It’s tedious, with lots of corrections.
“No, Rawley, you don’t want to cut there. Wait three more yards.”
“On this one, you should fake going to the inside first. They fall for it every time.”
“You’re going to be too close to the tight end there. Slide toward the sideline.”
But it works.
It fucking works.
We repeat the process the next day, at Johnson’s suggestion. There’s certainly nothing more important on my agenda.
And as we go through the same setup again, with me giving them direction on which play to run, I feel something shift.
I’m meant to be here.
I’m not perfect, but that’s okay.
Because I have something to offer that very few people can, and I’m going to do my very best to maximize that.
And combined with the plays I already had down, I’m suddenly feeling good about more than half the playbook, including almost all the most important plays for wide receivers.
Excited—and ready—for the OTA starting tomorrow.
I update Landon and Connor over dinner after that second day at Johnson’s, unable to contain how happy I am at the progress.
I’d made a spicy turkey meatloaf, and we all scoff it down while I describe everything.
“That’s awesome, Rawls,” Landon says. “I’d hoped Johnson and Bailey would help you.”
Connor responds before I get a chance. “He’s helping himself.”
Landon receives the memo from Connor, and smiles at me. “Yes, absolutely.”
“Theydidhelp. But I have to master the routes myself, period.”
“Well, I’m proud of you. How are they setting up the deep options? Are you and Bailey both…?”
As Landon and I start chatting about the actual plays, I notice Connor paying more attention than he normally does. Usually, when we get into it like this, he’s on his phone scrolling to entertain himself.
Still, after five minutes, I feel bad. We never talk soccer like this around the dinner table. “Connor, we can change the subject, if you want?”
Landon is the one who responds. “Please do. I need to call Rori before it’s too late over there.”
Putting his dish in the sink, Landon disappears. It’s got to be around her bedtime in Paris, but that never stops them from their hours-long chats.
She lost in the finals of the French Open earlier, and is flying to the UK tomorrow to start her grass court season.
“So you’re leaving to see Bea tomorrow morning?” It’s become his normal routine when Landon and I get consumed with the OTAs.
“Yeah,” he says, pushing one last bite of meatloaf around his plate.
I’m about to pry when my phone dings. I look—and it’s Stefani.
STEFANI: Hi! We still good for next month?
“Shit.”
