Page 21 of Playbook
I’ve only been to one other game, several years ago with Chris. Our seats were so high up. This is a completely different experience. Like Alec, he’s a big fan. He’d be so jealous of me right now.
“There he is.” Alec nudges me.
Since I’d been thinking of Chris, that’s who I’m looking for, but instead it’s Brogan Six I find.
My face grows warm as I stare at him. He jogs off the field with his helmet dangling from one hand. He’s not smiling like he was at the club. Instead he has a serious, almost stoic expression. He’s still the hottest person I’ve seen in real life.
Brogan turns, giving us his back. I smirk when I see his name and number. Six is number six. Cute.
My nerves settle by halftime. I stop worrying about being spotted, though I’m not sure why I was worried in the first place. Not once has Brogan looked up in the crowd for me. He gave me the tickets as an apology, and I accepted. Nothing else needs to transpire between us. We are even.
Though, admittedly, I am enjoying his letters and might even miss them. He’s funny and a little self-deprecating, and there’s just something about receiving a handwritten letter. I might need to get a pen pal. Do people still do that? Probably not twenty-four-year-old women.
Not quite as exciting for him, I’d imagine, since he receives approximately one million a day.
Alec keeps me updated on the game. I know the basics, as in a touchdown is worth six points and a field goal is worth three, but the yardage and whether or not a play is good is harder for me to grasp.
I eat my weight in buttery popcorn and then wash it down with too many beers. In the last minute of the game, I’m buzzed and happy and into it with the crowd as the Mavericks try to take back the lead. They’re down by three points, lined up at the sixty-yard line on a third down. I continue to be bad at keeping track of the downs, but Alec is currently whispering, “Third down, boys, come on.”
We all get to our feet as the ball is snapped. The quarterback surveys the field. My eye is drawn to Brogan. During the course of the game, I’ve learned that he is a tight end. He runs, pushes people around, and tries to get open for the ball and some other things that Alec said, but I stopped listening after he started going on about how it’s an important position with a lot of responsibility.
When I find him, he’s down the field with defenders in front and back of him. I glance away to see if anyone else is open, but the other team is doing a good job on defense—something I also got from Alec.
The crowd gasps when the quarterback gets rushed and is forced to throw a long pass down the field. Then everyone goes quiet as the ball sails toward Brogan.
“That’s the game,” some guy in front of us says and then groans. He takes off his Mavericks hat and whips it down to his side as he starts for the aisle.
Brogan jumps into the air, both of the defenders do the same, but the Mavericks rookie’s hands reach just above theirs, and somehow he comes down with the ball.
He’s hit on either side and the three of them crash to the ground in a tangle of limbs, but when the referee raises both hands indicating a touchdown, the stadium goes nuts.
“Holy shit!” Alec yells, jumping. He turns to me, then quickly back to the field.
Brogan stands with the ball and then does a backflip in celebration. His teammates run to him, and all the while Mavericks fans are still screaming their heads off. Me and Alec included.
It feels like it takes us forever to get out of the stadium. My beer buzz is nearly gone by the time the Uber pulls up to our apartment.
Alec downs Advil and a glass of water before heading to bed. I have no idea how he manages on so little sleep. He has to be at the station by four for hair and makeup.
I should go to sleep too, but I’m too wired. After I wash my face and brush my teeth, I sit down on my bed with my laptop. My ears still ring from the noise of the game. I check email, then scroll through reels for a while. Eventually though, I’m too antsy to even sit still.
I get up and go to my desk. The letters from Brogan are stacked next to my laptop. I pick up one and reread it. Then do the same with the others. Writing letters is an intimate thing. Even when you don’t exchange any personal information, it still tells you so much about the person. Like, he’s considerate and cares about his young fans. He’s witty, and I like his sense of humor. Writing to him, I let myself get caught up in the fun. I got caught up inhim. But he’s a professional athlete with literally thousands, if not millions, of fans.
I wonder if he knew I was there. Can he check that the tickets were used? I roll my bottom lip behind my teeth as I think.
It would be rude not to at least let him know I accepted his apology tickets. Grabbing my phone, I type in his number and save it to my contacts. I have Brogan Six’s number. It sends a little rush through me even if I never plan to use it again.
Me
Thank you for the tickets. We are now officially 100% even.
It was a great game. Nice catch.
I hit send, then reconsider everything I wrote. Nice catch? Is that what you’re supposed to say to someone when they get a touchdown? I have no clue. Oh shit, I realize he doesn’t have my number.
Me
It’s London by the way.
