Two security guards and one member of the opposing team’s public relations department escort our group down to the ground level. This year, the losing team is being ushered to immediately do their postgame press conference while the winning team receives the championship trophy. This gets them in and out, and we all know they want to go home.
The holding room where we’ll wait is packed. There are family members everywhere, people from young to old, and I’m shocked by how crowded the room is. Maybe it’s because at the home games, people stayed home, but here it’s almost overwhelming, and as we walk in, I feel the lull in conversations as people stare.
Ignoring them, eyes forward, Missy, Camille, and I move as a unit to an empty space, which gives me a direct view of the door the guys will come through.
“Ignore them,” Camille whispers, leaning in.
“I am. I just keep telling myself you gotta fake it till you make it.” I wipe my hands across my thighs and let out a deep sigh.
“Darlin’,” Missy says, stepping in front of me to look me in the eye, “you don’t have to fake anything. You’re about as real as it gets, and we love you for it.” She squeezes my arm, and I feel my eyes burn.
Finding inner strength isn’t always easy. It takes an understanding of mindfulness and compassion, not only for ourselves but our surroundings too, and it gives us greater resilience. As much as I hate to admit it, I think the separation from Bryan was good for me. It gave me time to analyze myself, to see where the cracks were and how I needed to fill them. After all, resilience isn’t something we’re born with. It isn’t a personality trait; it’s about paying attention, listening to yourself, and channeling your inner superhero.
She’s right—I am real, I am strong, and I am the person I need to be, for me and for him. He just wants me, and I just want him, just as we are. It is that simple. Yes, stressful situations are going to happen in life, but I believe together we can change how we react during them and come out together on the other side.
We can do this. I know we can.
I just hope he does, too.
On both sides of the locker room exit door, two large televisions have been set up. They flicker to life and show that the press conference for the Tarpons is about to begin. There’s a short table, and at it are the team’s head coach and Bryan. Moving to stand behind them are the offensive and defensive coaches. All of them look exhausted, yet they exude a level of professionalism that can only be seen in true leaders.
Bryan has pulled a gray sweatshirt on in place of his pads and jersey, he has the black grease smudges under his eyes, and his hair, which is still sweaty, is sticking up everywhere. He looks good, and knowing he’s so close after the last couple of weeks, I feel like I’m going to burst.
The room quiets as Bryan leans forward, and into the Sports Network branded microphone, he says, “How are you doing, guys?”
His voice moves through me like a shot of adrenaline, and everyone around me disappears. It’s just me and him, and I can’t tear my eyes away. It’s then I realize Bryan isn’t channeling his inner superhero—he is a superhero, my superhero, and when given the chance, I’m going to tell him.
One by one, questions are fired at him, and he answers them honestly and openly.
“Yeah, we had a chance, but they consistently made a lot of good plays, and we just couldn’t get the job done. We battled, and it was competitive, but it just wasn’t our day.” He shrugs, nods, and looks at the next reporter.
We can’t hear the questions, but we do see the visceral reactions he has to them as he smiles, grimaces, rubs the back of his neck, runs his hand through his hair, and swipes it over his face.
“Losing Jack so early in the game was disappointing and frustrating to our team. He’s such a great player and one of the best guys I know. It was a loss we certainly weren’t expecting, but that’s football. I went back to the sidelines, knowing the ball was coming back to us, and tried to put a plan in place to bring us back out on top. Yeah, we just couldn’t get there.”
Jack. I know when we get home, the fallout from losing him is going to be something we have to work through. The jumbotron showed Bryan’s face after his friend went down, and immediately there was devastation and guilt painted across his features. I don’t know enough to know if someone could be at fault, but either way, Bryan will absorb it as his own, and recovering from that is not going to be easy.
Then again, forging through adversity never is, but we will. I know we will.
As the interview continues, he talks highly of so many of his teammates, praising how well they played, and I know he’s doing this to try to place them all in a positive light where they’re going to be remembered for some of the big plays instead of the loss. From offense to defense and even special teams, he covers them all. My heart aches for the man he truly is. He’s kind, loyal, and so much more than he thinks he is.
Superhero.
Question. Answer.
“You show up, you try to win, and sometimes you lose. That’s just the way it goes. We all know the risks, but we all dream about the reward. If you want to win, if you want to be world champs, you have to play in the game and be at peace with the possibility of losing. I mean, yeah, no one wants to lose, but we’d rather play than not.”
Question. Answer.
“Yeah, there were opportunities, we just never got control of the game. It wasn’t played how we like to play, wasn’t on our terms. Today it was on theirs. It was their day.”
Question. Answer.
“In the first half, we did move the ball, but we didn’t have a lot of points, and ultimately, as you know, points win the game.”
Question. Frown. Scowl. Red-tinted cheeks. Answer.
“Jinx? You know, that word has been tossed around a lot over the last couple of weeks, and, guys, I’ve got to tell you, I don’t like it. We’re here to talk about football, not some perceived supernatural ill-intended spell my girlfriend supposedly cast over me. We all know there’s zero truth to it, and quite frankly, the consistent negative chatter about someone I love—it doesn’t sit well. Show some respect for our families and loved ones. This job is hard enough on them as it is.”
Oh my God.
The question was about me, and he didn’t like it. Not at all.
A silence falls over the reporters and across the other people in this waiting room. A few turn and look at me, some stare openly, and others offer up sympathetic smiles. I should acknowledge them, smile back, nod, or something, but I can’t. Instead, I rememorize every detail of his face as sparks are firing in my head, tripping over him using the words girlfriend and love.
Am I still his girlfriend? I hope so. I want to be.
Does he love me? I hope so. I sure love him.
Never dropping his head, jaw clenched, he takes the time to look everyone in the room in the eye, as if to definitively say, No more talk of jinxes, and then he ends with his gaze on his coach. They communicate nonverbally then he leans into the microphone and says, “Last question.”
Swiss Bacon Bites
PEOPLE ARE EVERYWHERE, and everyone who is not a member of the team—those guys actually understand what I need right now—wants to talk to me. Only, I don’t want to talk, at all, to anyone. Well, maybe one someone.
“Great game.” I’ve heard it over and over for the last hour, but it wasn’t a great game.
We were fucking terrible.
I was terrible.
And now I’m having to deal with the repercussions of it.
I knew the interview questions were going to be hard, questions about our lack of focus on the offensive side, the loss of Jack, how I couldn’t gain control of the game, even Lexi. They asked about her effect on me and how it impacted today’s game. I was chewed up and spat out, and now I’m beyond tired, just completely over it.
Exiting the locker room after changing into my suit, I pass through the lines of security in the short hallway and enter the family waiting room. If there we
re a way to bypass it, I would, but there isn’t. Inside, there aren’t a lot of chairs, but there are a lot of people—way too many people. You can tell some have been here for a while, and the staff has even set up snacks against the back wall. It smells like seafood, specifically crab cakes, and my stomach growls. It’s unfathomable to me that I could be hungry at a time like this, but somehow I am.
Looking around the room, it’s amazing how different it is today than it was two weeks ago. The voices are muted, whereas last week they were loud, and the air is thick with sadness and anxiety—anxiety I caused. Family members hate to see their loved ones sad, but then again, that’s something I wouldn’t really know much about.
My eyes catch on Billy and Reid, who finished up showering and dressing before me, and both are being hugged by their wives. The sight of them being able to share this moment with someone else, someone just for them . . . it makes me feel more alone than I ever have in my entire life. I lost it all. I lost the season, lost the game that was meant to be mine, but most of all, I lost her.
All around me there are hushed conversations. I hate it. I hate this. I just need to get to the bus, get to the hotel, and then get home, where I need to figure out how to grovel, on my knees, begging for forgiveness.
I am such an idiot.
Why did I believe she was a distraction? Why did I let outside influences sway me into believing she was? Yes, I thought about her nonstop when before I only thought about the game, but thinking about her brought joy to my life, a joy I never had—a joy I never thought I deserved.
Keeping my gaze on the ground, I briefly glance up as I weave past different people, my only goal being to get to the door, and then my eyes catch on a teal shirt, blonde hair, and a Tarpons ball cap. At first it doesn’t register that it’s her, just a known recognition, and then my brain catches up with my eyes. I’m so shocked to see her, I pause mid-step, and the lineman behind me runs into me, causing me to stumble.
“Sorry, man,” he says, patting me on the shoulder and moving around me, only I can’t take my eyes off her.
She doesn’t move, and neither do I. She looks like a deer caught in headlights, not that I can blame her.
My heart starts racing, blood roars through my ears, and a lump forms in my throat.
I can’t believe she’s here. In Seattle. For me.
I didn’t know she was here. In fact, I would have bet everything I own she wouldn’t come after the way I talked to her, yet here she is, and I’m torn in half from feeling such a proud sense of relief and a deep shame at the same time.
Slowly, I make my way over and soak in every beautiful detail of her. Her hair is down underneath the hat and curled on the ends; she’s wearing a fitted jersey with my number—my number—on the front, jeans, and tall boots; and there’s a backpack strapped to her back. Her eyes are nervous, and I understand why, but she doesn’t realize seeing her is like being able to breathe for the first time in days. She is air, she is water, she is life . . . she is everything I need.
When I stop in front of her, she raises her face to look at me as I lower my forehead to hers and gently reach for her hand.
My eyes slip shut, and as time passes, her love sweeps over me in palpable waves, surrounding us, giving me strength, and the simple touch of her fingers slightly soothes the ever-present ache in the middle of my chest.
“Hey, Bryan,” she finally whispers, and my eyes blink open. Pale green stares back at me. She’s not smiling, the tension in her gaze saying she understands that right now I feel utterly and completely broken, only it isn’t just from the game. It’s from the way I left things between us as well.
In my mind, I respond, Hey, you, but physically, I can’t. I just reach for her, pull her close, and bury my face where her neck meets her shoulder. She smells like sugar and vanilla, she smells like home, and I shudder as I breathe her in. We stand together, clinging to each other in the middle of the crowded room.
Nonstop for the past two weeks, people have been patting me on the back, clapping me on the shoulder, and rubbing my head, but suddenly, it’s all stopped. No more, “Good luck,” and for now, no more, “Tough loss.” They’re giving me this moment. They know I need this, and after everything I said to try to push her away, I’m so grateful she knows I need her too.
I hug her tighter and fight the tears burning the backs of my eyes. Thank God the press isn’t allowed in here. I’m certain they’d be having a field day with this type of affectionate reaction from me.
Then again, I don’t care. Let them all see me love on her. She hasn’t jinxed me, she’s saved me, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make them understand this.
Pulling back, I wrap my hands around the sides of her face and press my lips to hers. It’s a little bit of a kiss and a lot of just needing a connection to her.
“I’m sorry,” I croak out, my words just barely audible. Her hands, which haven’t left me, slide up from under my suit jacket to my face and squeeze.
“Not here, not now.” She shakes her head, speaking so quietly I almost don’t hear her.
I nod, unable to speak, but keep my forehead pressed to hers. She’s right; if we do this here, I damn well may start bawling, and that’s the last thing I want anyone to see. Disappointment, of course—let it shine. That’s expected, but seeing me ripped open because of my own stupidity and grief . . . well, that needs to be for her and her alone.
“I know. I just . . . I couldn’t wait one more second to tell you that. I’m so sorry.”
Pushing up on her tiptoes, she silences me with her lips, lips that are so soft, so delicious, and so mine.
I’ve always thought in order to be happy, truly happy, I’d have to be perfect at everything I do. I thought if I won the big game, I’d finally be good enough to have things in my life that make me happy. I’d deserve them, would deserve Lexi, but I didn’t win. I’m not perfect, and I’ll never be perfect. I’m starting to realize it doesn’t matter if I win every game for the rest of my life. I’m still just a guy who’s trying to make a difference and be someone.
The simple fact is, I’ve spent ten years trying to be good enough for her when I already am. She knew me then, and she knows me now. Winning today’s game wouldn’t have changed her opinion of me. It might have changed my opinion of myself, but it is what it is, and I know she loves me just for me, win or lose.
Taking half a step back, I straighten and let out a loud, audible sigh. Her hands drop to the lapels of my winter coat, and she moves them down, running her palms across my chest. She studies my face, and as I stare down at her, instead of masking it all, I let her see everything. Her lips roll in between her teeth and she bites them from the inside. She sucks in air through her nose, and her eyes turn watery. She’s fighting it, just like I am, not only for herself, but for the pain she sees in me.
“You came,” I acknowledge, the reverence and thankfulness clear in my tone.
The right side of her mouth tips up just a tiny bit and she blinks. “I promised you I would.”
She did, almost eleven years ago. With that, my heart cracks, a single tear I can’t hold back escapes, and I run my hand over my face to wipe it away. It’s time to get out of here and away from all these people. Reaching for her hand, I tangle our fingers together, and there’s no way I’m letting go.
“The team has extra buses lined up outside to transport the players and their families back to the hotel. Are you staying at our hotel?”
“No.”
“Oh.” My stomach free-falls. “Where are you staying?”
She breaks eye contact and looks to the side before bringing them back to me as we walk down the hallway. There’s worry there, a different worry than just a few seconds ago. Does she think I don’t want her to stay with me? Because I do, but I guess I can see how, leading up to this conversation, she wasn’t sure.
“I’m not,” she answers.
“What do you mean?” I look at her.
She shrugs her shoulders, a
nd her backpack bounces. “I landed and came straight here. I didn’t really give it much thought.”
“Oh, well then you’re staying with me. Jack—” I pause as my voice cracks on his name. I can’t think about him right now or I’ll lose it for a whole different reason.
She squeezes my hand and nods. “I know. He’s on his way back to Tampa.”
I drop my head.
“Don’t worry, Meg is with him.”
“What?” My eyes shoot to hers, and I stop walking. “Meg came with you?”
“You left me two tickets.” She smiles and moves out of the way of others trying to get by.
“I did. I’m glad she came. If I had known you were coming, I would have worried if you were by yourself.”
I left those tickets with Camille knowing that was the best possible chance of getting them into Lexi’s hands. Camille is persistent when she wants something.
“Well, that would have been silly. I’m a big girl—I can take care of myself.”
“I know, but you’re my girl, and that changes things.”
My girl.
Her eyes brighten; she likes the sound of that.
Stepping closer, she wraps her arms around me and lays her head on my chest. I can feel each fingertip as they press into my back through my dress shirt, and I wonder if she can feel the heat pouring off me under these coats.
“So, you’ll stay with me?” I ask, leaving the ball in her court. She pulls back, and the wariness that was present before is now gone.
“Actually, Camille’s grandfather’s plane is here. She and Reid invited us to fly back with them tonight if we want to go. I was planning on it.”
Last Slice of Pie (Starving for Southern Book 2) Page 21