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Coach Bana ran interference on him. Despite his advanced age, the six-foot-two Sean Banaszewski, former middle linebacker for the Patriots, mixed it up better than half the men on the squad. Bana pressed Marcus toward the door.
“All right, King. Save it for the coaches’ meeting in the morning.”
“You and I both know the decision to use this tech happens around this table, not at the coach’s meeting.” Marcus spotted a cluster of spreadsheets unfolded like a buffet in front of Claire, his less-than-stellar performance reduced to numerals. He juked his coach, gripped the pages, and crushed them high into the air.
Caltech girl blinked back her surprise.
“This isn’t how you make great players and championships,” said Marcus. “This is how you kill them.”
“Not the time or place, King.” Bana’s tone was all spiked cleats, laced tight. “Locker room.Now.”
“He wants to talk now, Sean. Let’s talk now.” The owner set down his whiskey glass and made a show of settling into the leather seat at the table’s head, in case anyone present had a mind to forget Ogdon J. Sterling, III, or the Sterling dynasty, whose real estate fortune had allowed them to steal a franchise away from the third largest football market in the United States. “Seems I’m hearing a lot of excuses for piss poor play out there, son.”
Marcus’s gut hardened at the patronizing endearment, meant to soften the blow of what he suspected everyone in the room was thinking—that his best football days were behind him, that his injuries weren’t worth his contract or his space on the roster, and that his future with the Rogues hinged on how much he kissed Sterling’s ass.
One sideways glance at Bana confirmed it. His coach’s glare saidtread lightly or Sterling will find someone who will.
Marcus dialed himself back. “I’m not a hundred percent yet, but I will be. My shoulder’s stronger every day, and I’ve never had a better group of guys out there protecting me. I can get us there. IknowI can. But you gotta let me do what I do best. And I can’t do that when I’m wired.”
His gaze drifted to the woman across from him. Her eyes challenged him. Not in a lineman-out-for-the-QB kind of way, but softer, more open to interpretation.
He couldn’t imagine how smart someone had to be to pull off this level of tech, but football was a game of instinct. And she was inhishouse.
“Numbers aren’t the way to greatness,” he added, more to her than anyone. His voice came out gentler than he intended. Losing his edge wouldn’t help him make his point.
“Numbers may not be the way to greatness,” said Sterling, “but thanks to the unrelenting media cycle, every league team has the insurance companies breathing fire up their backsides to reduce liability. Rogues are no exception. We show them hard evidence we’re attempting to mitigate injuries—especially concussions—and we save that chunk of change for the draft.”
Sterling’s words spread through Marcus’s body like a toxin, poisoning receptors and memories of the game he loved, the game that had saved him, twisting his path into nothing more than a string of decisions designed to chase money.
“So this is a financial decision? Screw the players. Pretty soon we’ll all be playing grab-ass touch football and yanking flags.”
“King,” Bana warned.
“No, Coach.No. Last year, I put up the best numbers of any quarterback in the league. Every day, every snap, I lay my health, my life, my future on the line out there foreveryonein this room. I’ve earned the right to speak my piece. For all those guys out there.” Marcus pointed toward the locker room.
“Those guys out there are on board, Marcus,” said Bana. “Colin has been on the tech since you went on injured reserve.”
“Eggert hasn’t earned starting QB. He doesn’t put the team first.”
“And you do?” Sterling pulled a swig of his on-the-rocks, 80-proof whiskey past his lips without a flinch. He swirled his glass again, shuffling ice cubes in the same haphazard way he shuffled free-agency players. “You give slick speeches, Marcus, but are you really putting the team first? Seems to me a man unwilling to admit he’s losing his edge might be in it for himself first.”
Marcus felt the wind knocked out of him, like a three-hundred-pound lineman had tackled him in a third-down blitz. Silence took hold like the pin-drop hush of a stadium after a player goes down and doesn’t get up. He glanced down the line of those assembled.
Only Claire had the courage to make eye contact.
He breathed through the blow, his defenses mounting a counterattack.
“The minute you pull your heads out of your wallets or calculators or whatever the hell is dictating this decision, you’ll realize the only way to that Super Bowl ring this year is with me leading this team. No Eggert. No wires. No Caltech geniuses that know zip about the game.Me.”
Sterling stood, leaving his drink to sweat into oak. He pocketed his manicured hands and approached Marcus. A wash of cedar and spice and money eclipsed Marcus’s stench.
“This is non-negotiable, Marcus. Work with Miss Wynifred on the tech or Colin starts next week.”
The full weight of the day’s game pressed in on him. Two sacks. Two blows to a still-healing rotator cuff. His shell felt like a punching bag. Nothing compared to his insides.
Marcus glanced at Bana, who nodded toward the locker room. Bana had his back. Marcus knew that. He also knew that a little respect went a long way. Someone special taught him that once.
“I’m passionate, sir.”
