Page 43 of Fourth and Long

“Which means you’re stressed.”

“Which means I want to be prepared.”

“You’ll be ready,” he says with confidence. “How is Ellie? Kelsey said you took her to see Amber and then she spent the night?”

I hear the question in his voice, but I ignore it. “She’s a huge fan of Amber, and she’d never seen her live.”

“I bet she enjoyed it. I’m glad you’re becoming friends. Kelsey worries.”

I don’t ask why Kelsey worries. It isn’t my business, and I don’t need more guilt, so I change the subject. “I watched the game again.”

“Ugh…I don’t know why you torture yourself.”

“Remembering keeps me sharp. Focused.”

“It doesn’t,” Cam argues.

“I need to remember how I felt when I played it,” I say cryptically.

“Frustrated? Pissed? Disappointed? You don’t need to see it to remember. You carry that game around like a fifty-pound weight.”

We’ve had this argument before.

He isn’t wrong.

“It shouldn’t have happened.”

“But it did. Why did you rewatch it now?”

I hesitate. There’s no way I’m acknowledging that I’m wallowing in misery.

He sighs. “Did you discover anything helpful?”

I try to make a joke. “I shouldn’t throw the ball to the other team.”

“Obviously,” he responds drily. “I know you don’t believe it, but you aren’t the same player you were then.”

This time he is wrong. I am the same. My inability to trust myself when the pressure builds has become a part of me.

“No, I’m not,” I lie. “I’m better.”

This time he laughs, and then sobers. “You are better, physically and mentally. But you’ve got to figure out how to let go of the past—or it’ll keep holding you back.”

I let out a bark of laughter. “When I’m in season, fighting to win games, my mistakes are the last thing on my mind.” It’s not entirely true, but maybe I can convince myself if I say it enough.

“But it’s the offseason and you don’t have the team to distract you, so you’re sitting around watching old game film and thinking about your mistakes.”

“That game has defined my career,” I argue.

“It only defines your career if you let it.”

My next words are quiet. “I don’t want my legacy to be choking when it matters.”

“Your legacy isn’t decided until after you take your last snap. Focus on today. Play for tomorrow. And wait to lament your legacy until you retire.”

“What if no one wants me?” I’m terrified my career is already over. If no teams are interested in me when free agency starts in March, I won’t be retired, but I won’t be playing, either. I try not to think about it.

Unfortunately, I usually fail.