Just careful. Like he’s carrying a glass of water in a crowd and refusing to spill a drop.
Which would be sweet if it didn’t also make me feel like the spill.
I move to the front of the box and place my palm against the glass. It’s cool. Solid. A barrier I can understand.
Down on the field, the players jog out and the noise climbs another level, like the crowd has been saving it.
Then I see him.
Cam in pads looks unreal. Bigger. Sharper. Like he belongs to a different category of human altogether. He moves with this effortless purpose, like the ground adjusts to him instead of the other way around.
The crowd roars his name and my chest does something stupidly tender.
My husband.
The word still feels like borrowed clothing. Pretty on the hanger. Strange when used.
Warmth swells anyway, bright and immediate, and I hate how easy it is to want.
I’m here to support him.
That’s what partners do. Even temporary ones. Even contracted ones.
I tell myself that twice, like repeating it will make it less complicated.
But the doubts curl tighter, keeping pace with my heartbeat.
What if the kiss scared him off? What if I imagined everything I felt? What if he meant it… less?
I watch him stretch, laugh with a teammate, adjust his gloves.
Normal things. Human things.
And yet I feel like an imposter in this world. Like at any moment someone will tap me on the shoulder and ask for proof that I belong here.
The announcer’s voice booms. The crowd rises.
Kickoff.
The ball sails through the air.
And I realize I’ve been holding my breath like the game is going to answer a question I’m too afraid to ask out loud.
I’ve seen him on screens before.
Highlights. Slow-motion replays. The kind of footage that turns men into myths.
Even my ex’s superfan level play-by-play couldn’t prepare me for this.
Cam moves onto the field. Purposeful. Controlled. Like every muscle knows its job and trusts the others to follow. He blocks with his whole body, absorbs the hit, then releases into open space with a speed that shouldn’t exist at his size.
The crowd explodes every time he touches the ball.
Every catch makes me sit forward. Every tackle makes my stomach drop. Every time he pushes himself up off the turf, I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath underwater.
I try to tell myself this is normal. That anyone would react this way watching someone they’re married to play.
That thought doesn’t help.
