“I appreciate everything you've done—”
“Do you?” His voice rose. “Because from where I'm standing, you're throwing it all away. And for what? Some existential crisis you could work through in therapy while still collecting a paycheck?”
The accusation stung because he wasn't entirely wrong. But he also didn't understand what had changed in that cabin.
“I want to do something else. Coaching, maybe. Alabama's still interested in the quarterback coach position.” I paused. “Or broadcasting. Kendon thinks I could be good at analysis work.”
“Broadcasting.” He laughed, harsh. “You know how many former players are trying to break into that field? How saturated that market is?”
“Kendon's helping me. He's got connections—”
“Kendon Michaels retired after a solid career with his body intact and his reputation clean. You're damaged goods, Cord. Gay quarterback who couldn't hack it after one bad hit.” He said it like he was reading headlines. “That's not the story networks want to tell.”
The words hit like fists. Because Ruben was good at his job, knowing exactly where to strike.
“Then I'll prove them wrong.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. “I did it on the field. I can do it somewhere else.”
“With what leverage? Pittsburgh's interest won't last forever. This is your window, Cord. Your one shot at proving you can still play at the highest level.” He moved closer to the bed. “Don't let fear make you a quitter.”
“I'm not quitting. I'm choosing.”
“Choosing what? To walk away from millions of dollars and a chance to cement your legacy?”
“Choosing to build a life that's mine. Not what my dad wanted, not what you've planned, not what the media expects.” I held his gaze. “I'm choosing to be more than just football.”
Ruben was quiet. Then he picked up his briefcase, movements sharp with disappointment. “Fine. It's your career to throw away. But don't expect me to help you do it.”
“Ruben—”
“I've got other clients who actually want to succeed. Call me when you come to your senses.” He headed for the door, paused with his hand on the handle. “For what it's worth, I hope you'reright about this. I really do. Because if you're wrong, you're going to regret this decision for the rest of your life.”
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
I lay there in the hospital bed, shoulder throbbing, wondering if I'd just made the biggest mistake of my life. Ruben had been with me since I got drafted, had guided every major career decision. But underneath the doubt, there was something else.
Relief.
The decision was made. No more wavering, no more what-ifs. I was done with football. Now I just had to figure out what came next.
I knew the numbers without needing to check my accounts. Even with medical expenses, surgery costs, and Ruben's commission on past contracts, I had enough saved to live comfortably for years. Enough to take risks, to choose meaning over money, to build something that mattered instead of just something that paid.
But walking away from guaranteed millions? From the chance to prove I could come back stronger than before? From everything I'd worked toward since I was eight years old?
I thought about Dusty's face when he'd talked about his gallery dreams. The way his whole body had lit up describing his vision for that adobe building, for creating space where artists could show their work. The careful way he'd explained his plans, his budgets, his hopes.
Some things mattered more than proving points to people who'd already made up their minds about me.
I reached for my phone on the bedside table to call Kendon. Time to see if broadcasting could give me the foundation I needed to build something real.
The ESPN studio was smaller than I expected when I walked in a week after my surgery, all decked out with skeletons andghosts for Halloween. Kendon had described it as “intimate,” which turned out to be code for “cramped.” Bright lights, too many cables, three cameras pointed at a desk that looked bigger on TV.
“You're going to be great,” Kendon said, adjusting his tie in the mirror backstage. “Just be yourself. Honest, thoughtful. The audience responds to authenticity.”
“What if I freeze?”
“Then we edit. That's the beauty of tape.” He clapped my good shoulder. “This isn't live. You can take your time.”
The segment producer, a harried woman with a headset, gestured us onto the set. Kendon took the left chair, I took the right. The lights were hot on my face, and I could feel sweat starting at my hairline.
