I call her to ease the part of me who seemingly can’t function without her.
“I can’t sleep,” I groan.
“It’s understandable. Let’s try a breathing exercise. Breathe in for four seconds, hold for three, and exhale for seven. Do that a few times.”
The patience of this incredible woman makes me love her even more. She’s pure perfection. More than a man could ever dream of.
I try it and tiredness pulls me under. She doesn’t know but one day, I’ll make her my wife. First, I have to make her my girlfriend, my mind reminds me, but I ignore that pesky thought.
What happened to chasing my dreams? I don’t recognize myself these days. This perpetual waiting for something instead of making it happen is emasculating as fuck.
I channel allthe passive aggressiveness and pent-up frustration into determination. Nervous energy fills me up, eager to get my third ring. You come this far in the season; the final game is always bittersweet.
Your mind and body scream with exhaustion. With the last powers, sheer will and ego, you play, giving your all. Because the trophy, the glory, awaits you after a strenuous season.
Looking through the window on the way to the stadium, I see the streets filling with the crowd chanting. If we win, pandemonium will ensue. The streets will teem with fans who will celebrate the win throughout the night.
When the bus stops, I inhale a big gulp of air, steadying myself before stepping off and walking through the players’ entrance.
There is a somberness, but also excitement, in the atmosphere as I enter the locker room. From the team owner to the staff, my teammates, and coaches, all are here, crammed together.
As the game approaches, I change into my uniform, then I plop on the bench, my helmet and mouthguard lying by my side.
Putting my headphones on, I tune out the world. Every player has their own rituals. Some chatter their nerves away, some pray, and some listen to music. I have noise-canceling headphones and do breathing exercises to anchor myself.
My phone pings with two messages, one from Levi and the other from Lilly. I read hers first. It’s a pic of her, Kat, and her fiancé in the suite, lounging with glasses of champagne.
I’m celebrating the win early.
A smile tugs at my lips, and I reply.
So now it’s a must-win situation?
You’re already a winner.
I open the message from Levi next.
Hey man, good luck tonight. Show them what you’re made of. I’ll call you after the game. Pick up this time, asshole.
Emotions knot my stomach, and I reply.
Thanks. Will do.
Before I place my phone in my locker, another message comes through.
Good luck, big brother. I’m proud of you. You’re my champion.
Is everyone on a damn mission to make me emotional today?
One after the other, my teammates strut out, heads high, shoulders rolled back, helmets slid over our faces. Cheers boom in the air, deafening us as we run onto the field. Nothing compares to the spectacle of the Super Bowl.
When the game starts, I focus solely on playing my best. Their defense is strong and Deacon, my wide receiver, gets tackled constantly.
We’re down one touchdown at halftime. While Coach gives interviews, I stand up and say to my teammates, “Hey, look at me.” When I have their attention, I add, “Stand up.”
We slide our arms around each other. “We still have half a game to play. Stop sulking and let’s go out there and rule that motherfucking field. Now, let me hear you say we’re the winners.”
A ruckus erupts and when Coach Parker strides inside, he blinks at us, taken aback at our stance.
