The sound of the stadium seeps into my bones, getting louder with each step I run out on the field. Zack and Tyson are on either side of me and the nervousness is fading into excitement. My shoulders feel lighter the further I make it on the field, which lets me lift my helmeted head a little taller. I could pass out or I could be completely fine–only time will tell.
I can’t lose the game.Overtime or win. A perfect scenario.
People—technically teammates—I don’t know are saying “Let’s go, Blair” or the more aggressive “kick it down their throats” as we line up. I go where I was told and take a deep breath, waiting for the whistle and focusing on where the ball is going to be held. How many steps over. Where I kick. Everything my older brothers taught me when I was a kid.
I tune out as much as I can, feeling my breath in my chest, and my heart racing like it’s got a marathon to run.
Breathe. In and out. In and out. Whistle. Snap. Approach. Kick.
And I fucking make it.
Six
Tyson
Havingthewomanofmy dreams make an extra point in an NFL game to win it was not on my bingo card today. Or maybe ever? But seeing it happen is going to make today impossible to beat.
You never know when your time is up as a professional athlete. One day, the sport is your main priority, and you sacrifice everything–your mind, body, and time–to perfect it. Many don’t get to make the call, an injury or team management does it for them. While I’ve started to honestly think about when this should be for me, or when it could happen, today is the type of game that makes me want to play forever.
The team went wild. Running to her and jumping up and down, all while the crowd was screaming, making the arena feel like it was alive. I even saw Coach jump in the air and I don’t know if anyone has seen him airborne in the last decade. When we got to the sidelines, Blair took her helmet off, and you could hear the confusion from the opposing teams’ fans and players.
With Blair's extra point, the Cosmos pulled out the win. Coach brought her into the locker room and made sure everyone kept clothed until she was out. He gave her the game ball and told her not to miss her media appointment, which, that part may have been a joke, but she did all of it like a champ. She shook hands, met people, sat with Zack during his press conference, which is an experience in itself, and would’ve stayed as long as they wanted or needed her.
I could see it coming. Her crash. She’d been overwhelmed and pumped with adrenaline all day and I texted Joey–who was still losing his shit–planning our exit.
Now, we’re at my apartment, eating takeout from four different restaurants—there’s a little bit of everything, just how Blair likes it. Joey couldn’t stay, needing to get back home to his pregnant wife, so the amount of food here is laughable.
“Did today really happen?” she asks while eating a forkful of caprese salad, a fried mozzarella stick in her other hand.
The same thought I’ve had more than once.
“You made history,” I answer, popping a fried pickle in my mouth. Not a big fried food guy during the season, but this is one night where there are no rules. “You were fucking incredible.”
“Stop. I’m going to get all hot again.” She fans her cheeks, the ones that have been perpetually pink all day.
The doorbell buzzes and my doorman says there’s a delivery. I meet him at the door and grab a bag—the one I knew was coming—and then he hands me a bottle of champagne with designer chocolates. I peek at the card and laugh when I see they’re from Zack. That fucking guy.
“Well, these are both for you. Zack and Emilie, his wife, sent you the champagne and chocolates,” I explain as I give her the card.
Blair beams as she reads–bubbly wine is definitely one of her favorite drinks. Maybe I should keep some here for when she’s around?
Handing her the other bag, I say, “This one is from me.”
She peeks in the bag and tips her head back with a groan. “My favorite pajamas. And leggings?” Blair looks down at her jeans and I can see the relief on her face. “How do you think of things like this?”
“When we were coming back, I knew you didn’t have anything to change into. Knew you’d want to be comfortable.”
She smiles at me in a slow way. Her eyes glisten, like she might cry, but even if she did, I know it’s from the combination of the snacks and the idea of changing into stretchy pants.
“Thank you,” Blair says, while peeling herself from the barstool to go change. “Feel free to open that bubbly for me.”
There’s a card with a sweet message from Emilie and Zack—also a jab about me probably not having flutes yet, but they would be right. I remove the foil and pop the top, grinning like an idiot when I think about the last few hours.
What a day.
I’m pouring the champagne into the expensive flutes—Zack does have great taste—as Blair walks out in the pajamas I had in my cart a few hours ago. I’ve probably seen her in every color or pattern imaginable.
Doesn’t make her any less gorgeous.
