PROLOGUE
RAWLEY - LAST SUMMER
Don’t fuck this up, Rawley.
I tug on the collar of my button-down before stepping into the studio. A literal reminder not to choke.
TheJalen Nash Showset is simple and open. But as I survey the space, it feels like the walls are closing in on me.
All the people, all the cameras, all thepressurenot to screw up.
It doesn’t help that the show’s team slathered me in makeup back in the green room. Foundation is all over my skin, and I hate the feel of it, like a layer of plastic coating.
“We’re going to do a quick lighting check,” one of the producers shouts toward the stage.
I walk to my designated seat. My brother Landon’s in the chair next to me on the set, and we’re facing Jalen.
Prepping for an interview to save my future pro football career.
No fucking big deal.
I may only be a junior at the University of Texas, but there’s a shit ton of money—millions of dollars—at stake. Landon, alreadyan NFL star, is doing his part to salvage my reputation with this joint “Battle brothers” interview.
Jalen’s show is one of the landmark spots in the sports industry to be featured. I just wish we weren’t here because ofme, this, now.
It’s been all-hands-on-deck this week though. Landon’s PR rep Jim has helped me get through all the crap that’s come out about my so-called “partying” at UT.
Rumors that have zero basis in fact—I’ve been careful to avoid anything other than a beer or two on nights out in college—but that doesn’t seem to matter now. I’ve become living proof that perception is reality.
Jim’s visible near one of the producers, off-camera, and he links his eyes with mine, giving me a reassuring nod.
Hell, he’s done his job. Supplied me with talking points, tips, and practice time to get my answers down for the tougher questions we anticipate from Jalen.
Now I’ve gotta do mine.
Only, I’m not good with scripted words, or talking points. Specifically, with remembering what I need to say when the spotlight hits.
My mind gets jumbled, even when I’ve spent hours trying to memorize the exact words I’m supposed to recite, and all I feel is panic. It’s happened a trillion times during school.
It’s not that I struggle with processing words when I’m reading, more that my shitty memory doesn’t stand up to pressure. And I don’t trust my instincts either.
My family has never understood why I go sideways in formal settings because, yeah, I’m also funny as fuck around them. When I can just be unfiltered.
But staged settings where I need to speak are nightmare fuel. Add in any scrutiny, or the need to be precise, and my brain melts like a box of crayons in the Florida heat.
You can’t let that happen today.
“You ready?” Landon asks, resting his left palm on the arm of my chair.
There’s understandable concern on his face.
The NFL draft next April is my shot to duplicate what Landon has done. Leverage my college success to get to the pros, play the game on the biggest stage.
If the narrative of me being a potential screwup sticks, my NFL draft stock could plummet. Sure, I’ll eventually land on a team, but millions in base salary and signing bonuses fall off the deeper you get selected in the draft. Not to mention endorsements.
And fuck, I think I might hate that I’m disappointing my big brother most of all. Even if we often butt heads, he’s done so much to help me, help all of us Battle siblings.
So add some serious guilty feelings to the mix of what I’m dealing with today.
