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Drake

W hen the team offered me extra box seats for Sunday’s first game of the season, I knew exactly what I wanted to do with them. I mean, yeah, Lyla told me I can’t just throw money at a situation to fix it—but technically, this isn’t money . It’s . . . generosity. With flair.

I had one of the PR girls, Courtney, put together some little gift boxes with Dolphins jerseys and the tickets inside for some of the staff and kids at Play It Forward. I dropped them off when I went in on Thursday.

One of those boxes? Has Lyla’s name on it. Did I make sure it had my jersey inside? Obviously.

Subtle? No.

Effective? We’ll see.

I don’t know if she’ll show up, let alone wear the jersey. But it’s worth the risk.

I mention the game to LJ during our mentoring session this week. He grunts. Which, honestly, is the most enthusiastic thing he’s said to me since week one. That kid is harder to crack than a Belichick defense in a blizzard.

Still, I’m doing what Lyla said—showing up, being consistent, trying not to be the human embodiment of a red flag. I’ll be more shocked if LJ shows than if Lyla does. But man . . . if she does? And if she’s wearing that jersey?

Yeah, I’m not thinking about it.

Fourth and twelve. Two minutes left. We’re down by ten.

I flex my fingers as I wait for the snap. The crowd is roaring, but not in a way that makes your chest swell. This is the kind of noise that stings. The kind that sounds like disappointment.

The Play It Forward crew is watching from the owner’s box. Before the game, Courtney from the front office had sent me a picture of a couple of the younger kids in the box seats, faces painted in teal and orange, holding signs they probably spent hours making. One said, “In Blythe We Trust.”

That one hit me right in the chest. Now it feels like a punch to the gut.

I just hope they’re too young to be able to read the scoreboard.

I call for the hike and the ball is snapped. I drop back, feeling the rush collapse the pocket, and scramble left. My receiver hesitates, then cuts too late. I throw anyway and it stinks of desperation. The ball sails. Overthrown. Again.

The crowd groans, echoing my inner turmoil as I stalk to the sideline.

Coach doesn’t even look at me as we switch out for our defense. I sit on the bench, helmet still on, and stare at the field.

This was supposed to be my moment. My comeback. The game where I proved I’m not just some reckless has-been with a second chance and a good PR team.

But I played like the guy I swore I’d stopped being. Reckless. Stubborn. Forgettable.

My eyes flick up to the owner’s box.

Earlier today, I hoped Lyla would be watching. Hoped she’d be up there, smiling in my jersey.

Right now?

I hope she didn’t come at all.