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On Sunday, Nolan went to Adam Newman’s house.
Adam lived in Brentwood, west of Century City and already close to Santa Monica. From the outside, the place looked like an old European estate. Calling it a small castle would not have been much of an exaggeration.
Most of the interior was dark wood. At the top of the entry steps hung a large oil portrait. Adam introduced the man in the painting as his grandfather.
He did not explain what his parents did for a living. Maybe it was inconvenient. Nolan did not ask.
The household employed five or six staff members, including several housekeepers and a butler.
After the tour, Adam changed into a polo shirt he could move in and led Nolan to the garden behind the house.
There was no pool, so the yard had plenty of open space. More than enough for throwing.
"Remember," Adam said, placing the football in Nolan’s hand, "grip the back half, not the middle. That gives you better control over direction and touch. Ring finger and pinky on the laces. Thumb firm, but not so tight that you lock your wrist."
He taught from the beginning: grip, stance, throwing motion, aim.
After that came repetition, followed by real-game experience.
"And the most important part." Adam tapped his own chest. "Stay calm. Always. Pressure will make you tense, and tension ruins your throw."
"You need to be ready for the mental side. It may be worse than you expect."
That was the nature of playing quarterback. Nearly every offensive decision ran through him.
The offense could survive one weak link. It could not function without a quarterback who understood how all eleven pieces fit together.
A body could still move with a broken toe. Without a brain, even the strongest body collapsed.
As far as pressure went, Nolan believed he had a natural advantage. Compared with other high school players, his memories from another life gave him more experience and a stronger tolerance for stress.
But that was only compared with high school players.
Once the opponents became stronger, that edge might vanish.
Shortcuts were temporary. Talent, training, game experience, discipline every hour of every day, and a little luck. Only those together gave someone a real chance to stand above the rest.
"All right," Adam said. "Start."
Nolan remembered the explanation and used a standard three-step drop.
Three-step, five-step, and seven-step drops were standard. The farther back a quarterback dropped, the more time he had to load up and throw deep.
Adam ran forward, cutting back and forth instead of staying in a straight line.
Nolan aimed ahead of Adam’s head and gave the throw some lead. Hips first, then shoulder and arm. Elbow above the shoulder. On release, the wrist turned over, thumb down.
The football spun into a clean spiral and sailed beautifully through the air.
It landed about ten yards away from Adam.
Not even close.
"Too much power," Adam said, shaking his head. "More precisely, you are stronger than most quarterbacks. Standard dropback mechanics may not suit you. Try throwing without the drop."
He adjusted the lesson around Nolan’s body.
On the second attempt, Nolan lifted one leg and loaded like a baseball pitcher. Adam leaped and caught the pass in the air, but the placement was still off. When he landed, his balance went wrong, and he rolled an ankle.
Nolan hurried over.
Adam tested the foot, took a few steps, and shook his head.
"Old injury. I’m fine."
He had hurt that ankle in middle school, and it had never fully left him alone.
"Keep going," Adam said, tossing the ball back. "Better than before, but not good enough. You are still a long way off."
Adam was an excellent quarterback. He had played the position since he was seven, and much of it had become instinct. His personality was patient, his teaching was careful, and because of Katherine, he was holding nothing back.
His instruction was not far from what Nolan might have gotten from a private quarterback coach.
Under Adam’s constant adjustments and Nolan’s constant attempts, the accuracy began to improve.
Short throws, then deep balls. Low throws, then chest-high throws. Right side, then left. Stationary throws, then throws on the move.
Nolan learned fast.
By late afternoon, he had worked through most of the basic skills a quarterback absolutely needed. Adam had shown him the door. The rest would depend on Nolan’s own work.
As the light began to fade, Nolan planned to leave, but Adam insisted he stay for dinner.
"For fundamentals, I don’t have much left to teach you," Adam said afterward. "The actual playbook, timing with teammates, defensive looks, all of that needs Coach Thomas."
He paused, choosing his words carefully.
"I can feel that you’re different from other players. You may become a special kind of quarterback, with your own style. It is not impossible that you could change how the position is played someday."
That was not empty flattery. Years later, one player could push the NBA toward a small-ball era. Sports did not have permanent forms. They evolved under pressure.
Sometimes the right player forced history to move.
"Also," Adam said suddenly, "Compton is dangerous. The crime rate is too high. I can arrange a place near here for you, Mia, and Katherine. Completely free."
That, Nolan realized, was the real reason Adam had kept him for dinner.
"Living around here would be convenient," Nolan said. "I like the neighborhood. It is nice seeing more than the same palm trees."
Then he shook his head.
"But I can’t decide for Katherine."
The sentence carried two meanings. Literally, Katherine made her own choices. Underneath it, Nolan was telling Adam not to expect help from him.
More accurately, Nolan would be blocking every possible route.
Katherine cooked well, looked good, took care of people, and had somehow become essential to daily life.
Nobody was stealing her.
Adam nodded and did not press.
"Maybe we aren’t right for each other," he said with a self-mocking smile.
"Exactly," Nolan said at once. "Katherine has way too many problems. Bad temper, control issues, violent tendencies..."
He lifted one finger.
"Most importantly, she’s an atheist."
"Is that so?" Adam sighed.
That last point was something his parents would never accept.
After a moment, Adam reached into his pocket and took out two tickets to an Aerosmith concert in Los Angeles.
"I was going to ask you to give one to Katherine," he said. "No point now. You can have them."
Was this Adam’s way of cutting himself off?
Nolan, being a helpful person, naturally decided to honor that wish. He accepted the tickets with a smile and no hesitation.
Free dinner. Free quarterback training. Free concert tickets.
Lord, please arrange more blessings like this.
...
When Nolan got back to the motel, he called Katherine downstairs even though she had been ready for bed. He was wide awake. She appeared in slippers and a sleep dress, rubbing her eyes.
"Can this wait until tomorrow? I’m really tired."
She had long believed that one secret to growing tall was sleep. If nothing important was happening, she went to bed early.
"I won’t make you help me train for free," Nolan said. "Aerosmith concert at the end of the month. I begged for ages and got two tickets."
"Really?"
Katherine woke up at once.
She loved that band.
She also had no idea Nolan was regifting Adam’s surrender.
Lured by the tickets, she threw herself into helping him practice. She even kicked off her slippers. The sudden movement nearly made her lose her balance, and she stopped short, flushed.
"Not tonight. Tomorrow!"
Then she fled upstairs.
The new week began, and Coach Thomas intensified the tactical work for Hawthorne. He broke down key players by position, explained matchups one by one, and made assignments for each. The preparation was thorough.
Closed practices stayed intense to keep every player sharp.
Nolan was still outside the main tactical plan, but he gained something anyway. At least he could now understand what the coaches were talking about. Basic formations like shotgun and I-formation no longer sounded like a foreign language.
With Katherine’s relentless help, his passing also grew sharper. He was getting close to putting the ball wherever he wanted.
Katherine and Mia were both amazed by how quickly he improved.
By Friday, the week had reached its end.
By four o’clock that afternoon, adults had begun filing onto campus. Most were parents. Some were neighborhood residents. A few even wore orange-and-black scarves.
Staff made final checks at Nickoll Field. The lights around the stadium and the scoreboard were switched on early for testing.
The BHHS band changed into its formal uniforms and prepared to bring instruments to the stands.
In the cheer practice room, the coach ran the squad through one last rehearsal.
"Sarah, you have barely been at school this week," the coach warned. "You need to make sure you don’t miss your marks tonight."
At the front of the formation, a blonde girl touched up her makeup in a small compact mirror. Her reflection was bright, polished, and impossible to ignore.
Outside the stadium, Katherine pulled out twenty dollars to buy tickets for herself and Mia.
"Mia, hurry up. The front rows are going to fill."
Even students had to pay if they wanted a seat in the stands.
At the same time, Nolan walked into the locker room.
He saw his jersey waiting for him.
He saw a locker with his name on it.
The do-or-die game that would decide BHHS’s playoff fate was about to begin.
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