TGS Chapter 91 Being That Quarterback (Patreon)

Wyatt stepped off the stage with the Rams hat on his head and his folded jersey tucked under his arm, the roar of the auditorium still echoing off every surface of the building. He made his way back toward the table where Blaire and his parents were waiting with the promptness of someone who knows exactly where he needs to be—even if, at that moment, there were enough people in his path to make "promptness" a purely relative term.

Elena hugged him the moment he arrived.

It wasn't the brief, customary embrace typical of public events, but rather the kind of hug Elena gave when something mattered enough to her that context felt entirely irrelevant. Wyatt wrapped his arms fully around her because it was the right thing to do, and because his mother had spent years supporting everything that had culminated on that stage tonight, and that deserved a proper hug.

Ed, on the other hand, shook his hand.

It was brief and firm, delivered with the precise pressure reserved for when something had gone exactly as it was supposed to—a distinction Wyatt had learned to recognize among all other handshakes since he was old enough to tell the difference.

Blaire smiled at him from her side of the table, her eyes still sparkling with the restraint she had maintained throughout the announcement. In that specific moment, as Wyatt made it back to the table from the stage, that composure was beginning to soften slightly around the edges.

Wyatt went straight to her before anywhere else.

Rosenhaus appeared from the side, phone in hand, extending it toward Wyatt with the expression of a man who had been waiting for this exact moment since the Rams' clock hit zero.

"Snead," Rosenhaus said.

Wyatt took the phone.

"Wyatt," Les Snead's voice came through from the other end, carrying the calm authority of someone who has just made the most important decision of his week and is completely at peace with it. "Welcome to the Rams."

"Thanks, Les," Wyatt said.

"It’s been a long night for everyone," Snead said. "But I wanted to be the first to call and tell you how thrilled we are to have you on the team. What we saw in the national championship and at the combine tells us you're going to be exactly what this franchise and this city need."

"I'm going to do everything in my power to make that true," Wyatt said.

"I know you will," Snead said. "Drew will give you the breakdown for the coming days, but in short, you have a couple of days before we need you to report to the facility to start the transition. Rookie protocols, the playbook, physicals—all of that starts next week. Training camp comes later, but the process begins now."

"Understood," Wyatt said.

"And Wyatt," Snead added before anyone could assume the call was over, "I expect big things from you. This city expects them, too. But more than that, I expect you to be the quarterback who redefines what it means to be a Ram in Los Angeles. And I believe you can be."

Wyatt didn't answer right away. There was something in what Snead had just said that required a beat to process, and Snead was the kind of person who understood that pause without needing an explanation.

"I'm going to be that quarterback," Wyatt said.

Snead ended the call.

Wyatt handed the phone back to Rosenhaus, who had already switched back to his messaging screen before Wyatt had even fully extended his arm.

"The next few days…" Rosenhaus began.

"Snead already told me," Wyatt said.

Rosenhaus looked at him for a second with the appreciation of an agent whose client actually listens to key decision-makers on important calls.

"Then you know the drill," Rosenhaus said. "Tonight you rest. Tomorrow we get to work."

Philadelphia

In the Eagles' war room, Doug Pederson kept his eyes fixed on the screen where Wyatt Sterling's name appeared under the Rams logo, accompanied by the official selection time and the number one spot on the draft board. His expression was that of a man who had fully anticipated this outcome, yet still needed a moment to process it when it finally happened—because anticipating something and watching it unfold remain two entirely different experiences, even when the outcome is identical.

He exhaled slowly.

It wasn't a dramatic sigh, but rather the controlled release of someone who had been holding his breath for a while and could finally let it go.

"It's what we expected," Howie Roseman said from the opposite side of the table, his tone level, carrying the calm of a man watching events unfold well within his calculated 90% probability window.

"I know," Pederson said.

"And we have a solid Plan B," Roseman added.

Pederson looked at the screen for one last second before turning his attention to Roseman.

"Who?" Pederson asked, even though he already knew the answer. Plan B had been discussed enough times over the past few weeks that the question was more of a confirmatory ritual than a request for new information.

"Goff," Roseman replied. "With Sterling off the board at one, Goff is sitting right there at two. He fits what we want to build offensively, and with the right development, he can be the quarterback this franchise needs for the next decade."

Pederson nodded.

It wasn't the enthusiastic nod he had given when discussing Wyatt at the combine, but rather the resolute nod of a head coach who accepts that while the available path isn't his preferred one, it remains a viable road forward—and his job is to make sure it leads to the exact same destination.

"Get the pick in," Pederson said.

Roseman already had the phone in hand.

When Roger Goodell stepped back up to the podium for the second overall pick, the auditorium had settled back into the ambient buzz it had prior to the Rams' clock expiring. In that interval between picks, the room carried the specific energy of a crowd that had just witnessed something major and was processing what was coming next alongside what had just occurred.

"With the second pick in the 2016 NFL Draft," Goodell announced in his steady, deliberate cadence, "the Philadelphia Eagles select Jared Goff, quarterback from the University of California."

The room responded with a roar distinct from the first announcement. Every draft pick generates its own specific sound depending on the anticipation behind it and the element of surprise involved. In this case, there was enough anticipation that the surprise was minimal, but enough excitement to make the reaction genuine.

At Wyatt's table, Rosenhaus glanced up briefly from his phone toward the screen where Goff was rising from his seat, before immediately returning his focus to the device. Whatever he was managing at that moment required far more attention than anything happening on stage.

Ed looked at the screen with the neutral expression of a man absorbing information without the need to comment on it—the exact same look he had maintained through most of the National Championship game, signaling an internal processing that required no external display.

Blaire looked over at Wyatt.

"Goff at two," Blaire said.

"Rosenhaus already had that mapped out," Wyatt said.

"And you?"

"Me too," Wyatt said.

Blaire turned her gaze back to the screen, where Goff was already on stage posing with Goodell, while the camera cut to the Eagles' table showing their representative standing up to applaud.

The draft proceeded with the rhythm established by the event's logistics, each pick arriving in the interval dictated by each team's clock. Wyatt remained at his table with Blaire and his parents, watching the first round unfold with the attentive interest one pays when what mattered most to them personally has already transpired, but the remaining events still carry weight for other reasons.

The third pick was the Chargers selecting a defensive prospect.

The fourth went to the Cowboys.

The fifth to the Jaguars.

The room processed each announcement with its own tailored volume of applause, depending on how well represented the picking team's city was in the audience and the level of enthusiasm or surprise the name generated.

Wyatt talked quietly with Blaire between picks about things unrelated to the draft. There were things to say that couldn't wait until the night was over, yet didn't demand the intense focus that the major picks required.

"With the fifteenth pick in the 2016 NFL Draft," Goodell's voice echoed through the house, "the Cleveland Browns select Laquon Treadwell, wide receiver from the University of Mississippi."

Wyatt stood up.

It wasn't a deliberate decision made before rising; his body simply moved on instinct before his mind had to approve it. Some actions are automatic—and standing up to applaud when the teammate who ran every route you threw to over the last three years gets selected in the first round of the NFL Draft was precisely that kind of action.

He applauded.

The entire auditorium joined in, as Treadwell was the top-projected receiver of the class and the pick aligned with what mock boards had suggested for weeks. But Wyatt's applause carried a distinct resonance—one that anyone who had watched the National Championship in January would have instantly recognized.

At Laquon's table across the auditorium, the receiver stood up with the unbridled joy of someone who had waited for this moment since he was old enough to know it was possible. Now that it was here, he had no agent instructions holding him back from expressing it. He let it out completely, arms raised high, surrounded by his cheering family as his entire table rose to their feet.

Wyatt watched him from across the room, and Laquon caught his eye.

From a distance, Laquon flashed a quick gesture—the exact same signal he had given Wyatt from the back corner of the end zone in the National Championship game after dragging two feet in bounds. In the context of the Auditorium Theatre in Chicago, it meant precisely what it had meant back then.

Wyatt answered with the same gesture.

Blaire watched the interaction from her seat, lacking the exact positional context to understand the gesture's precise origins, but possessing more than enough general context to know it represented something deeply meaningful.

Laquon walked up to the stage with the signature energy he brought everywhere—amplified tonight by years of hard work culminating at this single point. His photo with Goodell featured the expression of someone genuinely incapable of holding back a smile, even if asked to, because the joy came from a place beyond conscious control.

The draft continued through the rest of the first round and into the second. Wyatt stayed in the auditorium for part of the second round, offering the polite attention expected when the night has already delivered its main event, but hasn't officially concluded and courtesy dictates staying until a reasonable hour to leave.

Blaire began nodding off around the fortieth pick of the second round, her head resting lightly against Wyatt's shoulder. He left her undisturbed until the forty-fifth pick set off a burst of noise from half the room that was entirely incompatible with sleeping in a chair.

"We can go now," Blaire said without opening her eyes all the way.

"We can go," Wyatt agreed.

Ed and Elena—who had reached this point in the evening with the quiet authority of two people who had owned their own sleep schedules for decades and had zero intention of surrendering that privilege to the NFL Draft—were in complete agreement with the plan.

Rosenhaus, who had been fielding calls and texts throughout the second round, looked up from his screen as the group stood.

"Tomorrow at nine," Rosenhaus said, looking at Wyatt.

"At nine," Wyatt replied.

Rosenhaus was back on his phone before Wyatt had even finished grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair.

The group exited the auditorium with the draft still underway on stage and the second round winding down through the building's audio monitors. Outside, the April Chicago air was waiting—still undecided on whether winter was truly over, though tonight in particular, it had taken winter's side with considerably more conviction than it had that morning.

Blaire buttoned up her coat on the sidewalk.

Wyatt helped her with the top button, the one that always gave her trouble.

The car was waiting.

They got in together, the Rams cap still sitting on Wyatt's head, the first round of the 2016 Draft officially in the books. The coming days lay ahead, carrying demands that neither of them could precisely quantify at that moment—nor needed to just yet. Because the car was heading toward the hotel, the hotel had a bed, and tonight, that bed was more than enough.