Page 8 of Praised By the Cornerback

I catch a glimpse of Brooks and McKenna on the far side of the field. They’ve stopped pretending they’re not watching. Brooks has his hands on his hips, head tilted, clearly invested inwhatever’s happening over here. McKenna’s saying something to him, and Brooks laughs, shaking his head.

“Knox, you’re leaning into contact too early,” Wilson says. “Let him commit first, then counter.”

I adjust, running the next route with more patience. Vega bites on my first move, and I’m past him before he can recover. The ball drops into my hands like it was meant to be there.

“Nice,” Brooks calls out from across the field.

I don’t acknowledge him, just toss the ball back to Davies and jog back to the line. Vega’s already waiting. I can’t tell if he’s impressed or just pissed I beat him again.

“That’s three for me,” I say.

“Four for me,” he counters.

I blink. “No way. We’re tied.”

“You’re not counting the one where you dropped the ball.”

“That wasn’t a drop. That was a bad throw.”

Vega raises an eyebrow, glancing at Davies, who looks like he wants to disappear into the turf. “Was it a bad throw?”

Davies hesitates, clearly not wanting to get involved. “I mean…”

“See?” I say, turning back to Vega. “Bad throw.”

“Sure, Knox. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

We keep going. The reps blur together, exhaustion setting in, but neither of us will quit. My hands are cramping, my quads screaming, and I’m pretty sure I’ve got turf burn on my hip from diving for a ball earlier. But every time Wilson calls out another route, I line up and do it again.

Vega’s the same. Impossible to rattle.

By the time Wilson finally calls it, Brooks and McKenna have migrated closer, openly debating now.

“Knox had the better day,” Brooks says. “Hands down.”

McKenna shakes his head. “Vega’s coverage was tighter. Knox just got lucky a couple times.”

“Lucky?” I call over. “You’re really going to say I got lucky?”

McKenna shrugs, grinning. “I call it like I see it.”

Wilson’s gaze moves between all of us, his expression hard to read. “Good work today. Tomorrow, same time.”

Davies looks so relieved I think he might cry. He hands the ball off to Wilson and practically sprints toward the building.

I grab my helmet and gloves from the sideline, my legs protesting every step. Vega’s already heading toward the locker room, and I fall into step beside him without really thinking about it.

We don’t talk on the walk back. Just the sound of our breathing, heavy and uneven, and the crunch of our cleats on the pavement. By the time we reach the locker room, I’m ready to collapse.

The space is empty, cool and quiet after the heat of the field. I drop onto the bench and close my eyes for a second, trying to get my heart rate under control.

Vega sits across from me, elbows on his knees. For a minute, neither of us says anything. Just two guys catching their breath after beating the hell out of each other.

“You know what makes you so hard to cover?” Vega says finally.

I crack one eye open. “My devastating good looks?”

He doesn’t laugh or play along. “Your release. Specifically, the way you vary your tempo. Most receivers have a rhythm. You can time it, anticipate it. But you don’t. Every route, it’s different. Keeps me guessing.”