Page 6 of Praised By the Cornerback

Neither of them breaks stride as I approach, which is fine. This isn’t a social hour.

I head over and call out a general greeting. “Hey.”

McKenna glances at me and nods once. “Knox.”

Brooks raises a hand in acknowledgment but doesn’t stop moving.

That’s the extent of our introductions, and I’m good with that. We all know why we’re here. To get better, not to network or show off. No posturing, no bullshit. Just work.

I start stretching, working through my usual routine. Hamstrings, quads, hips, shoulders. The sun is warm but not brutal, and the air smells clean, nothing like the beer-and-hot-dog stink of stadiums.

This won’t be so bad, I think. Five weeks of solid work with a couple of guys who know what they’re doing. Nothing to think about but football.

I’m mid-stretch, one leg extended in front of me, when I hear footsteps on the field. I glance up.

Wilson is walking toward us, his pace easy. And there’s someone beside him.

For a second, my brain refuses to cooperate. It takes in the details, the gold chain he never takes off, the dark hair shoved off his forehead, the unbothered set of his shoulders, and just… stalls. Like it’s trying to process something that doesn’t make sense.

Adrian Vega.

Here. On this field.

For a beat, I just stare, because there’s no way I’m seeing this right. This has to be some stress-induced hallucination, my brain playing tricks on me after months of grinding through the season. But no. It’s definitely him. Same sharp cheekbones, same calm expression, same infuriating aura of someone who has never been rattled by anything.

And he’s looking right at me.

Wilson stops a few feet away, Vega a step behind him. I straighten, my hamstring protesting the sudden movement, and try to arrange my face into something that doesn’t scream what the fuck.

“Knox,” Wilson says, as if this is completely normal. “You’ll be working with Vega for most of the program. Receiver versus corner. Best way to improve both of you.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Wilson’s tone doesn’t invite argument. “Route running against live coverage is more valuable than running against air. Vega needs work on his press technique and recovery mechanics. You need cleaner releases and sharper routes. It’s efficient.”

Efficient. Right.

I glance at Vega, who is standing there watching this entire exchange with that unreadable expression he always has. Like he’s analyzing the situation and filing it away for later use.

Does he look smug? I can’t tell, which is worse.

“Any questions?” Wilson asks.

Yeah. Several. Starting with why the universe hates me.

“No,” I say instead, because what am I supposed to say? That the last time I saw Vega, he got a read on me I didn’t like and I drank too much because of it, and that I’d rather train with literally anyone else?

Wilson claps his hands once. “Alright. Let’s get to work.”

He turns and starts walking toward the far end of the field, clearly expecting us to follow. I grab my helmet and fall into step behind him, Vega beside me.

We walk in silence for a few seconds before the question’s out of me.

“Did you know about this?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

Vega glances at me. “No. Wilson told me right before we walked out here.”

I scowl, because of course Wilson just sprung this on both of us without warning. Probably thought it would be hilarious.