Arty's Playbook

National Championship Game 2018

The roar of the crowd is deafening as the camera zooms in on Arty Miller, quarterback for the Wildcats, poised and ready in the backfield. "And here we are, folks," the announcer's voice booms over the broadcast, "the moment of truth. It's all on Miller's shoulders now."

You can feel the tension, even through the screen. Arty takes the snap, drops back, eyes scanning the field for an open receiver. But the defense is swarming, relentless, and he's forced to tuck the ball and run.

"He's at the 30, the 25," the announcer's voice rises with excitement, "the 20! Miller's giving it everything he's got."

But then, a gasp from the crowd. Arty fights for extra yards, pushing himself to the limit, when suddenly, he's hit from the side, his leg twisting unnaturally beneath him. The crack of the injury is audible even over the din of the stadium.

"And there's the tackle," the announcer's voice drops, solemn, "and that does not look good. Miller's down, folks, and this does not look good. Let's check the replay."

The replay plays on the jumbotron in front of thousands of people, as they all watch in horror.

"Oh boy, that's hard to watch, folks. Legs aren't meant to bend that way."

The stadium noise dulls to a low murmur as trainers rush the field, kneeling beside Miller where he lies clutching his leg. The camera hesitates, then pulls back-no close-ups now.

"They're bringing the cart out," the announcer says quietly. "You never want to see this, especially for a kid who's given everything to this program, and has such a bright future."

The shot on the screen widens to the crowd on its feet, not cheering, just watching. Helmets off. Hands on heads.

"And if this is it," the announcer adds after a beat, "that's a tough way for a career to end."

The broadcast cuts to a commercial.

Arty

8 years later...

Arty hesitated a moment longer, then tapped the green button and raised the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

"Miller!" The voice on the other end was warm, but with a sharp edge of relief. "Man, it's been too long."

Arty recognized the voice instantly—Tyson Shaw, his college teammate and a current NFL star wide receiver. Or, at least, he was until recently. Arty had seen the headlines, the scandals piling up at Tyson's feet until the league finally stepped in, suspending him indefinitely.

"Tyson," Arty said, leaning back in his chair. "This is a surprise. What's it been, five years?"

"Something like that," Tyson said, and Arty could hear the wry smile. "Not since... hell, I don't even remember. Too long, that's for sure."

Arty laughed despite himself. "Some things never change." He paused, sobering. "So what's up, man? "I've… uh, I've seen the news," Arty says. "Some of it, anyway."

Tyson snorts softly. "Yeah. Well. You can't believe everything you hear." Another pause. Longer this time. "But," Tyson adds, voice lower now, stripped of polish, "I'm not gonna bullshit you. I'm in rough shape, man. Team cut me loose. Lawyers everywhere. And my wife-" He exhales. "She kicked me out last week."

Arty's jaw tightens. He hasn't talked to Tyson like this in years. Not since the texts stopped getting returned. Not since Tyson's face started showing up on billboards instead.

"That's actually why I'm calling," Tyson said. He hesitated, and in that pause Arty heard how much the admission cost him. "I need a place to lay low for a bit, let the worst of it blow over. I didn't know where else to go."

Arty was silent, weighing the request. Tyson Shaw, in his guest room. A walking scandal under his roof. And Emma… how would Emma react to having Tyson, of all people, under their roof, given their shared history? The thought was both unsettling and, Arty had to admit with a flush of shame, strangely… interesting.

"Look, Tyson," Arty began, choosing his words carefully. "That's... a lot. I don't know. I'll have to talk to Emma about it."

There was a beat of silence on the line. Not awkward—heavy.

"Yeah," Tyson said finally. His voice was quieter now, stripped of the swagger Arty remembered. "I figured you’d say that. I get it."

Arty rolled his chair back slightly, staring at the ceiling tiles. One of them had a faint water stain shaped like a state he couldn’t name. "I’m not saying no," he said. "I just… I can’t make that call solo."

"I wouldn’t expect you to," Tyson replied. A pause, then, softer: "Tell Emma I said hey. If she even remembers me."

Arty exhaled through his nose. "She remembers you."

That earned a small, humorless chuckle from Tyson. "Yeah. Of course she does."

Another silence, this one shorter.

"Let me know," Tyson said. "Either way. And, hey—thanks for even picking up."

The line clicked dead.

Arty lowered the phone and let it rest in his palm longer than necessary. The newsroom noise seeped back in around him—the clatter of keyboards, someone laughing too loudly near the copy desk, the low hum of the printer spitting out tomorrow’s headlines. Tyson’s face flashed across his mind, not from the news, but from college—grinning, confident, always one step ahead.

"That looked serious," Stacy said, sliding back into view, coffee in hand. "You okay?"

Arty glanced at his phone, then set it face-down on the desk.

"Yeah," he said. After a beat: "An old friend."

Stacy raised an eyebrow, clearly filing that away. "Those are usually the dangerous ones."

Arty didn’t argue.

He hesitated, then added, "Tyson Shaw."

Stacy blinked. "As in… All‑Pro, endorsement deals, SportsCenter every Sunday, Tyson Shaw?"

"Formerly," Arty said dryly. "Yeah. That one."

Her eyebrows lifted higher. "Didn't he just get suspended? Or indicted? Or both?"

"Something like that," Arty muttered. "He's in town. Apparently, I'm on his short list of emergency contacts."

Stacy studied him over the rim of her coffee. "That's not small, Arty."

"No," he agreed. "It's not."

Stacy tilted her head. "Wait. Didn't you play with him in college, ya know, before you crippled yourself?"

"Oh, har har. Yeah," Arty said. "Same recruiting class. He was a freshman when I was a sophomore. We ended up roommates for two years."

"No kidding."

He gave a small shrug. "We were inseparable back then. Practice, film, parties. Emma too. The three of us were always around each other."

Stacy's expression sharpened just slightly. "Emma and Tyson were close?"

Arty hesitated - barely. "We all were," he said. "It was just… that time in our lives. Everything felt big. Easy."

Stacy took a slow sip of her coffee. "So what exactly did he want?"

Arty exhaled through his nose. "A place to crash. For a while. Lay low until the media storm moves on."

Her brows pulled together. "At your house?"

"Temporarily," he said. "Guest room. It's not a big deal.

Stacy stared at him. "It feels like a big deal."

"It's just Tyson," Arty replied, a little too quickly. "He's between places. That's it."

"And your wife is just… fine with that?"

"I haven't asked yet," he admitted. "But it's not like I'm inviting a stranger in. We've all known each other forever."

Stacy didn't look convinced. "Sometimes that makes it worse."

Arty gave a short laugh. "You're being dramatic."

"Am I?"

He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "It's a spare bedroom, Stace. Not a reality show. He'll keep his head down, figure his stuff out, and move on. End of story."

Stacy held his gaze a moment longer, as if she were watching a slow‑motion car accident from a distance.

"Right," she said finally. "End of story."