Manny’s shoulders drop an inch. Just enough to notice if you’re watching for it.
“You screw this up,” he says, “I’ll be the one who walks you out.”
“That’s fair."
He steps aside.
Just like that, a path opens where there wasn’t one before.
“Go,” Manny says. “Fix it.”
My lungs finally remember how to work.
I nod once. Not a thank-you. A promise.
Crew members move around me like I’m invisible and in the way at the same time. Headsets crackle. Someone curses softly. I’m handed a mic pack.
A woman with a clipboard glances at me, then away, like eye contact is illegal. Another guy checks my mic pack twice, fingers brisk and careful, like he’s handling something that could explode.
“Thirty seconds,” someone calls.
My heart kicks hard against my ribs. Not fear. Not exactly.
It’s the same charge I get before kickoff. That sharp, humming readiness. The moment before the snap when the world narrows and all that exists is what you’re about to do.
Except this time, I can’t brute-force my way through it.
I stand just off the curtain, close enough to hear the crowd breathe. It’s a living thing out there. Forty thousand people, buzzing, waiting, unaware they’re about to become witnesses instead of spectators.
I roll my shoulders once. Flex my hands. They’re steady.
Good.
I’m not afraid of the cameras. I’ve been dissected in public before. Twisted. Lied about. Survived it.
What scares me is simpler.
Losing her again.
I picture Lila the way she looked the last time I saw her. Chin lifted. Eyes too bright. Holding herself together with sheer will.
She told the truth anyway.
Alone.
I close my eyes and practice the first line under my breath. The one that matters. The one that changes everything.
“I need to say something about my wife.”
The word lands differently than it used to.
Wife.
It doesn’t feel like paperwork. Or pressure. Or a role I’m trying to be worthy of. It feels like a choice. Like hope. Like the future leaning in, asking if I’m brave enough to meet it.
Someone touches my elbow. Manny. Close now. Solid. He doesn’t look at me, just toward the stage.
“She’s ready backstage,” he says. “But we’ll slow her up. The announcer will cue you.”
