We run a few team drills, and then we head into the locker room.
And here I am with less than an hour until game time.
Coach Nash gives us a pregame pep talk. I meet with Coach Richards and my O-line.
We line up in the tunnel.
We run out onto the field to the loud cheers of a stadium ready for their starting quarterback to finally take the field.
The National Anthem is played. We win the coin toss and defer to the second half.
Adrenaline courses through me as I watch kickoff.
I glance up at the owner’s box, and I see her. Even from here. Even from this distance. It’s like a light is shining down on her, and I realize it is. She’s sitting in a seat in the sun, probably not on purpose, as it angles over her through a window on the opposite side of the stadium. It’ll move in a few minutes, and she won’t be in that beam of light, but somehow it feels perfect for the moment. She raises her hand in a little wave, and I take my right hand to brush off my left shoulder. I watch as her face seems to light up even more at the inside joke, and then I return my gaze to the field.
I keep it there for the remainder of the game. She’s here, and I know that. I acknowledged that. But I need to keep my focus where it belongs during the game, and that’s on the field.
The Eagles are forced to punt, and we take over at the twenty-three. I draw in a breath in my first regular season play at my new home stadium. I hear the chants.
Mav-er-ick! Mav-er-ick!
I’m fucking ready.
Jeff Tyler, the Aces’ center, snaps the ball to me, and I fall right back into my old rhythm. I drop back, scan the field, and execute the play Coach Nash just called. The ball sails into the arms of Asher Nash, who runs down the field to catch a few more yards before he’s taken down.
The crowd goes wild at our gain, and we line up again.
This is it. This is what’s in my blood. This is what I live for.
I feel more myself than I’ve felt in a long time—longer than the last time I was on the field. And I suspect it’s because a part of me that I’d written off forever has started to heal.
When my wife died, a part of me died along with her. But when I found out she’d been cheating on me…well, that was a cruel sort of pain I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. To be mourning someone, full of grief, and to learn she wasn’t at all who I thought she was made me feel like I lost her twice. I was mourning her death, and then I was also forced to mourn the fact that she didn’t love me enough to be honest with me. On top of that, I had to mourn an unborn child I thought was mine for a few days until I found out it wasn’t.
It made me feel like I was unlovable. That does things to a person. I didn’t even have her here to have it out with her. To yell at her that I hated her. That I felt broken and betrayed because of her. I yelled at her ghost. I hated her memory. It’s when I was forced to shut off my emotions.
But Everleigh is tapping back into them. It’s still new, but I feel it on the field.
I soak every single emotion in as deeply as I can.
I feel the rush of adrenaline that I was missing for far too long. I feel the excited respect of my teammates as they slap my helmet to tell me my throw to Asher was perfect. I feel the nerves twisting through me as I play my first home gamewith the Aces. I feel the pressure to get this win, but I also feel the pride in my teammates, in our preparation, in our shared vision to win this game.
We pull out the win. Easily. Handily. Maybebecauseof those feelings.
I feel that unfamiliar tug on my mouth as my lips turn up into a bit of a smile when I walk into the press room after the game and the first question is fired at me. “How’d it feel to be back on the field?”
“It felt like I was right where I’m supposed to be.”
They ask more questions, and I think Everleigh will be proud of my answers.
I want her to be waiting for me outside the locker room when I exit, but she isn’t.
She shouldn’t. It’s not like I can rush up to her and take her in my arms and kiss her the way Dex is doing with his wife, or the way Asher is doing with his.
She’s not my wife. I’m not exactly sure what she is. My brand strategist. The woman I’ve slept with a few times. The woman I can’t stop thinking about. The woman some kid said I was the boyfriend of. The woman who made me call my mom.
I should call her again.
I’m riding a high after winning the game despite having nobody to greet me afterward, and I jump into my stupid silver and blue truck, pull up the number to my mom’s facility, and make the call as I back out of my space in the parking lot.
