The Green Room Invitation

March 20, 2023 — Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania — Pittsburgh Steelers Front Office, General Manager's Office

Ever since the season ended, the Pittsburgh Steelers had been carrying out the work of reshaping the team one careful step at a time. In particular, the moment their top priority—vetting Dwayne Moi Stone—was complete, they had pushed through a trade of Kenny Pickett and closed it in short order, keeping their days packed and their phones hot.

On top of that, Pittsburgh was now planning to trade away their first pick of the 2023 second round—the very next pick after the one they'd received from Chicago in exchange for Chase Claypool.

Which was exactly why Omar Khan's phone was on fire.

"No. What we want is this year's picks."

—A second and a third next year, and a fourth the year after?

"…A second-rounder the year after."

—That's outright robbery, you know.

"Think it over and call me back. I'm busy. Goodbye."

Click.

What carries every general manager of a major sports team to success is, first and foremost, information—and second, information. And the more reliable the source of that information, the higher the trust it commands; and high trust becomes, in itself, an intangible asset that pays enormous dividends in running a franchise.

Of all the areas of team management, the domain of player personnel—free agency, re-signings, the draft—is often said to be a world where information is everything. Right now, among NFL teams, one rumor—or perhaps the single most decisive piece of intel there was—was on everyone's mind.

The whereabouts of Will Levis.

"So Atlanta wants him too, huh."

"Can't blame them."

With the recent trade between the Chicago Bears and the Carolina Panthers, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠every expert projecting the draft had locked in the same names for picks one through three. Barring the occasional flutter of taste over who went second and who went third, their consensus was ironclad: Dwayne Moi Stone, Bryce Young, then C.J. Stroud.

Anthony Richardson, too, was increasingly likely to be snatched up by Seattle or the Indianapolis Colts—which would leave exactly one quarterback remaining with any hope of being a day-one starter.

All of this sent the value of Will Levis climbing, after his evaluation had slid down to roughly third-round territory following the Combine.

"That's good news for us."

"The burning phone lines are proof enough."

"Ha. Come on, let's grab lunch."

"Now you're talking."

The moment Omar Khan opened his office door to head for the front office cafeteria, the phone on the desk of the male secretary seated right outside began to ring. The blinking light meant a line only the other thirty-one NFL teams had the number to, and Khan let out a sigh before picking up the receiver at once.

"Yes?"

—This is the Tennessee Titans' front office. Might I be connected to your general manager?

"This is Omar Khan. Can you get me Ran right away?"

—Oh… it really is you, sir?

"I was on my way to lunch, so let's keep this moving, shall we?"

—Right, of course! One moment, connecting you now.

Khan waved off the secretary who was rising from his seat, perched himself on the edge of a table, and picked up a pen. Then he tore off a sheet of memo paper.

"There was never a chance they wouldn't call."

"Who is it?"

"The Titans. Hold on."

After a series of clicks, an unfamiliar voice came through the line.

—So I'm speaking with a Mega Millions jackpot winner.

"I was headed to lunch, so let's keep it short."

—I hear a rumor you're shopping one of your second-round picks. What's the ask?

"Whichever one's worth more."

—Then the lower one, I suppose.

Ordinarily, of course, a pick one slot higher is worth more. But this situation was anything but ordinary.

Every team circling Pittsburgh's second-round picks wanted them to draft Will Levis. And why? Because the Texans, who would be taking Bryce Young or C.J. Stroud in the first round, were never going to burn a second-rounder on another quarterback.

Seattle, however, was a different story. If the Seahawks let Anthony Richardson slip past them in the first round, they could take Will Levis in the second and then bring in a veteran QB in free agency besides—belt-and-suspenders insurance at the quarterback position being utterly commonplace in the NFL. That made the deduction highly plausible.

Even if Seattle did pass, the Colts at five, the Raiders at seven, and the Falcons at eight were all in the market for a young quarterback.

That was exactly why, after the Combine, Tennessee had shopped a second-round pick trade to every one of these teams and gotten back nothing but absurd demands in return.

In other words, from the first through the eighth pick of the second round, the only team that had no use for Will Levis was Pittsburgh.

And that was the whole point.

Because there was zero chance the Steelers would draft Levis, the more valuable of their back-to-back second-rounders was the lower one—the one that cost seventy thousand dollars less against the cap. One might shrug at a mere seventy thousand dollars. But the peculiar cruelty of the hard cap is that sometimes it isn't seventy thousand dollars that breaks your roster construction—it's seven thousand.

That was why the later pick was worth more.

Ran Carthon, the rookie general manager of the Tennessee Titans, had initially tried a little gamesmanship, but on the advice of those around him, he led with his very best offer from the start.

—We'll give you our second and our third this year.

"…And?"

—And our third and fourth next year as well.

"What are your demands?"

—Pick thirty-three, plus a fourth-rounder.

"…"

It was a strikingly bold offer from Tennessee—and the reason was that the player they intended to select with pick thirty-three was a quarterback. Had that not been the case, their payment in 2024 draft capital would have been a single fourth-rounder rather than a third and a fourth.

Omar Khan knew this perfectly well, and he needed time to judge whether Tennessee's terms were truly their ceiling. Using lunch as his pretext, he proposed they speak again in an hour and twenty minutes.

—Fine. But you won't be taking calls from other teams in the meantime, will you?

"You have my word."

—Good. Enjoy your meal.

"Thank you. We'll talk soon."

Click.

As Omar Khan ended the call and slowly set the receiver down, assistant GM Andy Weidl addressed him carefully.

"Omar?"

"…"

"…"

Pittsburgh's general manager sat in silence, lost in a moment all his own. Then he began to move.

"Bobby, have lunch delivered for everyone. And Andy? Call a meeting right now—get Mark, Dan, and Sheldon in the room, and page Cole too. I think we're sending pick thirty-three to Tennessee."

"Oh. Yes sir. We'll have it ready right away."

The second round this year would begin at pick thirty-two, owing to the Miami Dolphins' forfeiture of their first-round pick for tampering violations. That was why pick thirty-three—and not thirty-four—was changing hands.

'With this… I can do it.'

Having abandoned his lunch plans and returned to his office, Omar Khan looked at the whiteboard where Pittsburgh's future was written out.

Omar Khan wiped away everything listed beneath the pick thirty-three that Pittsburgh had once held, and added the new selections—the very ones Tennessee had just proposed.

A satisfied smile crossed Omar Khan's face. He could feel it: the plan to build a new era around Dwayne Moi Stone was creeping closer to reality, piece by piece.

Roughly ninety minutes later, the Pittsburgh Steelers and the Tennessee Titans reached a sudden agreement on a trade—conditioned on it being executed on day one of the draft, only if Will Levis remained undrafted.

March 24, 2023 — Athens, Georgia — University of Georgia, Athens Stadium

Today was the day of the event known as the 'Finish of Season,' held at Sanford Stadium. From this moment forward, the names and jersey numbers of everyone who had graduated or declared for the NFL would be scrubbed from UGA's official website.

It was a tradition long handed down at UGA—a send-off where the players who had given everything for the team spoke their final words to their fellow students, and were seen off in turn.

As the university president stood on the stage delivering a heartfelt speech, I turned my head to look toward where my girlfriend was sitting.

Kendall was waving at me, flanked by my friends' girlfriends.

Despite my worry that she might get bored before long, Kendall had been having a wonderful time from the sixteenth straight through to today. She'd taken photos with my friends' girlfriends and posted them to her social media, and once my workout schedule wrapped up each day, we wandered around Athens together. Paparazzi dogged our every step, but we paid them no mind and simply enjoyed our dates.

"What are you looking at?"

"My girl. I swear she gets prettier every time I look."

"Fuck. Could you brag any harder?"

"Speaking of which, how long is the president planning to talk?"

"No idea. One thing's for sure though—he's gained weight."

"A lot of weight."

"Kukukuku."

The donations the school had received over the past three years sailed comfortably past 5.5 billion dollars. The total had dipped a bit this year, they said, but it was still more than enough to uphold the pride of three consecutive National Championships.

Perhaps it was all that eating well and living well, but the president had put on weight to the point that he looked as though someone had strapped a grown woman's body weight onto the man I'd first met.

Under a March sun surprisingly sharp for the season, the president's rather lengthy speech finally came to an end. When Coach stepped up to the microphone, his face too looked faintly tired—he was probably feeling much the same as we were.

"Moi?"

"Oh—so it's my turn now?"

"Yes. Just wait behind the stage."

Once Coach's address looking back on the past year was finished, I was to mount the stage as the players' representative and read the prepared remarks.

"Coach's speech will be done within three minutes."

"Obviously."

"Haha. We're all going to miss you."

"Same here. I haven't regretted my decision for a single moment since I came here. Quite the opposite, actually."

I shared a light embrace with him as he put on a touched expression, and when I squared my shoulders again, Coach up on the stage had turned his head to look this way.

Time for me to go up, then.

【"And now, I'll pass the microphone along here. Please give a big round of applause for the captain of Georgia!"】

Strangely enough, amid the roar of more than forty thousand people, I could pick Kendall's voice out of the crowd instantly.

Not my imagination. One hundred percent certain.

"Do you have the jitters, for all it's ceremonial?"

"Not a chance."

"Haha. It's your stage now."

"Yes, Sir."

Coach gave me a warm smile, patted me gently on the shoulder, and descended from the stage. Walking forward, I set down the manuscript I'd prepared and adjusted the microphone height.

"Ah—ah."

What I was about to say was everything I had been mulling over for nearly a full year, since about this time last season. It had taken me the better part of a month just to get it organized.

"HELLO!"

My booming greeting set off another wave of cheers, and after letting it die down, I opened with my thanks like so:

"When I graduate, I plan to raise a bulldog."

Laughter rippled through the stands. Half the thank-you portion of my manuscript was jokes, and I believed those jokes said as much about who I was as anything serious could.

Still, I saved the ending for something fairly earnest.

"Here, I learned how to live as a good man, and I learned that every one of us has to keep working, and keep emptying ourselves out, without end. And I intend to keep learning for the rest of my life. Humbly, I'll go follow the stars. I'll do right by people and give what I can—and I'll live so that none of you ever have to see my mugshot."

"HAHAHAHA!"

"Haha."

Well—one hundred percent, that is, almost.

Anyway.

"I will never, not until the day I die, forget the time I spent here. Even apart, we stay connected—and we can be citizens who cheer each other on and build a better society together. Let me finish the way a Southerner would. LOVE Y'ALL!! BLESS YOUR HEART."

And so I officially departed the Georgia football team. I came down from the stage and spent the next stretch of time greeting and embracing an endless procession of people.

But this was not the highlight of the day.

Then what was?

Pride Prom.

After the event, Kendall and I went back to the dorm, showered together, took care of things that needed taking care of, showered again, and then dressed up properly.

"Did your little ex say she was coming?"

"Yup."

"Mm—give me a moment."

Ever since the day Kendall arrived on campus—with the whole school already buzzing with the news—I hadn't caught so much as the tip of Alexi's nose.

She was famous in these parts for her looks, and her sister clique, the Rose-Merzles—who by their own reckoning were "the Kardashians of Georgia"—meant gossip found its way to my ears whether I wanted it or not. Yet Alexi had vanished from the university entirely these past several days. Today, though, she had no choice but to show her face.

Because tradition demanded that last year's UGA Queen pass the crown to this year's graduating senior representative. What's more, the campus network was already churning with talk that Alexi had gone into hiding because she couldn't stand Kendall. If she failed to appear at Pride Prom, those rumors would land the killing blow—and with two more years of school ahead of her, Alexi's only real option, short of transferring, was to charge straight through the front.

But did you know?

Whether a frontal assault succeeds also depends on the defender.

"Oh, my god."

"She's gorgeous."

We had deliberately staged our entrance late. And the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠moment Kendall stepped into the party, I am not exaggerating when I say that nothing could be heard but the music.

My girlfriend, dressed to the nines with makeup done to perfection, wrapped her arm warmly around a girl who'd come to take photos of her. At one point she even kissed her on the cheek—and that was when Kendall leaned in close and whispered to me:

"I stole that girl right out from under her. What do you think?"

"Perfect."

Oh—my goodness.

I was falling head over heels for this new side of my girlfriend.

April 2, 2023 — Athens, Georgia — University of Georgia

What had my attention lately was something no one—no one in the entire history of the country—had ever done before.

What was it, you ask?

"On behalf of the campus and the residents of Athens, we extend our deepest and most sincere gratitude to Dwayne Moi Stone for the impact and devotion he has brought to our community."

After shaking hands with the university president, I walked over to the great tarp-covered shape, seized the cloth with both hands.

The president did the same on the opposite side, and when the crowd counted down from three, we pulled with all our strength and stripped the veil away.

And there it was—a magnificent thing.

"Why don't you give it a demonstration."

"Yes, Sir."

When I headed to California after the Combine wrapped up, the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠single most important item my agency put on my schedule was signing with the Pepsi brand. Pepsi, which had supplied the NFL with Gatorade way back since 2001, had picked me as the centerpiece of their 'Official Zero of the NFL' campaign, which they were launching in earnest this year.

They offered me four years and sixty million dollars, and I agreed to trim the figure to four years and fifty million—on one condition. I demanded the installation of five hundred special vending machines across the campus: swipe your ID or student card against the sensor, and receive one free Gatorade a day. As long as I kept my contract with Pepsi, those machines would stand on the campus, year after year.

The can rattled down, and the crowd around us erupted in cheers. Then people came running at the machine from every direction.

"Line up! A LINE! Manners, people! We're proud Athenians here!"

"Hahaha."

They'd sort themselves out soon enough, so I turned away without another worry and walked the campus alongside the president.

"You may well be the most remarkable human being I have ever met in my life. And to think you leave behind one last gift on your way out."

"You're too kind. It's just a bottle of soda."

"Just a bottle? You know as well as I do that not everyone in Athens is well-off. Some are poor, and for some, six days out of the week are a grind. For such people, one bottle from you might be the strength that carries them through ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the day."

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

"Haha. Thank you, once again."

The truth was, my terms with Pepsi hadn't changed at all. They were the ones doing me the favor. From the company's standpoint, the whole affair was a publicity bonanza—and for a corporate giant otherwise obliged to perform mechanical donations and charity every year under the tangled yoke of tax law, this may well have been a welcome arrangement.

Did I calculate all of that?

Of course.

I reckoned I might lose as much as ten million dollars, but I judged the odds of that to be vanishingly small. To a giant like Pepsi, I was a delectable commodity—and factoring in the future, they would have calculated that a favor granted now, at what might be my lowest price, would return to them a far greater reward down the road.

And what if the full ten million really had been shaved off?

What could I do about it?

I'd just have to tell myself I'd lost 5.6 million.

After taxes, that is.

"How are the studies treating you these days?"

"Thanks to your consideration, I should finish my finals before the draft. This semester's been busy, so I'm aiming for a 3.7."

"Come back and visit someday."

"Will you still be here then?"

"Oh dear! I hadn't thought of that."

Trading jokes with the president as we strolled the campus, I eventually pointed toward the academy center and said I ought to get back to my studies.

"Right. We'll meet again."

"Yes, Sir."

I buried myself in the academy center the entire afternoon. And when the day's work was done and I returned to the dorm—

"…"

There it sat, waiting for me: the invitation from the NFL to the Green Room on the first day of the draft.

The twenty-fifth of this month.

I would be headed to Kansas City—where this year's draft would be held.