Page 10 of Praised By the Cornerback

But it doesn’t help. I can still feel the ghost of his touch on my temple. Can still hear his voice saying you don’t realize how incredible you are. I press my forehead against the tile and close my eyes, trying to figure out what the fuck just almost happened.

3

Adrian

The recovery room is empty when I push through the door. Brooks, McKenna, and Knox cleared out twenty minutes ago, headed back to their hotels with plans to meet up later for drinks. I declined. Told them I had film to review, which is true, but mostly I needed space to clear my head.

The cold plunge sits in the corner, water still. I drop my towel on the bench and step to the edge. The temperature reading on the side says forty-two degrees, which is perfect.

I lower myself in slowly. The cold hits my calves first, sharp and unforgiving, and my muscles protest immediately. I keep going. Thighs, hips, torso. The shock travels up my spine, and my breathing goes shallow and quick. By the time the water reaches my chest, my heart is hammering.

I close my eyes and force myself to breathe deeper. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The cold stops feeling like a thousand needles and starts feeling like pressure, heavy and grounding.

My thoughts drift back to this morning’s practice. Knox lined up across from me, that cocky grin on his face, a scar cutting through his eyebrow. The way he moved. Fast and fluid,every route crisp despite the trash talk. He’s better than he gives himself credit for.

I’ve been watching him for a while now. Not in a creepy way. I pay attention, that’s all. Hard not to notice someone like Knox. He’s been in the league a couple of years, and every time we’ve played against each other, I’ve felt that pull. Like a hook in my chest, tugging me toward him.

At first, I told myself it was professional interest. He’s a good receiver, I’m a cornerback. Studying him makes sense. But somewhere along the way, he got under my skin.

The water presses in on all sides, and I let myself sink a little deeper. My shoulders are fully submerged now, the cold crawling up my neck.

This morning he was incredible. Every release different, every route sharp. Wilson kept calling corrections, but Knox adjusted instantly. He took it without complaint and got back to work.

And then the locker room.

I saw him sitting there, looking exhausted and vulnerable, and I wanted him to know how good he is and how much he doesn’t see it. So I did. And I can’t shake off the memory of his reaction, that raw and unguarded longing on his face.

Maybe I imagined it. Maybe that’s what I wanted to see.

I take a deep breath and sink all the way under. The cold swallows me, muting everything. My lungs start to burn after a few seconds, and I surface with a gasp.

Water streams down my face. I wipe it away and climb out, skin prickling as the air hits me, the tension from the day finally easing.

I dry off quickly, get dressed, and head to the film room.

The space is small and dim, just a desk with a screen and a few rows of chairs. I pull up this morning’s practice footage and start from the beginning. Wilson had someone filming from the sideline, multiple angles, and I scrub through until I find the first one-on-one rep.

Knox explodes off the line. I pause it, rewind, watch again. His stance is wider than most, his weight balanced so he can break either way. When he moves, there’s no wasted motion.

I watch the entire sequence. The way he sells the slant, the way my hands come up to press him, the way he counters with a sharp push to break free. He catches the ball in stride, smooth and confident.

Next rep. Out route this time. I’m all over him at the line, jamming his chest, but he slips free and gets outside. The throw is behind him, and he adjusts mid-route, twisting his body to make the catch.

I run it back three more times. His body control is insane.

I should be reviewing my own technique. Looking at my footwork, my hip turns, the moments where I got beat. That’s what I’m supposed to be doing. But I keep watching Knox instead. His movement, the separation he creates, the way he reads the ball in the air.

The footage rolls on. Rep after rep. By the time I reach the sequence where he beat me on the comeback, I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been in here. The light outside the window is fading, the room going darker.

I close the video and lean back in the chair. This is a problem. Or maybe I’m the problem, and his existence makes it impossible for me to think clearly.

I grab my bag and head out.

The drive back to the hotel takes fifteen minutes. Traffic is light, the freeway clear, and I spend most of it trying not to think about Knox staying at the same hotel. When McKenna asked where we were staying and Knox said the Marriott, my chest clenched. I didn’t react, but inside I was already calculating the odds of running into him.

I should probably book a different hotel, and I make a note to ask my PA after dinner.

I pull into the parking garage and grab my duffel from the passenger seat. The lobby is quiet when I walk through, just a couple at the front desk checking in and a businessman on his phone near the elevators.