Where Have I Seen That Face Before?

#. March 8, 2022

#-1. United States — Englewood, Colorado

#-2. Denver Broncos Front Office

Ever since the Peyton Manning era came to an end in 2016, the team of Mile High — the Denver Broncos — had been living through a quarterback's nightmare.

They had brought in signal-callers through the draft, through trades, through free agency, put every one of them on the field, and still the franchise labored under the yoke of the league's worst offense, missing the playoffs year after year.

They fielded a defense that remained among the league's very best and an offense that was far from hopeless. None of it mattered. Without a real quarterback, the results were inevitable.

For a team in that position, turning its eyes toward Dwayne Moi Stone was the most natural thing in the world — and even now, Georgia's quarterback sat at the very top of the Broncos' draft board.

Trading Vapor Miller to the Rams last November had been deliberate as well: shipping out a starter and pocketing a 2022 second-rounder and a 2023 third-rounder was all part of an intentional effort to weaken the roster.

But lately, the tone in Denver had shifted.

Intentional tanking for next year's first overall pick simply wasn't working, because the defense was too good.

And there had been a change on the sideline, too.

Vic Fangio had spent three years at the helm without showing so much as a sliver of identity or vision, and into the seat vacated by his firing came Nathaniel Hackett, the offensive coordinator from Green Bay.

Hackett was regarded as a coach with genuine offensive acumen, and the hope was that he could lift Denver's despairing attack out of the gutter.

At the same time, he'd made a rather attractive remark: Aaron Rodgers might yet leave Green Bay — and if Hackett became the head coach, he would personally talk him into coming to Denver.

And in truth, the Broncos had stayed in steady contact with Aaron Rodgers ever since the Super Bowl, working every angle to acquire the eccentric but undeniably elite quarterback.

Except.

Forget Dwayne Moi Stone — get Aaron Rodgers.

Forget Aaron Rodgers — get Dwayne Moi Stone.

That had been the Broncos' vision for the past year. The moment Rodgers voiced his discontent with Green Bay last season, Denver had thrown itself into relentless effort to pry him away in a trade.

But Green Bay had been lukewarm about negotiations, visibly wary of parting ways with its franchise star on a sour note.

And then, this year, they went and re-signed him.

Which meant Denver's paths to Aaron Rodgers had effectively all closed. The team had to decide its future.

Tank?

Or trade?

In the general manager's office, where GM George Paton and head coach Nathaniel Hackett and a crowd of others had gathered, the men of the Denver Broncos were at each other's throats.

A dozen or so minutes later—

"Who is it?"

"John Schneider, sir. On the line."

"..."

The secretary outside the office informed George Paton that Seattle's general manager was on the phone.

Paton asked for thirty seconds.

Then he turned to his own people.

"What about Russell Wilson?"

"He'd fit us well."

"Fit us like a glove, you mean."

"...Nathaniel, your take?"

"He's a different animal than Aaron, sure. But I'm confident I can coach him."

For the last few years, Denver had been filed under the same evaluation — 'Give them one good quarterback and they leap into the top tier.' Which was exactly why every offseason, they got linked to half the quarterbacks in the league.

Russell Wilson, who like Rodgers had aired his grievances with his team just last year, was naturally on that list too.

Rated the league's premier scrambling quarterback, the Seattle signal-caller's playstyle made him a natural match for Denver's iconic symbol — the bronco, the wild horse itself.

If they could acquire Russell Wilson in a trade, they wouldn't have to coldly shove a settled veteran out ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the door just to drag the record down, and they'd land a quality quarterback in the same stroke.

In the thirty seconds he'd bought from the secretary, a rapid-fire exchange of opinions had hardened George Paton's resolve. He pressed the button beneath the blinking red light.

Click.

"John. Sorry about that. Had to run to the restroom."

"Surprising, really."

"Hm? What is?"

"Figured by now your stomach would be churning plenty. After all, you let Aaron slip away, didn't you?"

"Nah— he was never in consideration to begin with."

"Little different from the information I have."

"You know how it is. This town's drowning in fakes."

Casually disregarding the fact that the lie coming out of his own mouth was one of those fakes, Paton asked what the purpose of the call was.

He knew, of course. He was playing dumb.

And the man on the other end would already have seen straight through him.

Obvious tricks. Obvious lies.

The general managers of the Seattle Seahawks and the Denver Broncos intended to arm themselves with falsehood and deception on the gambling table called a trade — each determined not to be the one who bled.

Whichever side spoke the truth first would find itself at a disadvantage in this game.

And yet, unexpectedly, Seattle's general manager showed no interest in a long game of tug-of-war.

"Wanted to let you know — a Russell trade is possible."

"Pretty sure back in January you told me it wasn't."

"Circumstances have changed."

"...Who'd you bring in?"

"Drew."

"Who?"

"Drew, damn it. Drew Lock — he's on your team. Let's start from him and the draft picks."

John Schneider wanted a bridge quarterback — not some marquee free agent from outside.

George Paton caught it immediately: Seattle was reaching for the reset button. And with next year's picks worth more than in any draft in memory, the leverage was his.

Which meant he could keep the bloodletting to a minimum.

Except.

"I could also send Russell to Cleveland."

"The Browns are on Deshaun Watson, no?"

"Only if the settlements with the women are properly worked out. Cleveland is skeptical it will be. And they've already made us an offer. A pretty good one, too."

"Then why not just send him to Cleveland, then."

"..."

A brief silence fell.

The tension thickened to the breaking point.

Unable to read what was happening on the other end of the line, George Paton and the men of Denver knew one thing for certain: if this bluff failed, they'd be handed something far worse.

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

Five seconds that felt like five full minutes crawled past.

Then the voice came through the receiver again.

"I'm in the middle of raising his value."

"Between us and the Browns?"

"There's one more team."

"What? Who?"

"The Raiders."

The moment a division rival's name dropped, the men of Denver began looking at one another.

It was entirely plausible.

The Raiders had a franchise quarterback in Derek Carr, but he'd always drawn lukewarm reviews — a man caught in perpetual limbo, even the fanbase split down the middle on him.

And 2022 happened to be the final year of his contract. Bring in Russell Wilson, ship Derek Carr elsewhere — the pieces fit.

Seattle would be pressing the reset button, so they'd want the less impressive team — meaning the deal would likely hinge on whether the Raiders could find a third team to take Derek Carr off their hands.

Multi-team trades were a headache and a half to structure, and the accounting was brutal. It almost certainly hadn't been John Schneider's first choice.

Which meant the very fact that he'd said it out loud, with a straight face, could be read one way: the Raiders were desperate.

Relocated from Oakland to Las Vegas just last year, the Raiders were hunting for their old glory in a brand-new city.

Starting that campaign with Russell Wilson?

It didn't look bad at all.

"Confirmed."

"What did they say?"

"John Schneider was telling the truth. Both the Browns and the Raiders are moving on Russell Wilson."

"Damn it. Fantastic."

George Paton asked for a little time to think, then used his own people to verify everything he'd just heard.

Every word out of John Schneider had been true. Which meant Denver held no leverage at all.

The man had called openly, announcing he was raising the player's value — so Denver had no choice but to lay its best possible cards on the table.

And yet they still hesitated.

For one reason only.

"Is Wilson really our best option?"

"I can't think of a better quarterback. And you know how this year's free agent class is at the position — the worst in years."

"Hoo— we could still hit the reset button."

"Please, George. You'd be dragging us back two whole months."

"..."

Keep suffering quarterback carnage long enough, and even the sharpest GM's judgment starts to rot.

And George Paton hadn't yet earned the reputation for competence that would let him trust his own instincts. The deliberation could only deepen.

The first day trades could legally be executed was March 16th.

There was still time.

But John Schneider had insisted otherwise — that in reality, there wasn't, that an agreement could land as early as today.

Was that a bluff too?

Or the truth?

Denver had already been beaten — by the craft of a card sharp.

#. March 7, 2022

#-1. United States — Renton, Washington

#-2. Seattle Seahawks Front Office

#-3. General Manager's Office

Back in January, the Seattle Seahawks had confirmed one thing: Russell Wilson could not be sent to the Cleveland Browns.

Isaac L. Allison, who would become Cleveland's new owner no later than April, was dead serious about the pursuit — serious enough to connect Deshaun Watson with his own company's law firm.

Given the reputation of The A.G., the settlements with the victims would very likely be settled smoothly, and the moment that happened, Seattle's general manager — who had already placed his call to Plan B, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Denver — set a massive con in motion.

John Schneider was half-reclined in his chair, feet propped up on the desk, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

"Do you really think Denver will take the bait?"

"One hundred percent."

At this moment, both the Cleveland Browns and the Las Vegas Raiders had been bought and paid for — by John Schneider.

The request was simple: play your part in the theater.

The payment differed for each.

For the Cleveland Browns: they would receive wide receiver Jarvis Landry — a player Seattle had planned to release anyway — and in exchange hand over a 2022 seventh-round pick.

No team on earth turns down a free draft pick, so the Browns happily agreed to play the part of a suitor dying for Russell Wilson.

As for Dave Ziegler, the Raiders' new general manager, Seattle sent over key information he'd need to run his team, along with this year's draft materials.

The trade was possible precisely because they were confident their needed positions wouldn't overlap — and with that, the Raiders became actors too.

Word had also come in that yesterday, an unusual number of calls had gone from Denver's front office to both Cleveland and Las Vegas.

Reporters who'd swallowed the disinformation fed to them by both front offices — dutifully playing their part without ever knowing it. Just picturing them made the satisfaction double inside John Schneider.

Lunch was nearly over.

The phone on John Schneider's desk rang.

"John? It's Denver."

"Oh, yes. Suzy — put them through."

John Schneider straightened in his chair, cleared his throat, and pressed the button for line two to pick up the call.

"Well?"

"Hoo..."

A long, deep sigh came through first.

The corner of Seattle's GM's mouth crept upward.

"Why does it feel like I'm being played?"

"If you'd rather not, feel free to walk. The Browns and the Raiders have been offering me new terms regardless."

"I know."

"You know? Good grief! Your information security is absolutely pathetic. Somewhere, anyway — surely not within our own building?"

Watching John Schneider tell the most shameless of lies without so much as blinking, Matt Thomas — serving as assistant general manager — smiled as well.

That expression on Schneider's face was one he hadn't seen in a long while. The confidence that came from a grip locked tight on the initiative seemed to have restored the old, swaggering John Schneider.

Another brief silence — and then, at last, the voice of a surrendered George Paton came through the receiver.

"Name your terms."

"I'll give you Russell and this year's fourth-round pick. In return — your first- and second-rounders in 2022 and 2023. Your fifth-rounder in 2023. And finally: Drew Lock, Noah Fant, and Shelby Harris."

"You intend to strip the pillars along with the quarterback."

"What can I say, George. You know this business. A competent quarterback has always been worth exactly this much."

Noah Fant was the tight end Denver had selected in the first round, 20th overall, back in 2019.

And he was very, very good.

Last season he'd started all sixteen games, hauling in 68 receptions for 670 receiving yards and four touchdowns.

Calling him elite might be a stretch, but when it came to reliability and consistency, he'd drawn high marks ever since entering the league.

Shelby Harris, meanwhile, was a veteran defensive lineman who'd debuted in 2014 — and after arriving in Denver, his game had erupted. For the past three years he'd been a cornerstone of the defense.

Neither man was irreplaceable, strictly speaking. But the damage would be undeniable.

The problem was that the desperate party, right now, was Denver.

The franchise sale was in full swing, the team a stone's throw from falling into the hands of the family that founded Walmart — and the incoming owner was aggressively behind this Russell Wilson trade.

Bring him in, the owner had said, no matter the sacrifice. The words echoing in his head, George Paton accepted John Schneider's terms.

"I'll notify the league office in an hour."

"Do that."

"You've just laid hands on a great fortune, George. Russell is better than any quarterback Denver has brought in over the last seven years."

"I certainly hope so. Good day."

Click.

The moment the line went dead, John Schneider shot up out of his seat and swung his fist through the air.

"COME ON—!!"

What Seattle had just extracted was enormous.

Next year's first-round pick above all — the odds were very good it would land high, painfully high.

Seattle possessed an internal report concluding that Russell Wilson's abilities were gradually declining, and would only decline further. Two months ago, John Schneider had burned every last page of it.

If it had ever leaked, it would have been a problem — so he'd wiped every related file from the computers and used the paper documents as kindling for a bonfire in his own front yard.

And Seattle was tanking this year.

Releasing Bobby Wagner — the franchise icon, the very soul of the defense — the day before had been for the same reason.

All that remained now was to decide which of Drew Lock and Geno Smith performed worse, and put that one on the field.

"Detroit's laughing at us."

"And with this, we pull ahead of them."

"Exactly."

With a single trade, the Seattle Seahawks had risen overnight into the ranks of the strongest contenders for the first overall pick in the 2023 Draft.

#. March 10, 2022

#-1. United States — Atlanta, Georgia

#-2. Jenkins Elite, Atlanta Branch

Yesterday had been all Russell Wilson, all day long.

Television, the internet, social media.

People found it deeply strange that Denver had accepted Russell Wilson — because naturally, they'd all assumed the Broncos would tank this season and aim for next year's draft.

But here's the thing.

That's the NFL for you.

It's a league where the pressure from everyone but the general manager runs far heavier than you'd expect — where teams are routinely shaped by the will of the owner and the president above all else.

And the NFL is, at the end of the day, a business. Revenue matters. The books matter.

Fans can shout about a rebuild or a reset all they like — but the moment the money starts leaving their own pockets, that tune changes fast.

"So Seattle's a possibility, then?"

"Lovely, isn't it."

"Ha! That's not a compliment, you know."

"Yup."

The Emerald City.

Seattle's nickname.

It was widely known as a fine place to live — decent public safety, well-developed cultural infrastructure — but from autumn through spring, it strutted out weather every bit as foul as London's.

Donning a rain slicker to hop in a kayak and go river fishing had its charm, sure. But weather that miserable during football season was, for me, the worst possible condition.

The team itself? I liked it fine.

Truthfully, what choice did I have?

Whichever team drafted me on the first day of the 2023 Draft would hold my rights for a minimum of four years.

I run, I run.

I'm told to grind, I grind.

"Alright. Let's go again."

When I'd first arrived here, my body had been a touch sluggish, a little loose in all the wrong places — but I'd come a long way since.

I'd been pleasantly surprised by just how meticulous Jacob was about structuring the training, and above all, the place was quiet. Being able to focus on nothing but the work was the best part.

Today's session ran the same way — high concentration throughout — and I wrapped up the day's schedule with a satisfied feeling.

"Hoo— I'm going to go wash up."

"Go ahead."

While Jacob tidied up, I rinsed off quickly, got dressed, and shouldered my bag — and when I stepped outside, there was a stranger waiting.

Uh. Where have I seen that face before?

"Good to meet you. Name's Terry."

"...You're the Falcons' general manager, aren't you."

"Haha. Got it in one."

At first I'd taken him for a stranger and kept my guard up a little, but now that I knew it was Terry Fontenot, I felt perfectly at ease.

Any ordinary college quarterback, meeting an NFL general manager a year before the draft, would have been nervous. Or thrilled. Me? Not even slightly.

Still — should I at least pretend to be a little starstruck?

I couldn't help myself. I just asked.

Fontenot's mouth fell slightly open, apparently at the sheer absurdity of it, and then he burst into a cheerful laugh and asked whether I had a little time.

"Forty minutes or so, yeah."

"Plenty. This place has a decent cafeteria, but—"

"Oh? You've been here before?"

"A few times. Anyway — come on."

The cafeteria wasn't far.

We arrived in no time.

Terry Fontenot offered to buy the coffee, but I declined — pointed out that it could become an unnecessary problem, and suggested we each pay our own way.

"Mature. And you seem practiced."

"Do I?"

"You do. Have you met another GM before?"

"No. But this kind of thing usually causes trouble, doesn't it?"

"Huh. So it does."

We moved to a tucked-away corner, set down our coffees, and sat.

And I went straight for the heart of it.

"Why did you come to see me?"

"Because you're a player we want. Badly."

"I see."

"No surprise? Not even a little delight?"

"Hm. Honestly, I'm not sure."

"Don't like the Falcons?"

No.

It wasn't that.

If I played for the Falcons, I'd have the most devoted fanbase of any team in the league at my back.

It was possible the entire state of Georgia would fall in love with me — and honestly, I did think this somewhat familiar place beat a town where the weather was vaguely miserable half the year.

I could play alongside Younghoe Koo, too.

And yet.

"It just hasn't quite sunk in yet."

That was a lie.

The truth was, I didn't trust Atlanta's management.

They'd fumbled away the Matt Ryan era again and again, and owner Arthur Blank was a man who did as he pleased.

You could argue: just let the players focus on football and play well — isn't that enough? And that argument would be one hundred percent correct.

With one condition.

That the outside world stays out of the way.

Arthur Blank made a habit of wandering into the locker room, of getting closer to his players than any owner needed to be — and it wrecked team chemistry, time and again.

His interference ran deep, too.

I'd thought it through: after being drafted, how many years would it take for Atlanta to build a championship-caliber roster? And every version of that future kept drawing the same picture — me becoming the second coming of Matt Ryan.

"I see. Well — I came here to tell you three things."

"Three things?"

"Three. First: we are going to fight to draft you next year. Second: to do that, we intend to fire Arthur Smith. This season we'll operate under a temporary arrangement. And last — the third — word of a Matt Ryan trade will be coming before long."

"Seriously?"

That one did surprise me.

I'd assumed Matt Ryan would stay with the Falcons to the very end.

Even if they tanked, I figured a clearly diminished Matt Ryan would serve the purpose well enough.

But Fontenot brought up those few hollow wins the team had scraped together last year thanks to Younghoe Koo, and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠explained that the special teams unit was simply too good — that they had to remove every variable they could.

"So that's why I came. It's close by, after all. And above all — I'll be in touch from now on. Here. My card."

"..."

Having set the card down on the table, Fontenot remarked that it had been a pleasant conversation, and promptly left the cafeteria.

Well.

It is his busy season.

I reached out and picked up the card.

Hmm—

The Falcons, huh.

I'd grown genuinely fond of the place over my years at college here. And still — I couldn't shake the thought that there were better outcomes than being drafted here.

"Eh. Whatever, really."

I slipped the card into my pocket, picked up my coffee, and stood — and stepping outside, I glanced around.

Well, look at that.

Fast walker, aren't you.

Already out of sight.

As I walked toward the parking lot, I thought to myself:

It's starting to feel like the draft now.

This coming season, I was going to meet a great many people from the NFL and from the broadcasting world alike.