The locker room smelled of sweat and rubber, faintly tinged with antiseptic. Pads hit the floor with dull thuds, cleats squeaked against the concrete, and ice bags hissed on shoulders and knees. Alabama had won again, but the victory felt controlled, not celebratory. Brandon Antonio lingered in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes scanning every movement.
Milroe sat on a bench, helmet in hand, his posture calm but alert. Rookies whispered quietly, reviewing mistakes they'd already made in their heads. Veterans moved deliberately, replaying the game mentally. Brandon let them. Good. They need to remember the struggle, not just the scoreboard.
Once the room thinned, Brandon retreated to his office. The muted TV scrolled with updates: power rankings, SEC standings, and a few early Heisman mentions. A headline flashed briefly:
"Can Milroe pass under pressure? Early doubts linger despite Alabama's win."
Brandon didn't respond. It wasn't his problem. He had a plan. Milroe didn't need to defend himself — he only needed to execute.
Pulling up the game film on his tablet, Brandon watched every snap: receivers cutting precise routes, offensive line holding just long enough, Milroe's eyes scanning the field with perfect timing. Deep throws spiraled perfectly, threading between defenders. Pocket presence flawless. He wasn't just completing passes — he was dissecting defenses with surgical precision.
Let them talk. Every criticism will vanish on the field.
Hours slipped by as Brandon cataloged defensive tendencies and offensive adjustments. Georgia's safeties cheat toward the run; linebackers overcommit; corners bite on play-action. Every weakness marked, every predictable habit noted. He sketched plays that would showcase Milroe's arm strength, decision-making, and dual-threat capability.
They think he can't throw under pressure? Wait until they see Saturday.
Later, Brandon left the facility, walking through the humid Tuscaloosa evening. The city hummed with the distant roar of fans and the occasional flash of stadium lights. At his favorite coffee spot, he noticed her: the skeptical reporter who had earned a reputation for questioning every Alabama narrative.
She sat at a corner table, laptop open, headphones resting around her neck. He didn't approach immediately — no sudden moves, no theatrics. Observation alone was enough.
Finally, he spoke casually, voice neutral. "Coffee good?"
She didn't look up. "It's fine. You're early. Always early."
"Someone has to be," he replied lightly, gesturing toward his tablet. "Game prep doesn't end in the film room."
She paused mid-keystroke, glancing at him. "We'll see if that attitude holds once the season really starts."
Brandon smiled faintly. Not yet. One step at a time.
He ordered his coffee, paid, and stepped outside. She stayed inside, typing, occasionally glancing his way. Observation alone was enough. Their tension — professional, cautious, charged — was as effective as any play he could draw.
Back in his apartment, Brandon settled into his nightly routine: tablet on one side, notes on the desk, a cup of black coffee steaming nearby. Power rankings flickered on the TV in the background; social media buzzed with memes and hot takes. A tweet scrolled by:
"Milroe can't throw deep! Tide overhyped 😭"
Brandon didn't flinch. He let them talk. Each doubter became fuel. Milroe's arm, his vision, and his calm under pressure were far beyond the shallow criticisms being thrown around online.
He reviewed the next week's defensive scheme, rehearsing in his mind how to put Milroe in positions to dominate. Each drill, each snap, each fake or read was accounted for — not just to win, but to silence the critics.
And somewhere across town, the reporter drafted her story, unaware that the man she doubted had already mapped out exactly how to prove every media skeptic wrong. She didn't trust him — not yet — but her curiosity was piqued. He wasn't just a coach; he was a strategist, and the subtle tension between them was growing without a word.
Outside, night fell over Tuscaloosa. Brandon leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. Let them doubt. Let them tweet. Let them question. The proof will come on the field, snap by snap, pass by pass.
And Milroe, silent and focused, would ensure they had no choice but to eat their words.