Page 10

You find out the night before the first game of the season that Sterling is going to be there.

Well, he asks you if he can. It’s kind of funny, because you know by now that the plans have already been put in place for Sterling’s security team to clear the box, and for the tickets to be allocated for extra guests.

But he still asks your permission, tentative in the way you both still are around each other.

Tiptoeing. Reaching, shyly, for things on the other side of the table.

He’s just gotten off-stage in New Jersey and is in the back of the car driving to his apartment in Manhattan.

The shadows play over his features, and every so often the streetlights afford you a glimpse of his blue eyes.

Lots of the guys on the team have pre-game rituals.

It’s a football thing, not just a Cyclones one.

Lucky underwear, special meals. You heard about one dude from Jacksonville who liked a trainer to slap him across the face as hard as they could before he hit the field.

Some guys refuse to have sex the night before a game; other guys insist that draining their balls is the key to a clear mind .

You don’t have a ritual, per se, but you are almost always alone the night before you play.

There’s no sequence that you follow to get in the zone, but you go through some guided imagery as you eat and relax.

Picture the heat of the sun, the cheers of the crowd.

Smell the grass. You picture knocking guys over like they weigh nothing.

Creating a clear path to the quarterback.

Actual football is noisy, messy, and chaotic.

In your mind, it’s Zen. Your feet don’t touch the ground.

No listening acutely for the other team’s audibles.

No pressure. You go to that place in your mind, and you stay there for the night.

When you wake up in the morning, you are ready to go.

That isn’t happening tonight. You’re sprawled on your bed in your gym shorts and a tank, the fan spinning lazily overhead. No lights on, just the TV’s menu scrolling on mute. Sterling’s leaning his head against the dark glass of the backseat. You imagine how his cheek would feel cool against it.

“I’ve never been to an NFA game,” he offers sleepily.

“You got anything gold and green?” you ask.

He laughs. “I’ll figure something out.”

“You coming by yourself?”

“I don’t do anything by myself.” There’s a note of wistfulness in his voice. “But no, not just my security detail. Noemi is going to be there. Maybe a couple of other people. They told me I could have four tickets, not including Cal and Eric.”

“Is that his name?”

“Who?”

“The absolute unit of a human who isn’t Cal. The slightly less-scary one.”

A smile splits Sterling’s face. “Yeah, that’s Eric. You think Cal is scary? I mean, that’s his job, I guess. He’s my head of security. But he’s a big sweetheart.”

“I’m not used to the sight of men who look like they could split me in half. I’m not exactly a small guy.”

His voice is gently mocking. “Understatement of the century. I don’t think Cal ever played ball when he was younger. Bad neighborhood, or something. You should ask him about it some time.”

“That might take mustering up some courage.”

“Nah. He likes you, I think. He asked me about you the other day.”

“Yeah?” You are dubious.

“Uh-huh. Don’t think he likes you as much as I do, though.”

You’re glad it’s dark in the bedroom, because you might be blushing a little. Probably not. But maybe .

“Will I get to see you after the game?”

“I was hoping so.”

In that exact moment, your plans slot into place. You mentally change several aspects of your day. You aren’t picturing the field, but there’s that feeling: flying. Not touching the ground.

“It’s a date, then.”

***

@stersbbygrl325: ZOOOOMMMG #GRAYLINGS this is not a drill!!!! Guess who just got spotted entering the stadium for the Cyclones game??? Can anyone ELI5 how football works??? #STERMERGENCY

***

The first Sunday after Labor Day is picture-perfect.

Humid as hell, but otherwise ideal for football.

The sky is a cloudless blue, and the new grass on the field is such a vivid, fragrant green that you think somebody should bottle it.

You’re playing the Bombers, a divisional rival on a rebuild.

The Cyclones are heavily favored, but betting lines are another one of those things you never listen to.

You’re in the locker room bouncing on your toes like a kid before recess when someone tells you that Sterling is up in one of the boxes, and the crowd is going crazy.

You barely have time to think about it before you are called into the pre- game circle for prayers and pep talks, and then you are holding your helmet and running through the tunnel into the blast of hot sunlight, the fans screaming in your ears.

The Cyclone Girls are in formation with their boots and poms, their hair shining and makeup perfect.

There’s the National Anthem and the coin toss.

The Bombers win the toss and defer, so Sandy and the offense take the field.

You make your way to the sideline, and that’s when you see him.

Sterling is projected across the fan-cam.

He’s wearing a fancy-looking Cyclones jacket that’s either vintage or custom.

Underneath, he’s got a blousy white shirt unbuttoned low, and jeans tight enough that they look like they were slicked on.

There’s a 99 adorning his cheek in green paint.

He’s got his arm around the waist of a thin, sleek-looking brunette who has his same exact jawline…

oh! That must be Noemi, his sister. Just to his left, leaning over a rail behind the glass and scanning the field intensely, is Gabrielle Rose.

The suite is full, what with it being opening day, and a bunch of the wives and girlfriends are in the box as well.

You wonder how many autographs Sterling has had to sign.

He looks laid-back and happy, though, sipping a mocktail and waving at the fans.

The harsh blast of a whistle breaks your concentration on Sterling.

A ref has just called a foul on New York for off-sides.

Somehow, while you weren’t watching, Sandy and the O-line have marched down to the Bombers’ forty-yard line.

It was the second down, but the penalty gave you guys the few yards you needed for a first. The Cyclone Nation is going crazy.

The stadium is a sea of chanting, stomping gold and green.

The guys huddle, with Sandy pointing emphatically at the play sheet on his wristband. They line up.

The ball is snapped, and in Sandy’s hands.

The offense fans over the field, the Bombers’ defense in hot pursuit.

Sandy’s under pressure, but he’s calm. Serene, like there aren’t three enormous guys barreling down and trying to sack him.

His eyes scan the chaos. He pulls his arm back, unleashing a perfect spiral through the air and into the waiting arms of GoGo.

GoGo’s double-covered, but he jukes the defenders and takes off like his ass is on fire.

This is the part when the commentators mention that GoGo ran a 4.

31 in the 40-yard dash at the Combine. Nobody’s catching him.

He takes it to the house, and the crowd explodes. Six points go up on the scoreboard. Dettweiler, your kicker, knocks a perfect kick through the uprights, and the score is officially seven-zip. The clock is still at 13:37 in the first. Things are looking very, very good.

They stay good from there. The early score seems to have demoralized the Bombers, and they go three-and-out on their first possession, your squad holding them to only about six yards accumulated in bits and pieces.

The first half goes by quickly. A last-minute field goal by the Bombers saves the half from being a total blowout, but the score is still 24-3 as the clock clicks down to zero on the second quarter.

You’ve been trying not to stare at the box the entire time, but you’ve snuck some glances.

Sterling seems to be having an excellent time.

Each time you look, he’s chatting with another WAG, arms around waists, phones snapping selfies.

At one point, he hugs Jamie, and you smile around your mouth guard at the thought of how geeked she must be.

When the Cyclones score, Sterling goes nuts, jumping up and down.

There’s a touchdown where he seems to forget the fact that he’s holding a drink and laughs stupidly as he spills it on himself.

Noemi hangs back; you don’t see much of her.

Gabrielle seems to be watching the game intently, like she actually understands what is going on.

When you are running back into the tunnel at the half, you crane your head back and are lucky enough to catch Sterling’s eye. He blows you a kiss. You smile big, pantomime catching it like an enormous goober. Your heart is as light as a feather as you head back to the locker room.

Coach is smiling as he addresses the team, but warns you not to be complacent.

Week One jitters are common, he reminds you, and just because you guys don’t have them, it doesn’t mean the Bombers don’t.

They could very well get their shit together and readjust for the second half.

He gives each squad some brief individual notes, and then lets you all catch your breath.

You are slurping back measured slugs of Gatorade when you catch Dettweiler eyeing you from across the room. Initially, you look away, but his steady stare is compelling you to address him.

“Yo,” you call. “Everything good?”

Dettweiler comes over. Puts his hands on his hips. It’s not his fault that he’s a kicker and therefore a comparatively small guy, but you can’t help thinking that he looks like a chihuahua trying to imitate a pit bull.

“You guys should dial it back,” he says bluntly.