I was beginning to notice that it was easier forherto see me as a jerk than to view me as a decent guy. The only reason I willingly played the jerk role occasionally was because her being mad at me helped. The more she didn't like me, the better it would be for the both of us.
"Well, try harder," she said, bluntly.
"Yes, ma'am," I said in mock seriousness.
She shook her head and continued typing. "Okay, one last question and then we can be done."
We were done already? I'd hoped this interview would be longer, that I could drag it out as long as possible. The coffee shop had helped a little, but the whole other women conversation had put a real damper on things. We had been doing so well. We'd been talking, almost like we were friends. I needed to think of a way to get us back on good terms.
"Do you have any game-day rituals, or do you have any superstitions about certain things you need to do before a game?" she asked, oblivious to my inner floundering.
"Um," I said, trying to focus on her question and not on how she'd be walking out that door soon with no intention of talking to me again. "The night before, I eat a carb-heavy meal and go to bed early. Pregame, I chew bubble gum while I'm getting dressed and taped, and post-game I call my family."
Her fingers flew across the keys, and I waited for her to be done.
"All right, we're all finished. I got everything I needed," she said, avoiding eye contact and putting her laptop away.
"Wait," I said, hoping my voice didn't sound as desperate as I felt. "I still get to ask you a couple questions for the last few you asked me."
She looked at me for a few seconds and must have seen the pleading in my eyes. Yes, it might have been pathetic, but I wanted more time with her. She let out a sigh and said, "Okay, fine."
"How did you fall in love with sports?" I asked. I remembered her telling me when we'd talked at the bonfire last year about how she wanted to be a sports broadcaster, but we never got around to talking about where her love for sports came from.
A sad smile was now on her lips. "My daddy," she said, her Southern accent coming out strong. "Like I've told you before," she said, referencing our past, "I'm an only child—or Iwasan only child—and I guess my dad wanted someone to talk sports with and go with him to games, so it became our thing. It helped that I genuinely liked it too, but sports was how we really got close. We'd talk about the games for sure, but we'd also talk about life while watching too. We'd talk on the drives to Atlanta to see the Falcons, the Braves, the Hawks. My dad has a ton of Georgia pride, so we went to a lot of professional games, but football was always our favorite. We had season tickets, and after every game, we'd both come home with raspy voices from yelling so much."
The sadness left her face, and only joy from the memories remained. I liked seeing her like this, open and happy. Unfortunately, those two things weren't common when she was around me.
"Season tickets?" I asked, flabbergasted. I couldn't imagine getting to have season tickets for an NFL team. Even if I hadn't grown up poor, that was still a whole other level that I couldn't fathom.
She gave a little laugh, almost as if she were embarrassed. "Yeah, uh, my dad is a very wealthy man."
"You don't say."
"It definitely has its perks, especially in the sports world," she said a little sheepishly. "I've even been to The Masters Tournament in Augusta a few times."
My eyes widened, and I was sure I looked like a deer in headlights. "Are you serious? That's the biggest golf tournament in the country."
Her smile grew at my excitement. "I know, and it's incredible, and oh, so beautiful."
"Aren't tickets hard to get?"
"Yes, but my dad knows a lot of people, the right people, so we got to go every so often," she explained. "The only sporting event that's even harder to get tickets to than The Masters is the Super Bowl. And no, I haven't been to the Super Bowl before. That would be a dream come true."
"Tell me about it," I said, both of us lost in our own Super Bowl dreams.
"You're good enough to play in the Super Bowl one day, you know," she said, her voice soft. "If you get drafted onto the right team, it could happen."
My heart swelled at her compliment. A lot of girls had told me I was good at football, but it was different coming from Scarlet. She knew sports, she knew football, so to hear her say that meant a lot to me.
"You really think so?" I asked, still not believing her words.
"I really do," she said, so sincerely that I couldn't help the goofy smile I was sure was now on my face.
"Well, thank you for saying that, but I don't even know if I'll be drafted at all, let alone on a good enough team to get to the Super Bowl," I said. "First I need to get through college with a lot more wins under my belt."
"With you, Wilder, and Slate on the team," she said, "you guys should be fine. Especially how you and Wilder play together. You don't see that very often, and scouts will start to notice."
"I hope you're right." I slowly spun the coffee cup in front of me. "Then maybe one day I can have a daughter who I talk sports with and can come watch me play in the NFL."
