In an attempt to escape his NFL nightmare, Dak Prescott writes to former 49ers and Dallas Cowboys quarterback Trey Lance.

Dak Prescott sat alone in the film room of The Star in Frisco, Texas, long after the rest of his teammates had left for the evening. The glow of the projector flickered across his face, but his eyes weren’t focused on the screen anymore. The play had played out. The result—a mistimed throw into double coverage that sealed yet another bitter playoff exit—was nothing new. He’d seen it a hundred times. And yet, the pain never lessened.

The room was quiet, save for the humming fan of the projector and the dull ache in his chest. It wasn’t the physical pain that had nagged him since his devastating ankle injury in 2020 or the shoulder soreness that lingered through training camps. This was different. It was the weight of expectation. The sting of national ridicule. The unrelenting drumbeat of time.

Dak Prescott, the quarterback of the Dallas Cowboys, a man who had once felt invincible wearing the star on his helmet, was now a prisoner of his own legacy. He was tired of the headlines, tired of the memes, tired of being the scapegoat. And so, he turned to something he hadn’t done since college: he wrote.

The letter was never meant to be read by anyone, especially not by Trey Lance.

“Trey, I don’t know if you’ll ever read this…”

It began that way. A quiet confession to a former teammate—though teammate is a generous word. Lance, once the golden child of North Dakota State and a top-three draft pick of the San Francisco 49ers, had been acquired by Dallas for a modest fourth-round pick in 2023. A deal that, at the time, drew shrugs. Lance didn’t play that season, nor the one after. He was a developmental project at best, a reclamation case at worst.

But to Dak, Trey represented something more. Not competition. Not even a threat. But a mirror. A young man whose journey had been shaped by hype, hampered by injuries, and ultimately derailed by the cruel machinery of the NFL. Prescott saw himself not in Lance’s youth, but in his unraveling.

“I see you on the sidelines,” the letter read. “Wearing the headset, clipboard in hand. You remind me of myself back when Romo was still here. Hungry. Watching. Learning. Not knowing if your time will ever come.”

That’s the irony, Dak thought. Everyone believed Lance would challenge him for the starting job. But he never did. He watched, quietly, respectfully, a ghost in the quarterback room.

In Trey’s silence, Dak found something deeply human—someone who had tasted the poison of expectation and still showed up every day.