I held my breath. Waiting to hear what he had to say, to hear him explain. I didn’t understand the tape. Plus, he didn’t kneel at all last season when players on other teams started to.

“I blacked out the logo because I work for a company that doesn’t value our lives. Retired players are struggling and they are being met with silence. The same men we ‘honor’ with banners, the men who paved the way for us to get here, are wasting away and nothing is being done to help them. This company owns us, they exploit us, and once we’re injured and battered, they throw us to the side like garbage. The League is a microcosm of our country and just like in our country, racism and discrimination run rampant. So the tape is for my teammates, but the knee is for the Black lives all across the country.” But despite his serious words, his tone was conversational—happy even. He rubbed his hand down his beard, the picture of calm and collected. “I can’t ignore the fact that racism and police brutality in this country are killing Black men, women, and children. This crisis must be addressed. I have a platform and I intend to use it.” Then, without hesitation or his smile fading at all, he nodded to the press and stood up. “Thanks, guys. I think I can count on talking with you all soon.”

I watched the clip approximately a trillion times, until his words were etched inside my skull like an ancient Egyptian text. They even echoed in my dreams during that pitiful hour of sleep I managed to get.

I’ve never been in a position like this before.

I’ve never been made to feel off-kilter by a situation I’m supposed to defuse. Obviously, the downside of this job is I don’t get to have an opinion. I’m one part of the greater whole. And my job is to make the greater whole look good no matter what my personal feelings are.

What Quinton Howard Junior did—and said after the fact—has forced my insecurities to the forefront of my mind.

I’ve never known where I fit in the movement for social justice or if I even belonged. And now, that struggle—the ever-constant push and pull—with who I am is happening at work.

“Elliot?” Paul takes his foot and sends my desk chair gliding across the carpet. “You still in there?”

“Yeah, sorry.” I shake my head and force a smile to spread across my face. “Just trying to come up with other ways to spin this since the media is clearly trying to confuse intentions.”

“Welp.” The wrinkles around Paul’s blue eyes deepen and I get the distinct feeling that he’s laughing at me. “I hope you pull something together fast, because Mr. Mahler wants to see you in his office.”