Page 35 of After the Snap

I let out a slow breath and step through the doorway. The rapid clicking of shutters follows me until I settle behind the podium. Most of the chairs are filled, local reporters crowded beside television crews and a handful of national writers who’ve decided this was worth a flight to Charlotte.

Rachel takes her place near the back wall and raises one hand. “We’ll keep this to twenty minutes. First question.”

“How surprised were you when Houston told you they were trading you?”

My practiced answer is ready and waiting. Football is a business. I’m grateful for my time in Houston and excited for what’s next. I’ve spent eleven years polishing those sentences until they slide off my tongue. But Rachel never told me to sound grateful; she told me to tell the truth.

“I didn’t see it coming,” I say, tightening my grip on the edges of the podium until the cold metal steadies beneath my palms. “I thought Houston was where I’d finish my career, so it took me a minute to adjust when that changed.”

Pens move across paper, but nobody looks shocked when I admit it hurts. A reporter near the aisle raises his hand next.

“You’ve called this an adjustment, but the Valor described it as a fresh start. Do you see Charlotte that way?”

I glance toward Rachel, but she gives me nothing to follow. No nod or warning. She meant what she said in the conference room.

“I think it’s too early for me to know what to call it.” I take more time with the answer than I normally would, but for once, I’m not searching for the safest thing to say. “Right now, I’m trying to learn the organization and get to know the people I’ll be working with.”

“What have your first impressions been?”

“The people here have made the transition as easy as possible. Nobody’s asked me to pretend the trade didn’t happen, but they also haven’t treated me like I walked in carrying all the answers. And I appreciate that.”

A few reporters glance toward one another before another voice cuts in from the back.

“Do you believe your best football is behind you?”

Their question pushes against the bruise that’s become more sensitive since the trade, but it doesn’t surprise me enough to hurt the way they probably expect. I shift my weight behind the podium and look directly at the man who asked it.

“No. If I thought I was finished, I wouldn’t be here. That doesn’t mean I expect anyone to take my word for it.” I lift one shoulder. “I’ll have to prove it when we get on the field.”

Football has always made more sense to me than people. You either earn the job, or you don’t, and once the ball is snapped, nobody cares what was written about you that morning. Maybe that’s why proving myself has always felt easier than believing someone before I have to.

The questions keep coming—training camp, expectations, Coach Quinn’s offense—and I answer what I know, admitting what I don’t. By the time Rachel announces we only have time for one more, the muscles across my shoulders no longer feel locked in place.

A woman in the second row raises her hand. “Why did you agree to come to Charlotte?”

My answer should be about the chance to compete for another championship, but I remember what Coach Quinn said when he called.

“He wanted me here.” I swallow before I continue. “Coach Quinn didn’t call to convince me Charlotte was doing me a favor. He told me why he believed I could help this team, and then he gave me a choice. That mattered.”

Rachel ends the availability before anyone can ask me to explain further, thanking the reporters while I step away from the podium. The cameras lower as conversations rise behind me, but I don’t turn around to see which answer they’re already pulling apart for a headline.

“How do you feel?” Rachel asks, walking beside me into the hallway.

“Like I gave them at least three sentences I’m going to regret reading in the paper later.”

“That means you probably sounded human.”

I glance at her. “Is that the official PR assessment?”

“It is today.” She reaches over and gives my shoulder a squeeze. “You answered the questions they asked instead of responding to whatever argument you thought they were trying to start. That’s much harder than it sounds.”

We reach the intersection near Communications just as Coach Quinn steps out of a nearby office with another staff member beside him. He finishes their conversation before turning toward us.

“How’d it go?”

“He survived.” Rachel glances my way, a smile tugging at one corner of her mouth. “Better than that, actually.”

Coach Quinn’s attention shifts to me. “You told them the truth.”