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When Lottie looked up at me, I realized I had never toldanyonewhat 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 winthisgame. 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 NolanfuckingHill. 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.
Chapter 7
Lottie
Nolan listened to my advice during the second half and played to the strength of his left side, rather than trying to make something happen with his right that would only put him at risk. After he threw his second touchdown of the third quarter and came off the field celebrating with Derek, he paused long enough to catch my eye from where I stood behind the team. If I hadn’t been watching closely, I would have missed the almost imperceptible nod of his head.
Our defense managed to hold off San Diego’s attempt at tying the game up at the end of the fourth quarter, clinching the first win of the season. The team celebrated on the field as reporters flooded around them to grab a photo of the players. An ESPN reporter stopped Nolan a few feet away from me.
“Nolan, that was an impressive game you had today. You threw for five total touchdowns at nearly three hundred yards passing. You must be happy with the strong start of this performance for the season.”
The reporter, I recognized, was Harper Nelson. She was up-and-coming on the scene. Players loved her because she often asked knowledgeable questions during her interviews. Fans loved her because she was beautiful, with tan skin that balanced her chocolate-brown hair and hazel eyes. I had to admit that she was striking, but my heart still ached for the girl that had to combat being relevant for her looks rather than how good she was at her craft. I remembered seeing an article where shetalked about being a female reporter in the sports industry and how she worked hard to remain knowledgeable about the game, so she was known for more than being a woman.
“It’s the kind of start we wanted to have as a team. But this season is a marathon, not a sprint. There’s a lot of games ahead of us that we’ll have to chip away at.” I watched Nolan morph into the player that was the nation’s beloved quarterback. Gone was the hardened gaze and the pessimism I had witnessed this past week. He was the All-American guy as he talked with Harper.
“You battled through some adversity with your linemen not quite getting into position at times. What do you think you need to do moving forward as an offense?”
“I think it’s just practice and getting more looks together. The offense will gel. We have some new blood on the line, and I think with more practice and a few more games, we’ll be running on all cylinders.”
“Thanks, Nolan.” Harper flashed him a quick smile before she backed away with her cameraman.
Nolan noticed me waiting for him in the tunnel when he approached. He slowed from his previous jog to a walk as he got closer. His gaze held none of the disdain he usually looked at me with.
Progress.
“Thanks,” Nolan told me. I had to bite back a laugh at how hard it seemed it was for him to say that word. “For the advice you gave me at halftime.”
“I wasn’t the one that just went out there and threw for nearly two hundred yards in the second half. You just needed a little reminder about who you are.” I gave a small shrug of my shoulders. Nolan’s eyes bounced around my face as if he were looking for something. I almost missed the ever-presentannoyance that was on Nolan’s face and the absence of it had me searching for something to fill the silence that was starting to grow between us.
“I think maybe a truce is on the table. No more avoiding me at the practice facility?” I asked cautiously. A sheepish smile crossed Nolan’s face like he’d been caught red-handed. I noted the way that smile softened his facial features and showed me a different version of him.
