Page 38 of After the Snap

A laptop rests open on the table behind him, the frozen image of a defensive front filling the screen. Beside it sits a second cup of coffee with my name written across the side in black marker.

“That mine?”

JJ glances toward it. “Tuck said you take it black.”

“You asked Tuck how I drink my coffee?”

“I asked whether you were a quarterback who becomes unbearable without it. He said you’re unbearable either way.”

A laugh slips out as I pick up the cup and take the seat across from him. “That sounds more like Tuck.”

I take a drink, still warm enough that JJ couldn’t have grabbed it too long ago. He knew I was coming in this morning and picked one up on the way.

Such a stupidly small thing.

I take another drink before I can turn it into anything bigger.

“Whit sent over the protections they’ve been working through.” JJ turns the laptop toward me. “He said we should look at the third-down package before he gets here so we have time to emotionally prepare for his opinions.”

Before I can answer, Whit drops a binder onto the table and takes the chair beside him. Archer slips in behind him with a protein shake, pulling out the last empty seat as if nobody told him he wasn’t invited.

“I told Whit preparation is pointless. You can’t prepare for greatness,” Archer says.

“You aren’t in this meeting,” Whit tells him.

“I’m an essential part of the offense.”

“You’re a running back.”

“Exactly.”

Their argument continues while I open the binder, but nobody stops talking or looks to see how I'm taking any of it. They carry on around me as if I’ve been sitting at this table longer than a few minutes, and for once, I don’t feel the need to figure out which version of myself the room expects before I join in.

JJ taps the nickel defender on the screen. “We’ve been sliding the protection this way if he walks down. Whit hates it.”

“I called it football malpractice. That’s different,” Whit grumbles before turning back to his argument with Archer.

I study the alignment, translating Charlotte’s terminology into the language I’ve used for the last eleven years. It still takes me an extra second to make the translation, but nobody rushes me.

“What happens when the safety rotates late?”

Whit sets down his sandwich. “That’s the problem.”

He rewinds the play while JJ walks me through what they saw last season. Archer stops joking long enough to explain where his responsibility changes after the snap, and when I suggest holding him inside before releasing him across the formation, nobody nods simply because the idea came from me.

Whit questions it, JJ points out where it could break down, and Archer insists he can make it work. As we argue through the possibilities, I stop translating everything back into Houston and start thinking about what works for us now.

By the time Coach Quinn steps into the doorway, the coffee beside my hand has gone cold, and Archer is trying to convince Whit that the new adjustment should be named after him.

“You’re supposed to be in the weight room,” Coach tells Archer, pointing toward the hallway before he can defend himself.

Archer leaves, muttering about being an unappreciated talent while Whit gathers the empty wrappers and JJ saves the changes we made.

Coach Quinn picks up the binder and flips through the pages. I wait for the questions I’ve spent my entire career answering whenever a new offense is put in front of me. How much have I learned? How quickly can I get the rest? When will I be ready? He doesn’t ask any of them.

“Good start.”

There’s nothing attached to his praise. No reminder of what they need from me next or added pressure hiding behind the approval.