My chin rose a notch. “It’s not about the money.”
He raised a hand. “So you keep saying. But we’re not stupid. If Washington had the chance to get you wearing their home colors, they’d sacrifice half their roster.”
“No, they wouldn’t.”
His eyebrows rose in surprise, probably because my tone hardened beyond what I normally allowed when I talked to the people who ran our team. I had the utmost respect for the jobs they did. Balancing hundreds of personalities, billions of dollars of revenue, trying to piece together a winning team out of tangible data and intangible realities.
Coach sighed, sensing the tension shift. “We get why you’d feel defensive, but you’re hardly unbiased when it comes to Washington.”
“I’m not saying that because I’m biased. I’m saying it because it’s true.”
Don narrowed his eyes. “The owner, she’s your … aunt or whatever, right? Dad’s the defensive coach, and everyone knows he’s going to step into the head coach role as soon as this one retires. No need to feed us your brainwashed bullshit. They’re hardly perfect over there.”
“Allie Sutton-Pierson is my godmother,” I corrected. “And I never said they were perfect.”
“Yet you want to run back there.”
It wouldn’t help my case to explain anything. They wouldn’t care.
Coach might. He genuinely cared about his players. But like everyone else—except Ned—he had a boss to answer to.
My hands clenched, muscles tight with restless, angry energy that I’d need to work out in the weight room after this. “All I’m asking is a chance to talk it through with Ned. He’s never here when I am. I always check with his office, and they always tell me that he doesn’t have time to meet with me.”
“Why do you think that is?” Coach asked. His face was weary. “He doesn’t want you going anywhere. You’re the reason he took over a winning team when his dad passed him the reins. He’s pinning all his Super Bowl hopes on you.”
“So he avoids meeting with his quarterback? Springs the media on me when I do so we can’t have a private conversation? Solid leadership strategy.” I raised a challenging eyebrow. “What kind of brainwashed bullshit is that exactly?”
Don was unamused. “Listen, we sit and talk to you every fucking week, Ward. But the attitude doesn’t help.”
“Help what?” I spread my arms out. “I’m not bringing attitude anywhere else. Am I undermining the locker room? Am I sabotaging the team? I’ve been in that weight room more than any other person this off-season. My conditioning has never been better. I’ve taken more reps with the receivers than any off-season before this.”
Coach and Don shared a look.
Coach held his hands up. “We know. You look”—he shook his head—“stronger than you ever have, Emmett. My linebacker coach asked me last week if you were trying to make his guys look bad because usually, the QB doesn’t bench more than his line.”
I was trying not to lose my mind. Every day, I trained like I was pissed at the world.
And I wasn’t. Not exactly.
I just felt like I left something vital behind, and nothing I did chased that feeling away, no matter how hard I worked.
The more time that went by, my calculated risk was starting to feel increasingly like a death knell.
I missed her so fucking much. It was insane. I came back to Florida after my weekend in Oregon, thinking that I could return to some semblance of normal. But it was gone.
Coach and Don wanted me to return to normal too. But they knew by now it wasn’t happening. And despite how much they hated my weekly drop-ins, there was nothing for them to say. As the on-field leader of the team, they had nothing to complain about. Nothing they could cite as a lapse in my ability to produce a winning season.