I took off my helmet and picked her up.
“You did it! You won!”
“I did, didn’t I?” I said. “Hey, can you…call Ellie? See if she’s okay?”
“Maybe something came up?” Dotty said.
“Congrats, son,” my dad said, patting my back. “Proud of you.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I smiled. “Noah and Dorian still up there?”
“Yeah, hard to make it down here with one working leg.” He chuckled. “He said he’d congratulate you after.”
I set Gracie down as Bronx came barreling toward me, yelling something in my ear about rings and glory and maybe immortality, I couldn’t tell. West was already mid-interview, gesturing like a cartoon character, helmet swinging from his hand.
A reporter shoved a mic at my chest. “Sawyer James—how does it feel?”
I blinked. “Uh…incredible. Really proud of the guys. Team effort.”
Did I sound like a coach? That felt coach-y. Whatever. I smiled for the camera. Gave a couple of high fives. Took aphoto with my family. Gave another quote that made no sense. Someone sprayed champagne in the air, and I accidentally caught it with my eyeball.
It was chaos. Beautiful, loud, head-spinning chaos. Everything I’d dreamed this would be.
Except something was missing.
No matter how many people were on the field, I couldn’t stop looking for one face. Just one. I scanned the sidelines, the tunnel, the stands. Nothing. No flash of Ellie’s hair, no goofy smile. Not even a grainy jumbotron shot.
If she’d made it, I would’ve known. Someone would’ve seen her. I wouldn’t still be searching.
Bronx was the first to notice the shift.
“Everything okay?” He dragged a towel across the back of his neck, breathing as if he’d arm-wrestled a god.
“Yeah. Yeah, totally. Just…gimme a sec.” I turned to walk off casually, like I wasn’t about to spiral.
“Wait—what for?” Bronx called after me.
“I just wanna check something.”
West jogged over, half-laughing, still soaked in Gatorade. “Dude, we just won the Super Bowl. Are you seriously gonna be the guy who checks his texts during the celebration?”
“I need to check on Ellie. I think something’s wrong.”
I really fucking hoped I was wrong.
Bronx stepped in front of me, blocking my path like he was a damn security gate. “James.”
“I need to check.”
He sighed. “Alright, fine. But if you’re not back in ten minutes, I’m telling the media you sobbed and tried to call your dog.”
“Joke’s on you,” I muttered, already moving. “I don’t have a dog.”
The tunnel was quiet, dim, and cold in a way the field wasn’t. There was just the thud of my cleats on concrete and the leftover smell of adrenaline and victory. I passed a couple of staffers cleaning up, nodded once, and didn’t stop.
The locker room was mostly empty. A few trainers spoke in low voices. Equipment was getting packed up. But it was like a different world in here. No music. No celebration. Just me and the nagging, itchy feeling in my chest.
I grabbed my phone from my locker and flipped it over.
