A FEW HOURS after the brothers' throwing session, David and Sullivan -- everyone calls him Sully -- sit at a Bakersfield Chipotle, going over the plan for tomorrow's practice, the first run-through of Derek's pro day. Usually, a college strength coach runs a pro day, but David asked Sully to plan Derek's, betting that an NFL mind will ensure that no GM leaves with questions. Each weeknight, Sullivan breaks down video with Derek, often until midnight. Sully provided Derek with a four-page work sheet to complete, the same one Eli uses. The questions -- Is the corner midpoint? Which safety is more aggressive? -- are intended to teach Derek how to watch film. David's role is almost that of a parent, a provider and protector who appreciates the instruction in a way his brother can't, all while wondering what if. "I never had any of this," he says.

While his coach and brother work, Derek sits at the other end of the table, telling funny stories about coaching David's 9-year-old son, Cooper, in flag football. (Yes, Cooper is a quarterback.) As affable as his brother is hardened, Derek carries himself with an easy command reminiscent of Tom Brady and Russell Wilson, as if doubt is a foreign concept. He's been riding a wave of underground buzz that began at the Senior Bowl in Mobile, Ala.

College all-star games are usually sand traps for quarterbacks, who are forced to spend all week throwing to unfamiliar receivers. But before the Senior Bowl on Jan. 25, the Carrs hatched an idea: Practice for the practice by gathering two of the receivers in New Orleans the week prior. It was the sort of tip Derek could receive only from someone who had been through it before, and it was a natural fit with the workaholic instincts that led him to arrive for film study at 6:30 a.m. many mornings last season. Derek was sharp in Mobile, and suddenly scouts began to argue that he was the draft's top quarterback: more mature than Manziel, stronger than Bridgewater, more consistent in his delivery than Bortles. Still, that one issue continued to dog him. "The problem," one NFC exec says, "is his genetics."

Of course, Derek considers it an honor to be compared with his brother. David is one of the most famous athletes to make it out of Bakersfield, one of those dust towns that seem to be surrounded by invisible walls. Yet David's pain has always been Derek's. As a kid, Derek would cry after his brother's losses and would join him in the film room to correct mistakes. He admires the way David was always "the same person" whether he was cheered or booed. "His career was not successful in the world's eyes," Derek says. "But to the people we listen to and respect, it was the most successful thing ever."

Derek has traced his brother's path consciously, as if to prove it wasn't the problem. He graduated high school early to get a jump at Fresno State. After partying too hard as a freshman, he rededicated his life to football and faith and was named the starter as a redshirt sophomore. He soon learned that he would be measured against his brother's real and perceived failures. In camp before his junior season, Derek suffered a sports hernia and hairline fracture in his pelvic bone. The coaches told him to avoid hits at all costs. So he unloaded at the first sign of pressure, often off his back foot. Derek still racked up 37 touchdowns against just seven interceptions -- the definition of toughness that scouts claim to crave. But some teams couldn't shake that familiar, familial skittishness in the pocket. "He took some undue criticism," says Fresno State coach Tim DeRuyter. "It was painful, and he never said a word."

And he internalized it all. During informal workouts before his senior year, Derek asked teammates to hit him after he threw. He never told the coaches. A few months later, against Boise State, Derek took a shot in the face as he released. The pass was caught. "The one question they had on me?" Derek says, leaning back at Chipotle and spreading his arms wide. "I answered it."

So he hopes. Until draft day, nobody truly knows how much the specter of David will affect Derek. Scouts swear that they evaluate each prospect on his own merit, but so much of quarterback evaluation is based on gut. So far, it's clear that -- unlike, say, Eli Manning -- Derek isn't getting the benefit of the doubt. At the combine, GMs and coaches asked Derek the ways in which he's similar to his brother. "We're both tough," Derek said. "And we believe that we can throw with anyone." They asked the ways in which he's not. "He's more quiet. I'll walk into a room and get to know eight people."

One coach asked, "What did you think of David's offensive lines in Houston?" Sensing a trap, Derek smiled. "They're all great guys."

The coach chuckled, then tried again: "I didn't think they were very good."

Derek wouldn't bite. "That's your opinion," he said, and they laughed.

ALL OF THE questions carry the same message: Prove that we won't be burned twice. It has forced Derek to walk a line between self-preservation and loyalty. He makes it clear that "I'm not trying to be David -- I'm trying to be the very best Derek Carr I can be," and he adds that he patterns his game after Peyton Manning's. But Derek has always been haunted by the question that haunts his brother: What really happened in Houston? He wanted to learn for himself. Without telling anyone, he watched video of some of David's NFL games, analyzing them as a quarterback, not a brother. He saw a career killed in the crib, a victim of historically bad circumstances. "Man, can you get him some help?" Derek says. "I can promise you it wasn't No. 8's fault."

"I'm not trying to be

David. I'm trying to be

the very best Derek Carr I can be." - Derek Carr

No. 8, of course, has tried to convince everyone that he has no regrets about his career, that he could be happy to live vicariously through Derek. But not even the most bruised quarterback of his era ever fully loses the itch to play. Working with Derek the past few months -- watching his younger brother benefit from his pain -- has "rekindled a little juice," David says. He has a career's worth of wisdom and is in the best shape of his life, an ideal backup. In February, David began to believe that maybe, just maybe, he could not only redeem his career through his brother but perhaps revive it. "Being out here and training and going through this process has shown me that I want to play, absolutely," David says.

THAT LEADS BOTH brothers to a Bakersfield gym on a March morning, carrying a sort of kinetic energy: We're gonna pull this off. Their agent has casually pitched them to teams as a package deal, even offering to stage a workout for David on Derek's pro day. David passed on that, not wanting to be a distraction. But he's motivated by the hope of one last chance, and he bolts into the gym in a sleeveless tee, ready to roll. A sleepy Derek is behind him, hoodie pulled over his face.

"How do you feel?" asks Eric Mahanke, their trainer.

"Like a million bucks!" David says.

They lie on foam rollers, ironing out soreness. Framed pictures of David's college and pro games surround them. David leans over to mess with his brother, whose legs ache. "Argh, not my quads," Derek says. "If you press them, I'll cry."

A Carr workout is not for everyone. They sometimes push David's 4x4 through the parking lot. They take pride in being tough after years of being accused otherwise. The other day, they heard commentators lament Derek's lack of pocket tolerance, so Derek downloaded a few plays of his getting leveled and hitting the pass, just to remind himself. "We laughed," Derek says, even if both of them knew that it wasn't really funny.

Back at the gym, Derek and David joke about splitting reps in this afternoon's practice. "If you pull one of those vet moves -- You throw, I'm too sore -- we'll fight," Derek says.

"I'll take the reps so that I can be the starter," David says, deadly serious. Then he shakes his head and smiles. "See, Derek's not ready."