Sawyer
When I was a kid,I used to lie awake at night replaying this exact moment in my head like a movie. Super Bowl. Packed stadium. National anthem playing. Me on the field, wearing some random number that felt impossibly cool at the time. I didn’t know what team I’d be on or what city I’d represent; I just knew I wanted to be there one day.
Back then, it was simple. Win the game, make people proud. Easy-peasy.
Now, it was loud, bright, blindingly massive, and somehow still not the thing I was thinking about.
The second the anthem started, I looked up at the suite where Ellie was supposed to be. Everything else, every cheer, every flashing light, every ounce of childhood wonder I’d stored up for this day, went quiet.
She wasn’t there. My family was; I spotted them instantly. Everyone except Colt, who couldn’t get the time off a case to come. They were all up there to support me, but Ellie’s absence left a hole in my stomach.
Was she late? Stuck somewhere? Had she just…decided not to come?
I didn’t know, and I didn’t have time to spiral, not with the whole damn world watching.
I turned back to the field, helmet in hand, heart nowhere it was supposed to be, and told myself the same thing I’d said a thousand times since I started playing this game.
Show up. Play hard. Don’t screw it up.
The other team won the coin toss. I was grateful for those extra minutes before our offense took the field. I needed a moment to clear my head and remind myself why I was here: to play the game, not to think about anything else.
Even as I focused on the field, my mind kept drifting.
Bronx was out there like a damn tank, holding the line. The other team wasn’t making it easy. Every time they pushed forward, they came that much closer to breaking through. A couple of quick passes slipped past our defense, but we got it back. Turnover after turnover, the tension in the stadium was intense.
When it was finally my turn to take the field, I tried to slip into the zone. Coach’s voice echoed in my head—the plays, the assignments, every muscle memory I’d drilled in over the years. I knew what to do. I was ready.
But West wasn’t himself, and I wasn’t either. The first few throws were rough: balls too wide, too far, pockets collapsing faster than usual. You could see the frustration building in his jaw, the tightness in his shoulders.
We fought our way down, grinding inch by inch, and finally got close enough for the field goal. Three points. Not enough, but points, nonetheless.
Back on the sidelines, I kept stealing glances toward the suite. My family was loud and alive, but there was still no Ellie.
It felt off, but I didn’t have my phone. I had no way to check if she’d tried to reach me, so I shoved the worry down deep. No distractions, not now.
The next quarter moved in a haze of hits and blocks, every yard a battle. I was on autopilot on the field, blocking, pushing, protecting West as best I could. The scoreboard flicked back and forth, neither side pulling far ahead.
When halftime came, the three-point deficit felt heavier than the numbers said. Once we were back in the locker room, it felt so much different than being behind at halftime during any other game. It was silent except for heavy breaths and the low murmur of the guys trying to regroup.
West ran a hand through his hair, muttering curses under his breath.
Bronx came up beside him, steady as ever. “You good?”
“Yeah.” West sighed. “I just can’t seem to get a clean pass. Feels like I’m throwing bricks out there.”
“We’re only down three,” I said. “There’s time.”
Music from the halftime show seeped in through the walls.
Bronx looked over at me next. “You okay? You’re playing well, but you seem…off.”
I shook my head. “All good.”
He didn’t buy it, narrowing his eyes like he could see right through me. “Sure?”
I nodded, even though I definitely wasn’t sure.
“Ellie here?” West finally asked.
