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“Has this been the welcome home you’ve always dreamed of, Fitz?”

Technically, I’m pretty far from Boston. I’m standing in an Atlanta hotel ballroom that’s been converted to house the dozens of journalists in front of me. I’ve spent a good chunk of my football career in similar situations, but only for the Los Angeles Bulls, where I played up from when I was drafted until last season.

I lean back from the podium, making it obvious I’m looking down at the New England Rebels’ emblem—an outline of a soldier of the American Revolution—before I adjust the mic. “Look, I grew up on the south shore of Massachusetts, and I’ve always been proud of our teams, even the Red Sox.”

The room chuckles.

“But it’s another kind of proud to lead the Rebels to a Super Bowl. And I’ll be even prouder to bring that trophy to the streets of Boston.”

I wait for the head of the Rebels’ PR team to take another question, and a woman stands.

“Rebecca Morris,” she introduces herself. “From The Boston Journal’s Sports & Style section . A large part of this year’s coverage of the team has focused on your relationship with Coach Foller.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of my manager, Nick. It’s impossible to miss the veins in his neck bulging.

Rebecca continues, “I think it brought a new sense of wholesomeness to the game, knowing that he coached you all the way back in high school. But I’m sure you’re aware of the allegations that have come up over the last few months.”

Nick might have a stroke.

“There are two things my team reminds me to never comment on. Politics”—I wait for the laughter to subside—“and legal matters. The Rebels did an investigation and I have to trust it was thorough.”

My eyes bounce between Nick, who looks like his blood pressure has lowered, and Rebecca, who doesn’t appear satisfied.

“You don’t have any comment on the abuse allegations?” she asks. “As of now, four former players back when he coached at the college level have?—”

“I can’t speak to other players’ experiences. I can only speak to mine .”

Nick’s eyes beg. Please don’t.

I rock back and forth on my heels. I should probably keep my mouth shut and leave it at that. But I’ve been in the public eye long enough to know no comment leaves a lot of room for people to come up with their own truths when really, there only is one. And it’s simple.

I owe everything to James Foller.

They always say you never forget your first. I happen to have a few of those up my sleeve. Foller is one of them. He was the guy who made me into the player—the man —I am today. That started in high school, but it didn’t stop there.

When I went on to play in college at Georgia, he joined the staff as the quarterback coach my sophomore year when we won a championship. And when I was drafted to the League, it wasn’t much later he joined the Bulls as an assistant offensive coordinator. But I can’t exactly take credit for that. Foller got to that level because he was a damn good coach who knew what it would take to keep winning.

The truth is, football is an ugly sport. You’ve got to be tough. You’ve got to be violent. And to win? You’ve got to give your grit, determination, and will. You can only do that if you’re prepared and do the work. I’m not sure why people find it surprising to find that coaches are often tough on players. They scream. They break you down. If you’re tough enough to get through it, they’ll build you back up and you might find yourself in my exact situation—about to play in the Super Bowl.

Coach did all of that. After going on to be the offensive coordinator for two more teams, he made enough of a name for himself to become the head coach of the Rebels. And his first executive decision was to make a change at quarterback that timed with my contract with the Bulls expiring.

“It’s been an honor to be coached under James Foller,” I say. “I credit him with much of my growth and success, and look forward to throwing a cooler of water on him after we get that win in two days. I’ll take the next question.”

* * *

“You know something.” Josh, my center, straightens from his bent over position, huffing. “We need to think bigger.”

I hand back the water bottle to the Rebels assistant. “We’re about to play in the Super Bowl,” I tell Josh. “What’s bigger than that?”

“No.” Josh shakes his head. “I mean about what we’re going to do to Foller after we win. It has to be bigger than a cooler of Gatorade.”

“What do you need? A swimming pool?” I joke.

Josh stares toward the sideline. “That’ll work if it’s filled with Holy Water.”

I trace Josh’s stare. “They’ll be alright,” I say when I see what he sees—Micah, my running back, and Todd, our defensive lineman standing, helmets off as Coach talks to them.

“Most of us are about to play the biggest game of our lives the day after tomorrow and he’s got us running routes in full pads.” Josh scoffs.

Full pads this close to a game—let alone the Super Bowl—isn’t a conventional coaching tactic. And conventional isn’t exactly in Coach Foller’s playbook. We run full contact practices probably more than any other team in the League. But this season, we have more wins than any other team as well.

“For god’s sake.” Josh tips his head. “Go figure out what’s going on, will you? If I go over there, I’ll make it worse.”

“You’re a captain as much as I am,” I remind Josh, who has played for the Rebels for four seasons, and under Foller for two.

Josh waves me off. “You’re Captain America . Go save the day.”

“I never endorsed that,” I remind Josh about what they started to call me when I signed with the Rebels after their losing season. And here we are.

I toss him the ball and jog over to the sideline.

“I don’t know what’s worse,” I hear Coach say. “My running back afraid to take a damn hit, or my corner afraid to give him one.”

I catch Micah’s eye, and go to interrupt, but Todd beats me to it.

“I’m not risking breaking my guy’s leg in practice,” he says. “Never been about that. Definitely not about it now right before a championship game.”

Coach swings his head in Todd’s direction. “Alright then. So I’ve got a cornerback issue. Take your soft ass off the field and get yourself back to the hotel in an Uber.”

My eyes widen. “Coach?—”

“Hey Fitzy.” Coach looks over the rims of his glasses. “Do snowflakes win championships?”

My eyes drift to Todd.

Coach waves a hand at me. “Did you hear me? I asked if snowflakes win championships.”

I take a deep breath. “No.”

Coach moves away from Todd and Micah, coming up to stand next to me so we face them together. It’s drawn out like we—coach and quarterback—are the team.

Micah shakes his head and looks away, like he knows where this is going. And I do to. Foller has asked me this dozens of times since I was a kid. He made sure as hell I didn’t want to be a snowflake, that I wouldn’t ever disappear just because things got a little too hot.

Todd isn’t that way. Todd is one of the greatest cornerbacks in the League. And the truth is when I played for the Bulls, we feared him as an offense. He was quick. He was strong. And he hit with every part of his body with zero hesitation and maximum effort.

When he had to.

But I know every moment with Coach Foller is a teaching moment. And what he’s trying to teach Todd right is that if he’s not prepared to tackle his own teammate with full force now, he might hesitate when it matters.

Todd shakes his head at me. “I’m done.”

I curse under my breath.

“Good,” Foller says. “That’s the best decision you’ve made this entire day.”

Todd brushes past me as he heads into the locker rooms of the training facility we’ve been using.

“And you,” Foller says to Micah, “If you run one play today like you aren’t prepared to take down a god damn brick wall, you’ll sit on Sunday. Is that clear?”

Micah lifts his helmet onto his head and stepping around us, back onto the field.

I turn, and so does Coach. “What happens to snowflakes Fitz?”

Josh’s shoulders drop as he gives Micah a pat on the back.

“They melt.”