“Somebody take off his cleats, please,” I said. Once Grayson was settled, I told both players to get back on the field. We didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention. They left as Craig was coming in with fluids. “Shut the door please.” Craig shut the door and immediately got to work hooking Grayson up. He protested only a bit before his eyes hooded and his breathing got heavy. “Don’t drool on my couch, Moats.” I grabbed a trash can and put it next to him. Craig took his vitals and sat on the chair opposite him.

“I’ll just hang around to make sure he doesn’t knock out his IV,” he said. I appreciated that he was here. Grayson was a big guy and I couldn’t manage him on my own. I debated texting Parker but decided to wait and see how Grayson was after the treatment. I turned my attention back to the video of the worst game I’d ever coached. The Bills were amazing. We were everything but. We looked sloppy. Grayson got sacked four times. He was sluggish, and for a brief moment, I thought maybe he was drunk during the game. We needed to have a serious heart-to-heart when he was sober.

The door opened and Jamal let himself in. “How’s he doing?” He quickly closed the door behind him. Nobody wanted this to get out.

“He’s sleeping it off right now. What’s the policy on this?” I asked.

“Therapy and detox. This hasn’t been a problem before. Maybe he got shit-faced last night and is still drunk this morning.”

“That might have happened in college, but not in the NFL.” I was so mad at him. Grayson had everything I wanted and he was blowing it.

“I guess I’ll run Archie through the drills and make sure he’s up on the play changes. Get him warmed up in case the penalty is Moats missing a game or two. I’ll gently bring it up to Bill.”

“Did he drive here? Is his car outside?” I hoped he was dropped off by a Lyft or a friend. I inwardly huffed. What kind of person let a friend drive or dropped them off knowing they were drunk?

“I’ll go check,” Jamal said.

Grayson went through an entire bag of fluids before his eyelids fluttered open. His throat was thick with phlegm as he tried to talk. “Where am I?”

Craig leaned over him to hook up another bag. “You’re in Coach McCoy’s office,” Craig said.

“How did I get here?” He was more coherent, but still out of it. He struggled to sit up. Craig offered him a hand.

“Why are you drunk at work?” I hissed.

He dropped his head into his hands and started sobbing. Craig excused himself, but I stopped him before he opened the door. “Craig, please keep this under wraps until we know more.”