Page 18 of Praised By the Cornerback

The words are out before I think about them. I just told a rival how to beat my own coverage. Santos would lose his mind if he heard it. I could play it off as a joke, but I don’t.

Connor glances over, surprised. “Thanks.”

A few routes later, he returns the favor. “You’re opening your hips too early on deep routes. It’s telegraphing where you think I’m going.”

He’s right. I’ve been doing that for years, and no one’s ever called me on it. He just gave away a tell he could’ve used on me all season.

“Noted,” I say, and I mean it.

The next rep, I focus on keeping my hips square longer. Connor runs a deep post, and I stay with him stride for stride. The throw is underthrown, and I’m in position to make a play on the ball.

“Quick study,” Connor says as we jog back.

Wilson’s watching us with an expression I can’t quite read. He doesn’t say anything, just keeps calling routes.

We fall into a rhythm. Productive and efficient. I point out small adjustments to his releases. He notices details in my footwork. The more reps we run, the sharper we both look.

Brooks and McKenna are standing near the sideline, and I catch Brooks shaking his head.

“This is boring as hell,” Brooks calls out. “Where’s the drama? Where’s the rivalry?”

“They’re being professional,” McKenna says, but he sounds disappointed too.

Wilson ignores them. “Good work. Keep going.”

We run another sequence. Ten routes, back to back, and by the end my legs are burning and my lungs are screaming. But every route is crisp. Every rep has a purpose.

Connor’s breathing hard when we finally stop, hands on his knees. His face is flushed, sweat dripping down his temples. He looks up at me, his expression tight, caught between frustration and a question he won’t ask.

“Water break,” Wilson calls.

We head toward the sideline where our bottles are sitting in the grass. I grab mine and drain half of it in one go. Connor does the same, then stands there staring out at the field.

Brooks walks over, grinning. “You two are like a divorced couple at their kid’s soccer game. Very civil. Very awkward.”

“We’re working,” I say flatly.

“Yeah, but where’s the fun? Yesterday you were at each other’s throats. Today you’re like robots.”

Connor takes another drink and looks away.

McKenna joins us, crossing his arms. “I’m with Brooks. The hostility was more entertaining.”

“They’re improving each other,” Wilson says, walking up behind us. “That’s the point. You two should take notes.”

Brooks and McKenna exchange a look but don’t argue.

Wilson claps his hands. “Alright, let’s run through the route tree one more time. Full speed.”

We head back out. The sun’s higher now, the heat starting to press down. My shirt clings to my back, soaked through with sweat. Connor’s the same, his face red and glistening.

We run the routes. All of them. Slants, outs, posts, corners, comebacks, digs. By the time we finish, my quads are shaking and my chest is heaving.

“Good work today,” Wilson says. “Same time tomorrow.”

Connor nods, grabbing his helmet and gloves from where he left them near the sideline. I do the same, and we start walking back toward the building.

Brooks and McKenna are ahead of us, already arguing about something. Davies is gathering footballs, loading them into a mesh bag.