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matter how much he wanted to think of the few plays that went his way, the hulking force of each mistake and delayed movement immediately eclipsed those successes, until Wyatt felt so furious he had to slap his resting hand hard against the wall.
    There was no denying — at least not to himself — that his right shoulder was killing him. He'd taken time to ice it down with the trainers, but the pain was still there. In fact, the only thing hurting worse than his body was his pride.
    He'd played this game since his hands were barely large enough to pick up a football. Recently he felt like he'd never set foot on a field before, never called a play, and certainly never been able to win a game. His mouth turned up in a sneer as he imagined all the media experts ripping him apart the next day.
    Even though his team was still hovering around having as many wins as losses, lately it felt like the day after every game was the same. So much so, Wyatt believed he could write the headlines himself by now.
    They would probably go something like:
    Monday Night Football — the biggest stage you can have in the season before the play-offs — and Wyatt McCoy fell right off the edge.
    A football prodigy, with the DNA to match, McCoy still can't seem to hit his stride in Pittsburgh, even after almost two seasons. By this time in his career, his father, the great Jim McCoy, already had two Super Bowl rings. This second coming of the McCoy line has no championships to show for himself, but he does come with a ton of red flags.
    Then, of course, there'd be the commentary on ESPN .
    SportsCenter would probably try to be clever while they made every effort to tear apart his performance.
    The same impulsive behavior and surly attitude that plagued Gunslinger McCoy in Dallas has followed him to the Steel City . This gunslinger looked less Wyatt Earp and a lot more Elmer Fudd. He's far from the success and adoration he enjoyed back in Texas — the site of his childhood home and college glory. After almost two years in a city used to winning — the City of Champions — he's starting to look a little lost.
    Ironically, Wyatt's plan was to eventually become one of those annoying talking heads himself — not for the love of the game or of talking about it, but for the pursuit of his own obsessive need to provide security for him and his family. The career of an NFL quarterback, and the salary that came with it, was just a tiny speed bump in the long road of one’s lifetime. When his body was too broken and old to throw a ball or evade a tackle, Wyatt needed to be ready with a Plan B, maybe even a Plan C or D. Hopefully with his brain not too broken and battered after all the pounding years on the gridiron.
    Because the sports commentary that scared him the most was the one that tormented him relentlessly in his own mind:
    Where do I go from here? What security can I achieve if I can't stay on the field? Every plan I've ever had has relied on being out there playing the game…on being a starting quarterback for a lot longer than these measly nine seasons…on bringing a championship to a team at some point in my life.
    With a sigh and admission to himself that he was unable to delay facing reality again for another moment, Wyatt rinsed off the last bit of soap from his body and turned off the water. Stepping out of the shower into the locker room, it seemed that every step he took hurt his aching body that much more.
    The nearly empty locker room gave him a small moment of relief. He'd taken time with the trainers and an extra long shower in the hope that he could wait out the press and their annoying questions, and it looked like he'd succeeded.
    As Wyatt sat on the wooden bench and awkwardly dried his hair with the towel in his left hand, he gingerly pulled his button-down shirt and slacks out of his locker with his other hand.
    He was working on some modeling gigs. The guys ribbed him constantly about it, but the money was great, and the free