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I’ve just reached the tunnel when Ronnie pops up. I’m startled because I didn’t know he was still on the field. Most of the team escaped as soon as they could.
Ronnie does not like me. He was openly hostile the first time we met and I’m still not entirely sure why.
“I was open,” he says.
He gets right up in my face. He’s been a pain in my ass all season. Even when he’s got three defenders on him, he thinks he’s open. He’s good, but not that good. And he complains constantly that I don’t get him the ball enough. He’s confident—cocky, really—which would be fine if he were as good as he believes.
I don’t want to start something, so I nod and try to step around him.
Apparently he has more to say because he moves with me.
“You couldn’t complete a single pass. That’s all we needed. One pass.” He holds his finger right in front of my nose. He’s looking for a fight. Intellectually, I know this. Emotionally, though, I’m pissed.
I glance around. No one is paying us any attention. I shouldn’t respond, but I can’t stop myself. “If you spent more time catching balls and less time bitching, it wouldn’t have come down to one pass.”
People only remember the last play.
They’ll forget Ronnie couldn’t keep his foot in-bounds on first and goal. They’ll forget Clint, our running back, fumbled the ball on our twenty-two-yard line in the first quarter. They’ll forget about the field goal we missed to start the second half.
It’s a long game. There are hundreds of moments that could have changed the outcome. Unfortunately for me, it’s only the last one that matters.
I’m not trying to make excuses. I’m aware that I threw an interception to lose the game. Even though it’s a team sport, the reality is, the quarterback gets the glory—or the culpability. It might not always be fair, but that’s the way it is.
Ronnie steps back and starts to turn away, but instead of leaving, he draws his arm back and throws a punch. I don’t fall over. I don’t even waver, but holy crap, it hurts. My cheekbone feels like it shattered. I get hit for a living and my eyes still water. Ronnie is the cooler-throwing, bench-flipping, wildly cursing type, so I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am.
I don’t take the time to consider the consequences—I just let my fist fly. I connect right below his left eye. I’m three inches taller, seventy-five pounds heavier, and I have righteous indignation on my side.
He doesn’t stand a chance.
He crumples into a heap at my feet. I’ve never hit anyone like that. It felt surprisingly good. I try to ignore the fact that punching someone is assault. The personal conduct policy in this league is very clear. I could get fined. Or suspended. Does it matter that he started it?
This might make getting a new contract harder.
I’ll regret it tomorrow, but right now, I’m too numb to care.
He jumps up and glares at me. Hatred is etched into his face.
I won’t have to see him after today. The chances of me getting a new contract here are zilch. We have nothing left to say to each other, but that doesn’t stop him from looking me in the eye and spitting on my jersey. It’s the ultimate sign of disrespect. And somehow it hurts more than the shiner I’m sure to have by morning.
Twenty minutes later, I’m showered and ready to brave the media. My teammates are subdued and quiet, as they usually are after a loss. I catch a few glares, but it isn’t nearly as bad as I deserve.
When I get to the press conference, I step up to the podium with my serious smile in place. It’s the smile I reserve for losses. I have a more natural, cheerful one for the wins.
I’m a pro at handling the media in these moments. I’ll praise my teammates, the coaching staff, the other team, the fans, and anyone else I can think of. Then I’ll take the blame for the loss, highlight my mistakes, and generally grovel. Only the super talented can walk out on the media without catching too much heat.
I definitely can’t.
I offer a brief statement and open the floor up for questions.
Right out of the gate, one of the guys who’s covered the team all season says, “After the game, you had an altercation with Ronnie.” My smile starts to slip. I didn’t think anyone was paying attention. I should have known better. The bruise below my eye confirms the reporter’s statement, so I wait for an actual question. “He’s claiming you didn’t throw the ball to him on that last throw because you didn’t want him to get the glory. Care to comment?”
“It’s a team sport. I just want to win. If I’d thought he could hang onto the ball, I would have thrown it to him.” It’s completely true. Still, I should have kept the dig about holding onto the ball to myself. Everyone hates players who blame others.
Hell—I hate players who blame others.
As if I didn’t already know I’d made a shitty comment, my publicist slips into the back of the room with a little head shake. My agent Cam hired Judy right after I threw eight interceptions in the biggest game of my life. In the three years since, I’ve kept her busy.
Another reporter, smelling a story, jumps in. “Are you saying you don’t trust Ronnie to catch the ball?”
