Page 161 of It Happened on a Sunday
“Half a mile to the stadium, but then he’s got to get through the parking lot to the players’ entrance. I don’t think he’s going to make it by kickoff.”
“He’ll make it,” I say as Sly books it through the crowded streets like he’s heading for the end zone.
“He’s got to be exhausted,” Pauline says with obvious respect. “He hasn’t left your side in days.”
“He can sleep when he’s dead.” I wink at her. “Isn’t that what you always used to tell me?”
“Suck it up, buttercup,” she agrees with a grin.
“Look! He’s almost at the parking lot!” Bianca sounds like she’s about to start jumping up and down. Then, as the helicopter’s cameraman pans out, she continues. “Shit, that’s a big parkinglot.”
It’s areallybig parking lot, and even I start to have misgivings. But just as I see Sly booking it toward the stadium itself, one of the Lightning golf carts appears out of nowhere and stops in front of him.
“This is wild!” Bryan exclaims. “Even the Lightning security guards are rooting for him. This is the best PR ever.”
“We’re receiving word that Hunter Browning himself sent that cart for Mateo Sylvester,” one of the sportscasters on TV says. “Considering they’re on opposite sides of this game today, that’s a real classy move.”
“Hunter’s a real classy guy,” says the other commentator. “And the best usually want to go up against the best, not the backup.”
“Well, Browning and Sylvester are definitely two of our best,” the first guy says. “Two quarterbacks at very different phases of their careers—Sly’s just starting out, and Hunter is only a couple of years from retirement. But that isn’t going to matter today, because both of them are in their prime. We’re in for one heck of a game.”
“If Sly actually makes it,” the second commentator tells him.
“He’s going to make it!” This time it’s not just me. My entire hospital room chimes in with the first sportscaster.
Seconds later, the cart pulls up at the players’ entrance. Sly hops out and, after waving thanks to the driver, books it into the stadium.
The clock in the corner of the TV reads four minutes to kickoff. Once Sly’s in the building, they switch back to coverage of the field, where Marquis and a guy I don’t recognize are doing the coin toss along with two members of the Lightning.
The Twisters win the coin toss, and they’re just about to choose whether to receive the kickoff when Shania Twain’s “You’re Still the One” starts playing and everyone in the stadium turns to watch as Sly Sylvester races out of the tunnel and onto the field.Looks like Marquis came through again.
Cheers erupt from all sides of the stadium as the camera cuts back to Marquis, who is wearing a gigantic smile as he chooses to receive the kickoff.
Game fucking on—and this time, we’re both all in.
Chapter 71
Sly
Two weeks later—the Super Bowl
The second we get into the locker room at halftime, I reach for my phone to text Sloane. I know she’s fine. The last time I checked, she was up in a box happily watching the game with my entire family. That doesn’t mean I don’t still worry about her, though. It’s only been two weeks since she was near dead, and while she seemed good—if not a little jittery, I suppose on account of the big day—this morning, I haven’t quite moved past the trauma of believing she wouldn’t be.
I take several long swigs of water as I wait impatiently for her answer. But nothing comes through.
A new wave of unease crawls through me, but I tell myself it’s no big deal. Sure, there are a shit ton of people here today, but Sloane’s got a full security detail with her, not to mention my sisters and abuela. If something had happened to her, they’d be blowing up my phone by now.
It’s that thought more than any other that calms me down just in time for the coaches to come in and give their halftime talks. I put my phone away as I settle down to listen to what they’ve got to say. We’re currently tied at fourteen, so I’m up for any ideas they’ve got to help get us past the other team’s defense.
The talk wraps up right around when the halftime show kicks off. I can tell it’s started because the entire locker room is pulsing with the beat of a hit from the band Shaken Dirty, this year’s performers.
They’re one of my favorites, actually, but I ignore the music asBranson comes over to talk to me about a few adjustments he wants to make for the second half. I take note and add an idea of my own before settling back down on the bench to check my phone again.
Still nothing.
The quiet from her is louder than the music pounding through the walls. I try to ignore it as I fire off a text in the family group chat, just a quickEverything okay?I really don’t mean to nag, it’s just that every time I close my eyes, I see Sloane collapsing on that stage, and for a split second my heart tries to imagine a world without her in it. And what a fucking nightmare that is.
Shaken Dirty launches into their third song—a ballad this time—and Marquis flips on the huge TV in the corner. As their performance fills the room, I think Branson is going to object, but in the end he just goes back to talking to the defense. I guess even he can get in the festive spirit.
