Page 134 of Red Zone
It’s like trying to sprint a marathon.
By Thursday morning, I’ve already sat through two exams, written one case study, and outlined a research paper on consumer psychology that’s still waiting to be typed.
But there’s one last thing on my checklist before I can even think about breathing again: my final presentation for Marketing Strategy.
I smooth down my blazer as I stand at the front of the classroom, trying not to let the quiet murmur of my classmates get under my skin.
On the screen behind me is the title slide:
Social Media-Driven NIL Deals: Growth Strategies and Long-Term Impact
My professor nods from her seat. “Whenever you’re ready, Ms. Harding.”
I take a breath, clutching my clicker, and start.
“Over the past semester, I’ve worked closely with several of PCU’s student-athletes to develop and execute targeted marketing strategies designed to maximize the visibility and value of their NIL deals,” I begin, my voice steady, even though my stomach is still tight.
I click to the next slide—graphs, charts, snapshots of campaign engagement numbers.
“These are the results: an average thirty-seven percent increase in follower engagement, a twenty-two percent uptick in unique impressions, and—most importantly—four additional brand contracts signed as a direct result of the social media growth.”
I glance at the professor, then back at the room, feeling a little more confidence creep into my voice.
“Not only does this approach improve current earning potential, it positions these athletes for longevity with their brands after graduation, fostering relationships that extend beyond their playing careers.”
I move through the next few slides—outlining strategies for brand alignment, crisis management, and audience retention.
And by the time I hit my final point, something strange happens.
I actually smile.
Because as much as I’ve second-guessed myself this semester, the numbers don’t lie.
This plan works. My plan works.
I finish with a neat little bow, field a couple of softball questions, and gather my things as the professor thanks me.
When I finally sink back into my seat, my hands are still a little shaky.
But my heart feels just a little lighter.
Because for the first time in weeks, I let myself feel it.
Pride.
The first playoff game is a blur of noise, adrenaline, and freezing wind.
The stadium is packed to the brim, and the energy crackling off the field is electric from the very first snap.
PCU dominates from the opening drive. Jaxon and Carter are locked in, the defense holds strong, and by the fourth quarter, the student section is already chanting for the next round.
When the final whistle blows and the scoreboard flashes a two-touchdown win, the roar of the crowd rattles through my bones.
And then, as always, it’s my turn to work.
I stand near the thirty-yard line with my mic and notepad, waiting as players jog off the field one by one. My jacket is zipped all the way to my chin, but the wind still bites at my cheeks as I stop each of the key players in turn.
Jaxon is first—calm and focused as ever.
