been going on, but you’re still my best quarterback, and I’m not going to give up on you just yet.”

He looked at Colton expectantly.

“I appreciate that, Coach, I really do. I promise I’ll work harder this week. I’ll do whatever you think I need to do to get my numbers up and get us a win.”

He knew how important the next few games were for the Sabers, but especially for him. Colton lived and breathed football. It was the only way he could be valuable to others, and winning was a huge part of that. If he stopped winning, people stopped caring about him, and then who was he? What did he have?

That seemed to be the right answer. “Good. I’m glad to hear it. We’ve hired an analyst to come in and work with you directly. She’s going to do general analytics during games, but you’ll also be working with her one-on-one to figure out what your next steps should be. Hopefully, she can help you discern how best to pick up your game.”

Colton was already nodding. He trusted all of the analysts he’d ever met. They were wizards, if just a little nerdy for his taste. He’d show up to every meeting with her with a winning attitude, and he’d get his numbers up by the time the season started in September.

“Absolutely. That’s a great next step. When does she start?”

“She’ll be here Wednesday before practice to meet you. She’ll watch practice, and then you’ll start working with her right after. She can gauge how often she needs to see you, how many sessions a week, all that.”

“I’ll be ready.”

“Good. Now get the hell out of my office.”