Merry Christmas

December ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠22, 2020 — Athens, Georgia

University of Georgia — Vandiver Hall, Room 607

The fever from the SEC Championship had been burning itself out for about forty-eight hours by now. My parents, my grandmother, and the rest of the family had flown back to Hawaii yesterday afternoon, but sadly, thanks to COVID, I'd been left behind on campus.

The other guys were in the same boat. None of us had made it home.

"Ugh. I didn't even get a single pickle."

"Ungh. Me neither."

"Shiiiiit. Best pizza of my life."

"Told you this place was solid."

"Heh heh heh. You did, you did."

"That's what I'm saying."

With break underway and our schedules cleared of everything except training, I'd invited the guys over to the dorm and thrown a pizza party.

Lewis Cine. Tate Ratledge. Nolan Smith. Jermaine Johnson. Mostly defensive guys hung out with me, and Richard LeCounte was there too, back from injury and rejoining team practice just a week ago.

"Wasn't the AP PoY next week?"

"Yup."

"Shiiit. Judging by the buzz, sounds like you already got the call."

"Nah. Coach just said I could go ahead and get my hopes up."

"Every time. Coaches always know before they let on."

For a guy who claimed he couldn't so much as eat a pickle, Lewis Cine had somehow ended up with a bowl of popcorn balanced on his stomach. He'd told me congratulations in advance.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"You're already sitting on a pile of money, man."

"Fuuuck, I'm so jealous."

"Nothing's set in stone yet."

"But you got your MG properly, right?"

"Well. About that."

Once the Rose Bowl was over, the news of my contract with Steinberg S&E would be made public. The marketing guarantee they'd promised was set to be paid within a week of signing, and for now I planned to let the money sit safely in my account and figure out what to do with it later.

Stocks were one idea. Real estate didn't seem like a bad bet either.

Any normal twenty-year-old would be dreaming about an expensive car or blowing cash at clubs, but I knew all too well what a meaningless waste of money that was. As soon as the season wrapped, I intended to find someone I could trust and put roughly six million dollars to work.

By the way — that AP PoY Lewis mentioned was the Associated Press's Player of the Year, which you could think of as the MVP of college football. The announcement date was December 29th.

Exactly one week away.

And that wasn't all — around 4 p.m. today, the SEC was scheduled to post all of its award winners, including the All-SEC Team, on its official website. The trophies themselves would be shipped out to each school.

Probably arriving sometime after Christmas.

Brrrr—

"Hm? Who's calling you?"

"Me. Give me a minute."

I picked up the phone and stepped into the bedroom, closing the door. From outside came a voice asking if they could keep playing games.

"Do whatever you want!!"

If those had been the receivers, they'd have fired up the console without even asking. Defensive guys really did have better manners.

Even if they were absolute savages on the field.

Click.

Door locked, I answered the call.

"Hello?"

"Ha! One thing's for sure — it's a little early to call me a champion."

"No, no, it's fine. So — what can I do for you?"

The caller was Mr. Leigh Steinberg himself. To my great honor, he'd decided to take personal charge of me. Of course, I'd end up talking far more often with the six people who worked alongside him, but the simple fact of being his exclusive client came with advantages all its own.

"That's an odd question."

"No. No special plans for the time being."

Mr. Steinberg told me that Head & Shoulders had come forward with an advertising proposal. And the player who'd be filming it with me was none other than —

"Seriously? Whoa. That's awesome."

The CEO of Head & Shoulders, I was told, had predicted that pairing the present and future of the NFL — Mahomes — with me, the present and future of the NCAA and a future of the NFL myself, would be an absolute knockout. So they'd offered me a six-month commercial deal on fairly generous terms, with the possibility of an extension depending on how the campaign performed.

And there was more.

The last item concerned Nike.

"Fifty million over two years?"

"That's kind of… insane."

Companies like Head & Shoulders and Chick-fil-A would use me as a model regardless of how things turned out, but with Nike, the rest of the season would apparently matter a great deal.

Well. Naturally.

And that also meant that if I kept performing, I might land an even bigger deal than two years and fifty million.

"Fair enough. I'll give it everything I've got."

"Eating pizza with the guys. We're about to start gaming."

"Yes sir. Take care of yourself."

Click.

Wasn't that last line a little odd, though? "Twenties" would have made more sense.

Then again, come to think of it, my thirties had been the most vigorous years of my life too, hadn't they? My twenties had just blown past in a blur.

Click.

I opened the door and stepped back out to find the guys completely absorbed in their game.

"No, no, no, NO—!!!!"

"Kekekeke. Idiot."

"Goddamn mole son of a—!!"

Mole? What on earth…

Oh.

You insane bastards.

Of all the games in the world, you pick the most sadistically evil one?

Spelunky — a roguelike platformer designed to test the most primal human patience and fury known to man.

This was going to be delicious to watch.

I plopped down on the floor in front of the couch, grabbed a bowl of popcorn, and got my hands busy. Every time one of them died in some new and creative way, Lewis Cine's mounting rage was pure comedy.

"Throw that controller, and you're on your own from here."

"Shit!! Why does a game like this even exist?!"

"Why do you think? So we can watch you rage like this."

"Shiiiiit. I'm gonna beat this if it kills me."

There was no doubt I'd look back on days like this one and miss them terribly, right? Once I went pro, once we were all grown up. If only so I wouldn't have regrets then, I wanted to spend this life's twenties — college included — a little more meaningfully.

Not that I hadn't been doing that all along.

"Move, move, MOVE!! FUCK!!"

"Kekeke. Moron. Just back up and take the other route."

"Nobody's thinking of that in that situation!!"

"God, you're terrible at this, you idiot."

"Shut it. I'm still warming up."

"You've been warming up for twenty minutes?"

"…Damn it."

Looks like.

I was going to need a little more popcorn.

December 24, 2020 — Athens, Georgia

University of Georgia — Vandiver Hall, Room 607

Last night I'd spent with Cindy. Cindy had a spectacular ass, and she was the kind of girl who was never quite satisfied.

But I kept giving, and giving, and giving some more just for her — and now Cindy was completely knocked out on my bed.

"…"

After carefully placing a note by her pillow telling her to help herself to the breakfast I'd made, I pulled a warmer up to my eyes, threw on a beanie and gloves, and headed out of the dorm. It was 5:40 in the morning, and full darkness still hung over everything outside.

"Son of a bitch! It's cold enough to freeze a man solid!"

Was I bad with cold by nature? No. I'd lived in New York, after all — whatever this looked like. Back then I'd gone everywhere in below-freezing temperatures with nothing but a not-particularly-warm coat and scarf.

But right now, the cold was hard to bear. It was 2.1°C — about 36°F — before dawn, yet anyone watching would assume it was fourteen below.

There — I spotted Jamir walking toward me.

"Yo!! Z!!"

"Yo— I could tell it was you from way down the street."

"Fuck! I'm freezing to death here!"

"You walk around looking like the killer from Friday the 13th. You know nobody else on this campus dresses like you, right?"

"Hey, whatever works."

"Kekekeke."

Campus had been very quiet lately. Most everyone had gone home for the break. The ones who stayed had some kind of story — either COVID spooked them or it was too much hassle, or they were athletes or in an athlete's orbit. And of that group, anyone wandering campus at this hour of the morning was ninety-nine percent football.

We just worked a little harder than everyone else.

Beep—

Only after Jamir scanned his fingerprint and joined me inside Butts-Mehre did I finally breathe a sigh of relief and strip off everything I'd been layering on.

"I hate the cold. Hate it."

"And you call yourself a football player?"

"I hate being cold. On the field, I deliver."

"Yeah? Not sure I buy it."

"Fuck off, man."

"Kekekekeke."

Honestly? I wasn't entirely sure myself. I'd never actually played football in the cold. Once my body warmed up on the field and I locked into the game, it probably wouldn't be an issue — but the fact that acclimating might take some time nagged at me a little. One blessing, at least: both the remaining bowl games and the National Championship would be played in warm territory. Texas. Florida.

"Let's go!"

"Yup."

Today I'd promised to lift with Jamir, and Peter would join us shortly.

"Where do we start?"

"What kind of question is that? Two hundred, obviously."

"Good. Load your side."

"Yup."

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Same as always, our squats started at 200 pounds (about 90.8 kg). Focusing on form to wake up our sleeping joints, muscles, and ligaments, we'd add 50 pounds at a time up to 450 (about 204 kg), then adjust based on how we felt.

Normally this would turn into a contest over breaking each other's personal records, but with a huge game ahead, pushing it wasn't an option.

"Hoo—"

"Struggling already?"

"Hnggh. As if! Hoo! One more!"

"Yup! Right behind you."

"Hoo—!"

Peter sidled up next to us, checked what we'd loaded, and started rushing through his warm-up to join in. For the record, our squat PRs: I was at 550 pounds (about 249.5 kg), Jamir at 505 (about 229 kg), and Peter held the heaviest at 605 (about 274 kg).

The team's strongest in this department was Devonte Wyatt, who'd thrown up 650 pounds (about 294.8 kg) last time.

Clang.

"Hrrngh!"

Before long we were soaked in sweat, and nothing but ragged breathing and voices goading each other on filled the air around the rack.

"Hoo—"

"Let's finish on the machines."

"Good call."

Only after hitting the quads and hamstrings from every angle with squats and the machines did our dawn workout come to an end, about an hour and twenty minutes after it began.

We came out to the lounge and each grabbed a drink of our choosing.

"Hm? You came in on Christmas Eve?"

"Merry Christmas!"

Coach Monken, his face looking a bit haggard, walked over toward us. He studied our sweat-drenched bodies for a moment, then pulled out his wallet and handed me a few bills.

"Go fill up on a real breakfast with that."

"Whoa — hold on, isn't this against NCAA rules?"

"Is it? Want me to take it back?"

"Not a chance, Coach."

"Damn kid. You didn't overdo it in there, did you?"

"No, Sir."

At Coach Monken's parting warning to hit the showers before we caught a cold, we snapped out a quick "Yes sir" and headed for the locker room.

"How much did he give you?"

"Eighty bucks."

"Whoa. That's real money. What should we eat?"

"Chick-fil-A, maybe?"

"Love it."

Shower done, clothes changed, we left Butts-Mehre in good spirits. The weather was still a bit chilly for my taste, but far better than before dawn — I wrapped only a scarf around my neck and stuffed the beanie and gloves into my bag.

Ding—

"Hm?"

A message from Cindy had arrived.

Whoa. This little temptress.

I jolted in shock at my screen and shoved the phone back into my pocket — thankfully, Jamir and Peter were walking ahead of me, deep in conversation. So I fished the phone back out ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and sent a selfie.

Cindy might not have liked that last message of mine. But I'd only told the truth: I would never be the one asking first. Still, since I'd never said it out loud or put it in writing, she would go to her grave never knowing that about me.

"Mo—i!!"

"?"

"What are you doing?! Hurry up!"

"Coming! Right there!"

The distance had opened up between us while I texted and walked. I quickened my pace to close the gap, and soon I was chatting away with my friends. Before we knew it, the sun had climbed high enough to pour real warmth onto the earth below.

December 25, 2020 — Athens, Georgia

University of Georgia — Dining Hall

Today was the football team's Christmas party, and so everyone had gathered here.

Ting— ting— ting— ting—

The university president tapped his water glass with a fork and rose from his seat, and we fell silent and looked toward him.

He'd seemed remarkably happy these days. And no wonder. Georgia was the kind of school where you could honestly say the football team fed the entire university, so our SEC Championship this year was an enormous deal for the institution.

The truth was that Georgia's basketball and baseball teams weren't particularly strong, sending hardly any players to the NBA or MLB. For the past decade, revenue from the football program had covered the operating costs of basketball and baseball alike.

And this year must have brought in a great deal of money too — especially considering the COVID era.

"I am incredibly proud of all of you."

Starting with how much he loved our football team and how proud it made him, President Morehead went on to explain just how special it was to have beaten Alabama and claimed the SEC title.

That part mattered especially because of the interview Nick Saban had given mid-season.

He'd said it while hyping the triangle of Mac Jones, DeVonta Smith, and Najee Harris — and parts of the media had rated Alabama above us. Alabama fans, too, had been insisting right up until the SEC Championship that DeVonta Smith and Najee Harris were alive and well.

And yet we'd beaten that Alabama twice — which meant we were now, by definition, stronger than the greatest Crimson Tide team ever assembled.

For the president, it must have been an exhilarating experience.

"So I've prepared a small gift for you all."

"Huh?"

The moment he finished speaking, strangers appeared from one side of the dining hall pushing carts stacked high with something. The first person to recognize it bellowed "REVOLUTION!" at the top of his lungs, and we quickly realized what the carts held: donuts from the shop rated the best in Atlanta.

Rising above our growing murmur came the president's voice.

We answered the president's unexpected surprise with a thunderous cheer and a chorus of barking.

Now this was the Christmas spirit!

Carts piled with donuts wound their way between the tables, and we crowded around, asked the staff what each kind was, picked out our favorites, and bit right in.

Dayum—

This was killer. Genuinely.

"Mmm. That's it. I'm done after this one."

"What flavor is that?"

"Cinnamon and sugar. You?"

"Sea salt caramel. This one's insane too."

"I'll grab one of those as well."

Spending the Christmas holidays apart from our families was a little sad and a little painful. We'd been holding out because there was a more important game to play — but the president's surprise gift let us forget, just for a moment, that we were away from our families, and it deepened the bonds between us all the more.

Too much fuss over a donut, you say?

You just don't get it. You can't see this room right now.

There wasn't a single person anywhere who wasn't laughing. Donuts in both hands, faces smeared like little kids, everyone grinning ear to ear. And every time someone threw their head back in a big, happy laugh, the laughter caught instantly on the person beside them.

"Everybody—! Mer—ry Christmas!!"

"MERRY CHRISTMAS!!"

Yeah.

For a first Christmas away from family,

this felt like a solid hundred out of a hundred.