Page 63 of The Pact
Football doesn’t work like that.
The game doesn’t care about how hard you train, how many hits you take, or how many games you drag yourself through with tape holding your body together and adrenaline holding up the rest.
It doesn’t care about legacy.
You either execute or you don’t.
And we didn’t.
So, now, here we are, back at the facility, the January air feeling a little colder, stuck in team meetings, and all I want to do is pack my gear and go home.
The room is too quiet. Too bright.
No one is joking or talking shit. No one is making excuses, which somehow makes it worse. And at the front of the room, the coaches review film in clips, throwing out words:Missed tackle. Bad angle. Protection breakdown. Missed opportunity.
These are the kind of mistakes that don’t look like much on TV until the end of a season.
I sit with my elbows on my knees, hands folded between them, as I stare at the screen while my body goes through the motions of listening.
I have one more meeting after this with the defensive coordinator, then locker clean-out.
My body is here, but my brain is just … somewhere else.
I’m not focused. Mostly just tired.
But it’s the kind of tired that settles into your bones after months of giving everything I have to something that just wasn’t enough.
I should be thinking about ways to improve next season. Or my off-season training plan.
Instead, I’m just thinking about my bed and sleeping for days.
The door opens, and at first, no one reacts. Staffers move in and out of our meetings all the time.
But this guy—I think his name is Jonah—steps right up to Coach and leans in close.
Coach’s posture changes immediately.
His shoulders stiffen. Mouth tightens. And his eyes lift … and land on me.
My stomach drops.
“St. Clair,” he calls out.
The room is still quiet, but in a different way.
I stand automatically.
Coach doesn’t say anything else at first. He just waves me down with two fingers, motioning me toward the door.
“Follow Jonah,” he says, voice low. “Mr. Grant needs to see you.”
The room disappears.
Someone mutters my name as I walk down the aisle. But I don’t stop.
Jonah waits by the door, face pale. And he won’t look at me.
That was my first sign that something was wrong.
