Page 7 of Praised By the Cornerback

“Great,” I mutter.

Vega gives me another sideways glance, and for the first time, I catch him smiling. “You could try to look at least a little excited, Boy Scout.”

I glare at him, but he’s already looking away, his attention shifting to Wilson up ahead.

***

Wilson marks off twenty yards of field and waves over one of the younger coaches, a guy named Davies, who looks barely older than me, with nervous energy written all over him. He jogs up with a football, glancing between me and Vega like he’s trying to figure out if this is about to be entertaining or painful. Wilson crosses his arms and calls out the first route, and I realize we’re actually doing this. One-on-ones with Adrian Vega for the next five weeks.

“Slant,” Wilson says. “Knox, work on the push at the line. Vega, stay patient on the release.”

I line up across from Vega. He settles into his stance, weight balanced, eyes locked on my hips. Not my shoulders or my hands. Because he knows the hips are where the truth is. Where my body commits before anything else does.

Davies raises the ball, and I explode off the line.

Vega’s hands are on me immediately, pressing into my chest, disrupting my timing. I shove back, fighting through the contact, and break inside. The ball’s already coming. I reach, fingertips stretching, and pull it in.

“Good,” Wilson says. “Again.”

We reset. This time Vega gets a better jump, his hands higher on my frame, and I can’t create the separation I need. The pass sails past me, incomplete.

Vega doesn’t say anything. Just jogs back to the line and waits.

“Knox, you’re dipping your shoulder before you commit,” Wilson calls out. “Telegraph less. Sell it better.”

I nod, irritated that he caught it. More irritated that Vega probably read it before Wilson said anything.

We go again. And again. Slants, outs, comebacks, posts. Every route in the book, and Wilson rotates through them without mercy. Davies keeps firing passes, his arm probably about to fall off by the end of this, but he doesn’t complain.

I beat Vega on a comeback route, the ball hitting my hands right as I turn, and I can’t help myself. Nobody’s officially counting reps out here, but I’ve been running a tally in my head, and it’s going my way. “That’s two for me, one for you. You keeping score, or should I?”

Vega glances at me. “I didn’t realize we were counting.”

“We’re always counting.”

Vega’s not buying it. “We’ve run thirty-odd reps. You’ve got it two to one.”

“I only count the standout reps.”

“Standout reps.” He presses his mouth flat, as if he’s deciding not to smile. “Alright. Then let’s make it interesting.”

The next rep, he’s all over me. Press coverage, tight and aggressive, his hands jamming into my chest before I can even think about moving. I fight through it, twisting my body to create an inch of space, and the ball’s there. I catch it, but barely.

“That’s two and two,” Vega says as we reset.

I grin at him. “You’re getting awfully touchy, Vega. Should I be flattered?”

“Just helping you get better, Boy Scout.”

“I don’t need help. I’m already better than you.”

He looks at me for a long second and then just says, “We’ll see.”

Wilson keeps barking corrections. My footwork’s sloppy on the break. Vega’s hips are opening too early on deep routes. We take the criticism without argument, because what’s the point? Wilson’s right.

The sun climbs higher, the heat pressing down on us. Sweat drips into my eyes, stinging, and I wipe it away with the back of my hand. My legs are starting to burn, that deep ache that comes from explosive movement over and over without rest. But I’m not about to be the first one to ask for a break.

Vega looks just as wrecked. His shirt clings to his back, dark with sweat, and his breathing’s heavier now. But he doesn’t slow down or ease up. Every rep, he’s right there, pressing me, challenging me, refusing to give an inch.