“I didn’t cry.”

“You did in your mind.” Nick rakes a hand over his curly blond hair before he waves me off. “All football guys are softies.”

I shove my hands into the pockets of my joggers. “Are we done here?”

Nick shakes his head. “I’m serious.”

“You’re serious because you don’t like him,” I remind Nick. “But he’s part of my team as much as you are.”

Nick stands. “He’s always piggybacked on your success.”

“Oh?” I challenge. “And who gets 2.5 percent right off the cuff of every deal I make?”

I got the sense there was some sort of jealousy thing Nick couldn’t get over when it came to Coach. I consider both of them on my team. Nick is my manager. He guides me on every business decision I’ve ever made. And even though I know I’ve got enough talent to make good money playing football, Nick has always made me more money. But Foller sure as hell taught me that football is never about money.

I grab the bottle of the lavender juice and spritz the space between us. “Go put your fuzzy socks on and go to bed. You’re stressing me out.”

He holds his hands up. “Listen, Fitz. You played well this season. Very well. You’re maybe the most-liked player in the League. Let’s keep it that way. It will be hard to do if you end up a packaged deal with someone everyone’s pointing fingers at saying he’s a bad guy. I’m trying to keep you America’s Mr. Nice Guy.”

I roll my eyes. Another damn nickname. During my first professional game when I was a third-string quarterback, I fumbled the ball because I tripped over a defensive lineman who failed to tackle me. I was so nervous, I helped the guy up, apologizing, even though the clock was running and I should’ve jogged to the sideline. We won by three touchdowns.

BULLS FIND QB-1 IN AMERICA’S MR. NICE GUY.

To say I was fucking lost when I first got to the League is an understatement. But I went back to my roots. I buckled down and took things seriously. I lived and breathed not just football, but preparation for greatness, exactly the way I was taught. Exactly the way I was coached. The League was hard-pressed to find a quarterback better prepared than me.

These days, when I make headlines, there’s a stark difference.

CAPTAIN AMERICA LEADS REBELS WITH AN IRON ARM AND NO APOLOGIES.

Nick begins to walk to the door.

“Besides, I’d hate for you to get that tattoo covered up if it doesn’t work out long term with the Rebels.” He tosses a smirk over his shoulder that I meet with a grimace.