Page 17 of Praised By the Cornerback

He sits down on the grass and starts tightening the laces on his cleats, and I watch him, waiting for something. A sign that he’s thinking about this morning. That it affected him at all.

Nothing. He just finishes with his cleats, stands up, and starts stretching. Easy and relaxed, no tension in his shoulders or his jaw.

I don’t know what to do with that. I spent the last hour convinced I’d made things irreparably weird between us, and he’s acting like nothing happened.

Maybe it was just a release for him, a way to deal with morning wood, and now it’s done and forgotten.

The thought should be a relief. Instead, it sits heavy in my chest.

Brooks and McKenna arrive a few minutes later, followed by Wilson and Davies. Wilson calls us over.

“Same as yesterday,” he says. “Knox, Vega, one-on-ones. Let’s see if you can maintain that intensity.”

Connor grins at me, that cocky flash of teeth. “Ready to get beat again, Vega?”

I let it go and move toward the line.

Wilson sets up the drill, marking off the same twenty yards as yesterday. Davies takes his position with the football. Connor lines up across from me, settling into his stance.

I keep my eyes on his hips.

“Slant,” Wilson calls.

Davies raises the ball. Connor explodes off the line.

I press him at the release, hands coming up to disrupt his timing. He counters, shoving through my contact, and breaks inside. The ball comes fast. He catches it clean.

“Good,” Wilson says. “Reset.”

We jog back to the line. Connor glances at me, and I can feel him angling for a reaction. A comment, maybe. Some acknowledgment of the rep.

I don’t give him one. Just settle back into my stance.

We run it again. Out route this time. I stay patient on the release, tracking his hips, and when he breaks outside, I’m right there with him. The throw is high, and Connor has to adjust, reaching up to pull it down.

“Better coverage,” Wilson says. “Knox, cleaner break next time.”

Connor nods, jogging back. He’s watching me now, a small crease between his eyebrows like he’s trying to figure something out.

We keep going. Route after route, Wilson calling them out in quick succession. I keep my focus locked on the work.Technique, footwork, timing. No trash talk. No jokes. No teasing.

Just football.

Connor tries to pull me back into our usual dynamic. Small comments between reps, little jabs designed to get a reaction.

“Come on, Vega, at least pretend you’re trying.”

“That was a gift. I’m giving you gifts now.”

“You look so serious. Someone die?”

I ignore most of them. When I do respond, it’s with one-word answers or technical observations. Nothing personal. Nothing that invites banter.

After about the tenth attempt, Connor finally stops trying. His face closes off, and he pulls back into himself. The jokes disappear. The grin fades. He just lines up and runs the routes, quiet and focused.

With the back-and-forth gone, we start actually working together. I start noticing things I hadn’t paid attention to before. The way he uses his hands to win the release. The subtle head fake at the top of his comeback routes, selling vertical right before he breaks back.

Between reps, I mention it. “You’re already winning the release with your hands. Get them inside my frame a beat sooner, and I won’t be able to recover.”