Me: It’s not looking good.
42
PIPER
“We’re about six blocks out,”Officer Melton announces.
I have to give the guy credit. Despite the tension in the car, he’s remained cool and collected, chatting about his wife and kids.
Maybe he’s trying to ease the strain.
Impossible. There’s no de-escalating in this vehicle.
Every second that ticks by feels like an hour.
We’re never going to make it on time.
The sun has set and the team is probably already on the field warming up. Both Brady and Coach Walker look like they’re ready to climb out a window and make a run for it.
The crowds are insane, and it’s clear Wildcat Nation turned out to support the team, tickets be damned. Fans spill out of bars and restaurants and every parking lot we pass is full to bursting with tailgaters.
I can’t get over how many roads are closed. I’m no civil engineer, but wouldn’t it make more sense to have them all open to improve the flow of traffic?
Officer Melton’s radio crackles to life. “This is car five-seven-thee-two-alpha,” he says. “I’m doing a time-sensitive escort to Hard Rock Stadium. Can we get an assist with the road closures?”
He cites our location and direction and the radio goes silent. A few seconds later, a disembodied voice comes back with a set of instructions, and Officer Melton acknowledges.
“I can’t go lights and sirens,” he explains, “but if we can get around a few of these closures, I should be able to get y’all to the players’ entrance.”
I grab my phone and text Brady’s mom.
Me: Running late. So sorry. Be there soon.
I clench the phone in my hand, anxiety pressing down on my chest like a lead weight as I watch for her reply. Three little dots appear on the screen and I brace for impact.
Molly: No worries. We’ll be here waiting when you arrive. See you soon, dear.
That’s it. Just…see you soon.
Molly has no idea how close Brady came to being arrested or that he hasn’t reached the stadium, and yet she doesn’t point out I’m late as hell or berate me because she’s going to miss kickoff for the most important game of her son’s life.
A game she traveled one thousand miles to watch.
The woman has the patience of a saint.
Or maybe my thoughts have just been so poisoned by my toxic mother that I don’t know what good parenting looks like.
The realization stings, but that’s a problem for another day.
I glance over at Brady, and his knee is going a mile a minute.
He looks ridiculous crammed into the tiny cell on his side of the car, his large body pressed up against the plexiglass that separates us. It reminds me of the night we met, when he was smashed into the backseat of the tiny Uber.
We’ve come a long way since then.
The car makes a sharp turn and I look out to see a pair of uniformed officers moving a temporary roadblock. They swing the sawhorse around, letting Officer Melton pass before putting it back in place.
The road is clear, and he presses down on the accelerator for what feels like the first time on this entire drive. The engine roars and the car shoots forward.
