TGS Chapter 109 The Media Noise (Patreon)

The television volume was higher than it should have been for an apartment at that hour of the morning, and the news anchor spoke with the specific cadence of someone who had found in his material the kind of story that required no extra embellishment.

"The statements made by Wyatt Sterling following the Rams' loss to the Minnesota Vikings in the final preseason game have generated a reaction far beyond what a rookie's postgame comments normally produce," the anchor said, as the screen behind him displayed a clip of the field-level interview showing Wyatt, helmet in hand, wearing the exact expression he had when he spoke. "Sterling directly criticized head coach Jeff Fisher's game plan on live camera just five minutes after the final whistle. Those words reached every major sports media outlet before the team even landed in Los Angeles."

The broadcast cut to the footage.

On the screen, Wyatt had the exact same face he held sitting on the sofa watching it—an expression that didn't show regret, but rather the quiet recognition that what was said was said, and that consequences follow regardless of whether one regrets them or not.

The program shifted to one of those round-the-clock sports debate shows on cable, which had found in Wyatt's comments the exact type of fuel those formats rely on.

"What Sterling said is what a lot of people were thinking," said the analyst in the red tie. "Fisher's game plan was designed to avoid losing rather than to win. And when you design a scheme like that with the number one pick in the draft on the field, that rookie has every right to express his frustration."

"He does not have that right," countered the second analyst. "Not publicly. Sterling has two preseason games in the NFL; Fisher has thirty years in this league. The difference between saying what you think in the locker room and saying it in front of a camera is the difference between being a professional and being a problem."

"The numbers back Sterling up," replied the first. "Given freedom against Dallas, the offense moved and scored. Under a restricted system in the final game, it stalled. That's not an opinion—that's the scoreboard."

The screen displayed the Rams' final preseason record of 2-2 alongside game-by-game offensive stats, with a graphic banner reading: Rams Finish Preseason with Offensive Questions Ahead of September.

"Analysts consulted note that the Rams enter the regular season with a limited passing attack," the anchor summarized. "And the question is whether that stems from Fisher's system or a roster that lacks the maturity to execute something more ambitious."

Wyatt lowered his phone for a moment and looked at the television with the expression of someone watching something about himself that brings neither satisfaction nor pain, but rather a strange sense of detachment—as if the person on the screen belonged to someone slightly different.

Then he went back to his phone.

Twitter contained what it always contains when a specific topic trends: a volume of opinions far exceeding anything useful to process, yet his thumb kept scrolling automatically anyway.

@RamsNation_actual Wyatt Sterling said out loud what we were all thinking. Fisher is going to bury him on the bench now.

@FootballHeads22 Rookie criticizes his head coach in his very first preseason. This ends one of two ways, and neither is good for Sterling.

@SportsDebate_live Rookie temper tantrum. Once you've been in the league five years, you'll learn why veterans don't talk like that on camera.

@GrindingTheFilm The story isn't the quote; it's the film. Sterling with freedom vs. Dallas compared to zero freedom in the finale. The tape doesn't lie.

Wyatt paused on that last tweet.

He processed it for a second.

Then he kept scrolling.

Blaire emerged from the hallway, her hair tied up, her nine-month belly carrying the distinct physical presence of something that no longer fit inside a discrete space, but rather occupied the room in an unmistakable, permanent way until the moment arrived.

She looked at the television.

She looked at Wyatt.

She crossed the living room without a word and turned off the TV using the power button on the unit itself, rather than the remote—because the remote was on the far side of the sofa, and walking across the room to push the physical button communicated something that using the remote wouldn't have conveyed in the same way.

"Enough," she said softly.

Wyatt looked up at her.

"This isn't doing you any good," she said. "Whatever they say on there doesn't change what happened, and watching it on repeat won't make the outcome any different."

"I know."

"Then turn it off."

"You already turned it off."

Blaire looked at him with the specific patience of someone who had spent enough time with a person for certain responses not to produce the effect they might in another context.

"The phone, too," she added.

Wyatt lowered the phone to his side on the couch—holding it with the grip of someone placing it down without fully letting go, which was precisely the gesture Blaire expected.

"Wyatt."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You've been on that sofa for two hours watching the exact same clip from different angles. That's not being fine; that's punishing yourself."

The apartment was filled with the light of an August morning in Los Angeles—coming in horizontally through the east-facing windows, carrying the specific temperature before the full heat of the day settled in. Standing in that light with her tied-up hair and her rounded belly, Blaire wore the look of someone who had made up her mind before entering the room, and the room hadn't changed it.

"Let's go out," she said.

"I'm not in the mood."

"I wasn't asking if you were in the mood."

"Blaire..."

"Wyatt," she said with a tone that was entirely unarguable—the tone of someone with no intention of fighting, but equally zero intention of backing down, a combination that achieves results argument alone rarely yields. "I'm nine months pregnant. You really don't want to debate me right now. Trust my judgment."

Wyatt looked at her.

He looked at the sofa.

He looked at the phone beside him.

He stood up.

The keys to the Jeep were in the ceramic bowl next to the door—where they always were ever since Blaire decided that keys in the bowl constituted a system, and systems in a shared apartment exist because otherwise keys disappear, leading to twenty minutes of searching. Wyatt had adopted the system with the ease of someone who recognizes a rule is correct even if he would never have thought of it himself.

They went down to the garage and pulled out into the Los Angeles streets, taking on the Friday morning traffic, which carried the light rhythm of people already looking ahead to the weekend.

Wyatt turned on the radio.

The dial landed on a sports talk station, and the host's voice came through before Wyatt could even process the station.

"...Sterling said what he said, and now he has to live with the consequences of saying it. That's the reality of playing in Los Angeles, where the media won't just let you..."

Blaire reached over and turned off the radio with the exact same motion she had used on the television—the gesture of someone who had decided something would not exist in her auditory space and eliminated it without extra drama.

"Enough," she repeated.

She plugged her phone into the car's audio system.

The opening chords of Smells Like Teen Spirit filled the Jeep's interior at a volume loud enough to wash over the cabin without forcing conversation to require extra effort. Wyatt listened to the first bars with the face of someone recognizing a track he hadn't expected to hear, yet one that fit the exact frequency of the moment.

Load up on guns, bring your friends It's fun to lose and to pretend She's overbored and self-assured Oh no, I know a dirty word

"Where are we going?" Wyatt asked.

Blaire held one hand over her stomach in the gesture she had developed over the past few months—the touch of someone resting a hand over something distinctly her own that possessed its own independent life.

"There are things I need to look at for the baby," she said. "For the nursery. A few designs I saw on Pinterest that I want to see in person before deciding."

"The mall?"

"The mall."

Wyatt looked out at the avenue ahead.

Here we are now, entertain us A mulatto, an albino A mosquito, my libido Yeah

In the driver's seat, with the traffic moving in front of him, the music filling the car, and Blaire beside him with her hand on her belly, Wyatt felt the apartment and the television fade into the distance—carrying the specific relief movement produces when one simply moves forward.

At that hour, the shopping mall had the pre-noon crowd level that allowed one to walk without constantly calculating space. Blaire moved down the concourse with the deliberate, nine-month stride—not slow, but purposeful, carrying the physical awareness that her body required a different kind of pacing.

Wyatt walked beside her, hands in his pockets.

They stepped into the first store.

Blaire stopped in front of a display of crib mobiles featuring geometric designs in white and gray, evaluating them with the concentration of someone making a decision extending beyond mere aesthetics. Beside her, Wyatt looked at the mobiles with a different kind of focus—trying to understand what made one mobile superior to another when both served the exact same purpose and the intended user couldn't yet express a preference.

"This one," Blaire said, pointing to one with triangles.

"It's fine."

"You're not looking."

"I am looking."

"Wyatt."

"The triangle one," he said, focusing. "It's good. The design is clean."

Blaire looked at him for a second with the face of someone not entirely convinced that the level of attention delivered matched the importance of the question, yet recognizing that pressing the point wouldn't yield a better answer, and moved on to the next display.

They continued through the store, with Blaire stopping at various setups, making decisions that carried weight, while Wyatt carried the bags.

Wyatt noticed the first glance in the third store—a shopper pausing mid-sentence before continuing, eyes shifting toward him. Then a teenager looked down at his phone, looked back up at Wyatt, and wore the face of someone making a live comparison. Wyatt knew that look well; it usually ended one of two ways.

Most people simply kept walking.

They were stepping out of a children's clothing store when a voice called out from behind.

"Hey! Excuse me... Are you Wyatt Sterling?"

Wyatt turned around.

The kid was eleven or twelve years old, wearing the expression of someone who had built up the nerve to approach, and once the person turned around, realized there was no turning back—only pushing forward.

"That's me," Wyatt said.

"Man!" the kid gasped. "I went to the game against the Cowboys! The preseason one! That 22-yard pass to the back of the end zone was insane!"

Wyatt smiled.

It was the kind of detail fans who were actually in the stadium remember differently than those who watched on television. Live venue sightlines offer a perspective cameras don't capture, and this kid had been there—storing the pass, the exact yardage, and the quarter it happened in the way people preserve things witnessed with their own eyes.

"Glad you enjoyed it," Wyatt said.

"I'm Scott," the kid added.

Before he could say more, a voice called out from the left—carrying the sharp tone of someone who had been searching for someone, where urgency blends with relief.

"Scott! You can't just wander off like that without telling me!"

The man who caught up was in his seventies, with white hair and a weathered face showing decades spent under the sun. He walked with the hurried stride of someone who had been moving as fast as possible without actually running—because running in a mall wasn't proper, but fast-walking certainly was.

"Grandpa," the kid said, wearing the look of someone who had heard that tone enough times to know the correct response was acknowledging it without making a fuss.

The man looked at his grandson, then turned his gaze to Wyatt. The exact same realization flashed across his face that Wyatt had seen on the teenager earlier, only faster—because people who have watched football for decades connect the dots with fewer steps.

"Wyatt Sterling," the man said.

"In the flesh."

"Rudy Buttler," the grandfather said, extending a hand. "My grandson here hasn't stopped talking about you since the Cowboys game."

"I took him," Rudy continued. "Got him the tickets for his birthday."

"Best game I've seen in a long time," Rudy added. "And believe me, I've seen a lot of football. You've got something special. Can't quite put it into words better than that."

"No need to put it any better," Wyatt said, shaking his hand.

"Can we get a picture?" Scott asked, his phone already out—with the speed of someone who had the camera ready before even walking over, the photo having been part of the plan all along. "If it's not too much trouble?"

"Not at all."

Blaire stepped up beside them, holding a shopping bag, wearing the knowing smile of someone who had arrived at the exact right moment to take in the scene without needing an explanation.

"I can take it," she offered.

Scott handed her the phone with the relief of someone getting exactly what he needed right when he needed it. He lined up beside Wyatt, with Rudy on the other side. Blaire took two steps back and framed the shot horizontally.

"3... 2... 1," she counted.

Scott grinned completely.

Rudy smiled with the quiet restraint of an older man who approves of smiling when appropriate, but sees no need to overdo it.

Wyatt smiled with a genuine expression—a smile that hadn't been present on the apartment sofa, in the Jeep, or in the first few stores. It was a smile brought out by the kid, the end-zone pass, and the grandfather who had bought tickets for his grandson's birthday, standing in a Los Angeles shopping mall on a Friday afternoon recognizing the Rams' rookie quarterback outside a baby clothes shop.

"Thanks!" Scott said as Blaire handed the phone back. "Seriously! Good luck this season!"

"Give Fisher hell so he lets you play!" Rudy added with a straight face, followed quickly by a knowing grin—the smile of a veteran fan who knew exactly what he had just referenced and that everyone in the hallway got the joke.

Wyatt laughed out loud.

Rudy and Scott walked off down the concourse, Scott already reviewing the photo on his screen. Wyatt watched them go, the smile lingering as they rounded the corner and disappeared into the mall crowd.

Blaire stood beside him, waiting.

"Thanks," Wyatt said quietly.

"For what?"

"For getting me out of the apartment."

Blaire received the thanks with the calm expression of someone who didn't need gratitude for doing what was obviously right, yet didn't mind hearing it either.

"The baby needed to get out," she said.

Wyatt looked at her.

"The baby was doing just fine in the apartment."

"The baby needed to get out," she repeated with the exact same tone.

Wyatt picked up the two shopping bags he had set on the floor for the photo.

They began walking toward the exit.

"Are you hungry?" he asked.

Blaire considered it for a split second.

"I'm eating for two," she said. "I'm always hungry."

Wyatt looked over at her with the smile still on his face. She took his free hand with hers, and together they walked toward the glass doors—the shopping mall behind them, the Los Angeles traffic waiting outside, and the rest of Friday afternoon stretching ahead with all the time it had to offer.