“You're good,” I say.
He doesn't answer, but his chin lifts.
That's enough.
“What a fucking shit show,” I mutter, leaning back against my locker and dragging a hand down my face.
0-3.
Never in my worst nightmares did I think I would start my NFL career this badly.
0-3. Fuck.
This is bad. Like Jamie level bad.
At least everyone else left immediately after the shambolic press conference, giving me time to sit here in silence and think about it all.
“Zach, at what point does this stop being a learning curve and start becoming a real concern?”
“You were known in college for staying composed. Tonight you looked visibly frustrated on the sideline. What was going through your head?”
“There are people comparing your start to some of the biggest rookie busts in recent years. Do you pay attention to that?”
The questions were brutal, and my answers were equally bad. I couldn't help it. When I walked in to see Coach Masters laying into Owen again, I lost my shit. Pushed Owen out of the way and told Coach exactly what I thought of his 'encouragement.' Suffice it to say, Coach's response wasn't the best pep talk before a press conference I'd ever had.
I blow out a breath and stare at the locker room ceiling, replaying everything that went wrong today. It wasn’t just the defense this time; it was all of us.
Me included.
Overthrown passes... missed reads... a sack I should’ve avoided... Every mistake loops through my head like the world’s worst highlight reel while Coach Masters’ voice plays over the top of it.
“You wanna play hero so bad? Fine. Heroes get blamed when the team loses. Stop trying to save everybody. You can barely save your own fucking season.”
My jaw tightens because, deep down, I know he’s right. I can't save anybody at this point. Not even myself.
That’s what’s killing me the most.
I flex my hand inside the compression wrap I put on once everyone left and immediately regret it when pain shoots through my wrist.
Great.
Another thing I don’t want the media to ask me about, or the coaches, for that matter. Getting benched for a wrist injury would only add fuel to the fire. We'd lose everything if I wasn't there to help put some points on the board.
When my phone dings beside me, I immediately start to feel all that tension fade away. Why? Because that tone is onlyassigned to one person. The only person who can make tonight feel less crappy.
Honey.
She’s been texting me every now and again over the last few weeks, telling me about her day, or what she thinks about my games. It's not like it used to be between us because I hold myself back, but we're building back to something. I hope, at least.
The important thing is that I never start the conversation. It’s always her.
Honeycomb??:Are you still in the locker room?
Zach:Yup
Honeycomb??:Knew it. You always like to be alone when you’ve lost.
I lean back, opening my legs wider. I actually prefer to be inside you when I’ve lost, but this will have to do.
