Still, That Wouldn't Be Right

#. January 25, 2022

#-1. Tampa, Florida, USA

#-2. Buccaneers Front Office

With both No. 1 seeds falling in stunning upsets across the two conferences, the NFC's second-seeded Tampa Bay Buccaneers had also seen their season come to an end two days earlier at the hands of the L.A. Rams.

For Tampa, who had privately hoped to win back-to-back Lombardi Trophies alongside Tom Brady, it was a deeply bitter outcome.

But yesterday's loss quickly became the least of their problems.

The reason was this.

"He seemed quite firm in his resolve."

"…"

"Gisele pushed hard for it. She asked him to finally step away from the field and devote himself more fully as a husband and a father. I tried everything I could, but I couldn't fault him for it."

The Buccaneers' front office, which had all but completed a dramatic fourth-quarter comeback only to fall one play short, had spent yesterday trying to wash away the pain of playoff elimination.

Then, a few hours later, a single phone call reached General Manager Jason Licht — and made him forget the pain entirely.

By delivering a far greater, long-anticipated agony in its place.

It was Tom Brady's retirement announcement.

"What's the ownership group saying?"

"That we have to keep him at all costs. But…"

The man watching Jason Licht trail off mid-sentence was Buccaneers head coach Bruce Arians.

Thanks to Tom Brady's awakening, his team had erased a 24-point deficit in just eighteen minutes and clawed all the way back to 27-27 — only to botch the final defensive play call and surrender the game-winning field goal.

Among fans, he was famous as a coach who favored a fiery, aggressive offense — so much so that he'd even published a book titled How to Survive as an Elite Quarterback in the NFL, proof of his real expertise in handling the position.

And with last year's Super Bowl LV victory, he had also become the oldest head coach ever to win a championship in NFL history.

"If Tom is truly retiring, then we need to decide our future."

"There are decent quarterbacks in this year's FA market—"

"That's not what I mean, Jason."

"?"

"There's one guy. At Georgia."

"…Are you serious?"

"We have two options."

Bracing both hands on the sofa, Bruce Arians rose and walked with practiced ease toward the refrigerator installed in the GM's office. He pulled out a cold bottle of water, twisted off the cap, took a long drink, and picked the conversation back up.

Ever since he'd taken Tom Brady — the man everyone assumed would remain a Patriot for life — into the fold in 2020, his reputation as a quarterback whisperer had only cemented the conviction he'd always carried.

To be the very best in the NFL—

"You must, absolutely must, have a great quarterback."

"Well, obviously."

"Not merely a good one — it doesn't work with merely good. Sure, those guys occasionally get lucky and lift a Super Bowl. But look at Tom. The man has seven Super Bowl trophies! Seven! Not a single one of the 32 franchises in this league has lifted more trophies than Tom Brady. That's why he's the greatest quarterback of all time. That's why he's a legend."

"…"

The second quarterback ever to win a championship after switching teams.

The first quarterback ever to deliver a title immediately upon arrival.

The first Super Bowl MVP to win it in both conferences.

And a player who spanned three separate decades, capturing Super Bowl MVP honors in each.

The evidence proclaiming Tom Brady a great man had been overflowing from the very start, but with last year's championship, he had ascended — at least within the NFL — into a realm no one else could even approach.

A void like his could never be filled by some ordinary quarterback.

What made it worse was that because the team had swallowed Tom's first contract offer without a whimper back when he first arrived in Tampa, the salary he was currently drawing wasn't actually all that large.

Factoring in the hard cap and next year's roster construction, it was plain to see that the quality of quarterback they could afford with the leftover money would drop off a cliff.

The best outcome would be for Tom Brady to reverse his decision to retire and play out his final year under contract — but when the reason was nothing less than his family, there was truthfully little hope of holding him back.

Which was exactly why next season mattered so much.

"Let's look at ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the futures we can actually choose from. First — free agency. But who do we bring in? You're aware that the best asset on the market is a guy I ran out of town, aren't you?"

"You mean Winston."

"Yeah. Ben. He was a good quarterback. But he's forty already. Should we try fishing Bridgewater out, then? A guy whose every secret's already been fished out and posted for the whole league to see — 'no catch'? Mariota's a fool. The rest are all bridge-level, every last one. Bringing in a good quarterback through free agency is impossible, Jason. Which leaves a trade — and do you seriously want to tear this team apart?"

Even without a championship game appearance, the Tampa Bay Buccaneers were still a good team.

No — they were an excellent team.

Vita Vea, a top-tier NFL nose ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠tackle.

A dynamic duo.

Mike Evans and Chris Godwin.

Add center Ryan Jensen and massive offensive tackle Tristan Wirfs — both of whom, barring the unexpected, would remain in Tampa — and the team could still contend for the playoffs next year.

On one condition.

That they had a good quarterback.

"If Tom really retires, then we have to lose on purpose. It's fine even if we miss the No. 1 pick. Alabama and Ohio State have good quarterbacks too. That's what I want to propose, Jason. To ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠succeed in this business, it's quarterbacks — and then more quarterbacks."

"Hoo—"

While Tampa's leadership, who had assumed they'd have Tom Brady for at least one more year, sank into grave deliberation — just beside Kansas City, in Saint Louis, Dwayne Moi Stone was practicing wrestling.

THUD!!

"HO—WOO!!"

Dwayne Moi Stone, having successfully landed the move he'd just learned, let out a triumphant roar from the top of the ring, and Triple H — watching from ringside — jolted in surprise and let out an exclamation of his own.

"WHOO-HO! Turns out you've got a gift for this too?"

"You could give me a bigger role, you know."

"Oh, could we?"

"Yeah."

While countless teams fretted over their futures in the present moment, the immovable No. 01 pick of the 2023 Draft was busy enjoying the here and now.

#. January 27, 2022

#-1. Saint Louis, Missouri, USA

#-2. Enterprise Center

In my past life, the sports I'd enjoyed watching most — football aside — were basketball, and then ice hockey.

What first pulled me in was how impossibly cool the Enforcers were when I was a kid. With the kind of troubled home I came from, I suppose I'd yearned for the image of a strong man.

For the record, the Enforcer is a fully official position — the role goes to the roughest, best fighter on the team.

Hockey skill doesn't matter.

All that's required is the ability to fight, and leadership.

These Enforcers provoke and needle the opposing team's star players to drag them into fights and wreck their rhythm, and the standard answer to an Enforcer is, naturally, another Enforcer.

The only pity is that both in my past life and this one, they've been slowly disappearing ever since social media took over.

As they faded, the fighting was stripped out of the Enforcer's role, and the job of handling every piece of dirty work became the emphasized part instead.

There'd be no brawl to watch today, either.

"Which one's my popcorn?"

"This one. Your drink is…"

"The large one's mine."

"Ah, right."

Wade Buck, who had felt like a bit of a nuisance back in New York last year, had become someone I was extremely close to now.

The agency seemed intent on attaching him to me outright — he was even moving to Athens to coincide with the start of next football season, so I'd apparently be seeing his face every day.

Since I'd soon be eligible to enter the Draft, my contact with NFL team personnel was only going to multiply.

"You like hockey?"

"Of course. What am I, Canadian?"

"Really? Huh, that's surprising."

"Why?"

Well — anyone could see he was a textbook West Coast guy.

His accent had the Pacific shoreline stamped all over it.

"Haha. Because I went to USC, that's why."

"Fancy school."

"Yep — and thanks to it, I landed this job."

"Impressive."

Mid-conversation, a crowd of people brushed past in front of us, and with my size, I had to stand up and step aside to let them through.

After glancing left and right and confirming every seat was packed, I settled back down, satisfied there'd be no reason to stand again.

"So? Which team are you rooting for?"

"Edmonton."

"No way! You're kidding, right?!"

"Why?"

"Go, Oilers!! I was BORN in Edmonton!!"

"LIAR!!"

After a brief spike in volume, the two of us came back to our senses, wondering aloud why we'd both suddenly started talking like teenage girls.

"Wow. One more reason to like you."

"Same here."

"Think Connor goes off tonight?"

"He's already a legend."

The Connor McDavid we were talking about is the best ice hockey player alive.

A big left-handed center born in Ontario, Canada, known by nicknames like McJesus and McSavior.

What's more, the Edmonton Oilers are the team Wayne Gretzky once played for, so the fans already cheer for Connor McDavid as the second coming of the Great One.

"I'd love to get close to him, if possible."

"You can do that."

"…Sorry?"

"I've got some friends on the Oilers."

At Wade Buck's promise to set up a video call sometime later, I told him that if this weren't a public place, I'd have showered him with kisses.

He wiped his brow and made a gesture of sweet relief.

He'd definitely loosened up a lot compared to when we first met.

"Um, excuse me?"

"Hm?"

While we were picking at our popcorn waiting for the game to start, a man and a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠woman wearing lanyards came up beside us.

"Would you happen to be… the person we think you are?"

"And who would that be?"

"Are you Dwayne Moi Stone?"

"Yes, sir. What can I do for you?"

The pair — unmistakably staff of the Saint Louis Blues at a glance — asked whether, if we didn't mind, we'd like to watch the game from the VIP seats.

I politely declined.

I'd watched hockey from VIP boxes in my past life, and this is a sport that only tastes right up close to the glass.

The raw thrill of bodies slamming against the tempered glass right in front of you is one of the reasons I love hockey.

"Then, may we ask a few favors?"

"Let's hear them first."

The woman, who belatedly introduced herself as Amy, asked whether they could put me up on the big screen during the break after the first period.

One of the charms of a hockey arena is the way it flashes lookalikes up on the jumbotron between whistles — she wanted to show my photo first, then cut to the man himself, and delight the fans.

There was no reason to say no.

And there'd be more, wouldn't there.

"You said a *few* favors?"

"Haha. Yes."

Amy asked if I could spare a moment at halftime to come by the VIP section — she said one of my fans was waiting there.

But hold on — how did they know I was here at all?

"Social media."

"Ah…"

Right.

I'd posted before heading into the arena.

"The last favor — if your team wins tonight, could you stop by the locker room? As you know, Saint Louis doesn't have a football team. So we follow college ball closely here — the players actually watched the National Championship game together a little while back."

"Seriously?"

"Yes. Take a look at this."

Oh — it's true.

There really was a photo of exactly that.

"I don't know if you'll believe me, but we have a *lot* — a whole lot — of your fans on this team. So if you're willing, would you meet our players? They'll throw in a free jersey, too."

"Haha. Yes. I'll do it."

"Really?"

"Of course. Wade, that's fine, right?"

"Absolutely."

"Oh — thank you so much!"

The staffer, Amy, poured out her thanks and then introduced the man standing beside her, saying that if I told him anything I needed, he'd bring it straight to our seats.

Never one to turn down free food, I ordered a few things to tide me over.

"We'll bring it right out."

"Thank you."

Wow.

Didn't see that one coming.

And here I'd planned to just watch some hockey and head out.

"You're a star, kid."

"Apparently so."

When I bumped fists with Wade, grinning, the two young people sitting behind him were staring at me.

And the woman among them asked:

"Are you somebody famous?"

"Um—"

How exactly was I supposed to answer that?

The moment I looked awkward, Wade stepped in.

"He's my client. The current No. 01 college quarterback in the country."

"Wow. Could you sign something for me?"

"Of course. You got a pen?"

"Uh…"

The woman began rummaging through her bag, and when she finally found a pen, her face lit up like she'd shouted eureka.

There was nothing flirtatious in it — the action itself was just cute — so I happily accepted the pen and signed the paper she held out.

"What's your name?"

"Dwayne Moi Stone."

"That's an unusual name."

"I hear that a lot, actually."

"Thanks!"

Thankfully, the young couple didn't pester me further — after their thanks, they vanished back into their own little world.

And just as I turned back around, I saw the elderly couple seated to my left holding out a pen and paper.

"Young fella, would ye give us an autograph too, now?"

"…O-of course."

Should I have said I was heading up to the VIP seats?

Nah.

Still, that just wouldn't be right.

#. January 28, 2022

#-1. Saint Louis, Missouri, USA

#-2. The Ritz-Carlton, Saint Louis

I've always gotten along well with the friends on my practice squad roster, and a few of them used to ask me the same question, over and over.

[How on earth do you keep meeting women?]

The guys were baffled that I never used dating apps or anything of the sort, and yet still rotated through women and ended up in bed with them on a regular basis — so they'd beg me for my secret.

Honestly, back then, I could have answered simply.

It's me.

Just like that.

For starters, if you're the starting quarterback at a school even half the caliber of Georgia, there's hardly a girl on campus you can't meet.

And if you're even more famous than that — and publicly known to be single — dozens of women a day will slide into your DMs asking if you'd like to meet.

Some of them are famous themselves.

Not A-list stars, perhaps, but people whose faces you've seen at least once or whose names you've at least heard.

The woman leaving my room right now was one of them.

A very famous person.

Liv Morgan.

A WWE Diva wrestler.

"Think there'll be a next time?"

"If you want there to be."

"And next time… just the two of us. You know what I mean?"

"Of course, Liv."

"Gionna. You can call me Gionna."

Having offered up both her real name and her pet name, Liv left me with a seductive wink and a smile, and then she was gone.

I watched her from the doorway for a long while.

She'd been fiery — and refreshingly honest.

In bed, that is.

Click.

I closed the door, came back in, straightened up the bed with its telltale traces, and sprayed it down with the fabric freshener I always carried.

The time was 5:20 in the evening.

Wade would be here soon.

Shower first — definitely.

I stripped off my clothes and stepped into the bathroom, let the warm water wash over me, and scrubbed every corner with soap, grooming myself with real care.

I had an outdoor event today.

I was to attend a party hosted by Nike.

With the guest of honor being yours truly, I couldn't be late by even a minute — and I'd apparently be meeting plenty of people there.

Word was the mayor himself was coming?

They said it was to be a formal affair.

"Hoo—"

Nike was quietly preparing the promotion that would set me up as the centerpiece model of the company, and tonight's party — along with the Royal Rumble match two days from now — was to be the start of it all.

Football players, unlike soccer or basketball stars, have a hard time launching signature shoes, so Nike had instead produced a line of the hoodies and T-shirts I was always seen wearing.

And WWE had promised to work a hoodie releasing under the name MOI into their storyline as promotion.

I was genuinely looking forward to it.

My name was on the line, after all.

Knock knock.

Click.

Just as I was nearly ready, Wade Buck knocked; the moment he saw me, he walked to the mirror and started picking out my tie for me.

"Black silk. Perfect."

"Don't I look like a Men in Black agent?"

"That's the point, kid. Those guys look sharp."

"That's exactly what I was going for."

"Hahaha."

Once I was fully dressed, I double-checked I hadn't forgotten anything and headed out of the hotel, where the limousine was waiting.

The WWE stars were staying at this Ritz-Carlton too, so everyone tossed a quip my way as I passed.

A few days under the same roof, and somehow we'd all gotten close.

"Why don't we get an invite, huh?!"

"Because I don't have the authority!"

"Haha! Have a good one!!"

Ah.

And I never mentioned this, did I.

The real reason this Royal Rumble appearance meant so much to me was the promise I'd made — to become true brothers with Roman Reigns.

Roman, of the famous Anoa'i wrestling family, takes pride in his Samoan bloodline.

Just like me.

"Get in first."

"Yes, sir."

Wade climbed in after me into the lavishly appointed limousine, pulled the door shut, and the car swept us straight to the party.

The venue wasn't far from the hotel.

"Ready, No. 01?"

"Nah — I hate that 'No. 01' stuff."

"Oh yeah? Then what?"

"Just Moi. Moi's the best, isn't he?"

"Haha. True enough. Let's go."

My first social gathering in Missouri.

I worked the room like a natural.

"Nice to meet you."

"Pleasure's mine."

.

"Great game the other night."

"Thank you."

Though, granted, most of the conversation was small talk with no meaning at all.