Page 62 of Faking Ties

“Bye,” she whispers.

I wait for her to hang up, not wanting to cut the connection a second before I have to. Sunday can’t come fast enough.

I keep glancingat the jumbotron, waiting for the cameras to pan to the VIP suite and show Elodie. But she’s still not there. The game’s supposed to start in ten minutes, and I’ve been half-assing my warmup, not able to get into the zone.

Why isn’t Elodie here yet? She said she’d make it, but the game’s about to start and she’s nowhere to be found. Maybe she’s stuck in traffic? Or hurt? Latching on tothatidea, my brain provides me with all the worst-case scenarios possible. An unsettling feeling creeps through me at the thought of her in trouble. We’ve spent the past days talking for hours and getting to know each other as Elodie and Hunter.

And one thing is clear—the woman I fell for is Elodie.

It’s a relief to know I didn’t imagine the connection between us. That she’s the same woman who’s hilarious, kind, and supportive. Elodie was right—who she was when we were together was really her and not some version of Stella she tried to be. But now I’m not sure what to do about that. We haven’t had any conversations about making this real.

During the national anthem, they finally pan to Elodie. She’s wearing a dark green, slouchy jacket, black shorts, and a white shirt. She looks fucking fantastic, and the knot in my stomach loosens now that she’s here.

Offense takes the ball, and we come out fired up, chewing up yards like a runaway truck. First down, second down, third and short. It’s almost easy. We're a piston-firing machine, pushing the D back with every snap. When we get closer to the end zone, I see my chance.

My world narrows to a blur of white jerseys from the opposing team. Two of them converge on me like ravenous wolves, and I push myself harder. My lungs are on fire, every breath a shallow gasp that does nothing to tame the frantic hammering of my heart. This is it. Our first chance to score.

My defender, a mountain of a man, shadows me with a tenacity that's both infuriating and admirable. He shoves, trying to throw me off course. But no wayin hell am I letting anyone steal this from me. Not with Elodie in the stands cheering me on. Not when I promised we wouldn’t lose today.

Jake uncorks the throw a split second earlier than usual. It throws off my timing a hair, and my fingertips brush the leather for a fleeting moment. Despair threatens, but then, instinct takes over.

With a twist and a surge of adrenaline, I contort my body mid-air. It's a gamble, a Hail Mary fueled by pure fucking determination. The world tilts on its axis, muscles screaming in protest. My fingertips meet cool leather again. This time, there's no letting go. I cradle the ball to my chest, a shield against the flailing arms that try to rip it away. My feet slam down in the end zone, a glorious, bone-jarring impact that sends a jolt through every fiber of my being.

Touchdown.

The stadium erupts. Jake and Quincy engulf me in a sweaty embrace. But I break free, ignoring the cheers and congratulations. I scan the suite. There she is. Elodie. At the window, cheering for me.

I point a triumphant finger towards her. The crowd roars its approval, but all I hear is the echo of my own pounding heart and the silent promise I make to her, to myself: this is just the beginning of something new between us. This touchdown, it's all for her. For the woman who’s shown up for me more than anyone else in my life.

The rest of the game passes in the same way. There’s something different about today. Maybe it’s because I’m playing for Elodie and myself and not Evren. Or maybe Jake’s team-building bullshit is working. Either way, we’re on fire and win 30–14.

I rush through my post-game interviews, not caring about them. I only get Elodie for a short time before she has to leave, and I don’t want to waste a single second of it away from her. The locker room is a blur of cheering and laughter. With practiced efficiency, I strip off my sweaty gear. My phone buzzes and I check it.

Dad: Finally, you pulled out a win. Took you long enough.

Me: Thanks.

Dad: Be sure to review the play from minutes nine and twenty-two. You were distracted and it showed. I told you dating Stella isn’t a good idea.

I frown,some of my excitement diminishing. Elodie’s the reason I played so well today. Anytime Dad mentions Stella, it’s to scold me and relate it back to my football career or performance. I scroll backthrough our last messages, and it’s all football related. I scroll back further, and it’s still only football related.

When was the last time he asked me about my personal life? When was the last time I asked him?

Me: Stella’s good for me, and I’m happy with her.

Dad: Someone like her is going to lose interest in you eventually and then you’ll be left without a career. Your performance is suffering while you’re with her.

Shovingmy phone into my pocket, I exit the locker room, searching for Elodie. I find her casually leaning against the wall, her security team a barrier between her and anyone around. Her eyes light up when she spots me and I jog to her, pulling her into a hug and twirling her in a circle.

“I’m so proud of you,” she says, giving me a quick kiss. Every time she says those words, they fill a hole I didn’t even know I had. One my mom made over the years every time she missed my games in favor of going to my brother’s baseball games. When my dad would attend my games, he’d yell at the coach and me the entire time. I don’t think he’s ever said he was proud ofme. Not when I was drafted, and definitely not after I won my first Super Bowl.

“Thank you,” I say, full of meaning. “Let’s get out of here?”

“I can’t wait to try that pie shop you mentioned.”

“You’re going to love it.” I slide my hand in hers and guide her down the hallway and to the exit.

Evren’s in the parking lot, unlocking his Bentley. “Good game,” he says when we pass him.

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