Page 84 of Playing the Field
Shielding my eyes from the sun with my hand, I stand in the box and watch the superfans do their thing. Jumping, singing, dancing, all coordinated by a few leaders at the front. They’re having a better time than most people have in a lifetime.
It makes me appreciate my job and the sport a tiny bit more every time.
The team boxes never disappoint. Plush seats, refrigerators filled with drinks and snacks, and a server clad in Devils gear standing by to bring more food or drinks. It’s quite the luxe setup, so I’m not surprised to see the WAGS, wives and girlfriends, one box over, chatting with drinks in hand.
Our box, reserved for team executives and their guests, is still empty, but that will change by the time the game starts. Wandering over to the fridge, I feel the nervous anticipation of seeing Hunter on the field. I also feel sad. The past few weeks without him have been lonely. I feel gutted like I’m missing an integral part of myself. I’m mad at Hunter for making me feel that way, but I love him for making me feel.
When I open the fridge, I’m startled to see it filled with bottles of Yoo-hoo. That’s right. The entire thing is dominated by bottles of chocolate milk, something I’ve never seen anywhere at this stadium.
“No, he didn’t…” I mumble, looking around the empty box and thinking about all the times Hunter managed to clear a room for us.
But when I lift the lid on the first tray of hot food, I know that, yes, he did. It’s an overflowing display of bar food—jalapeño poppers, potato skins, nachos, and tater tots.
Under the next lid, I find a plate of cookies. “I stress baked these for you,” reads a card on top. Next to the plate is a bowl offruit, with a note clipped to a sheaf of papers on top that reads, “Get your vitamins.”
I open the first card to find a simple note.
“I love you. I want to be with you. Please say yes.”
The din of the crowd falls away as I absorb the words I’ve wished Hunter had said to me that day when he walked away. I know enough to understand that words aren’t a guarantee that he won’t freak out again. But he’s working on fighting his self-doubt. He’s going to therapy. And the words are a sign he’s doing what I asked. He’s trying.
Hunter knows I don’t like to watch live games in a room full of people asking me for magic tricks with player stats, so he cleared the room. It also ensures my focus will stay on him. He’s put some thought into this.
The second note makes me laugh out loud.
The card is blank, but when I remove the paperclip, I see a title across the sheaf of papers, reading, “Fake Analytics Report.”
The pages are ridiculous lists of statistics—basically gibberish—lots of red arrows pointing to a conclusion: “Gracie and Hunter are a perfect match.”
He really is trying. And I love him for it.
I load up a plate with bar snacks and an apple and sit down to watch the game in my private box.
CHAPTER 43
Hunter
Everyone has leftthe locker room, but I’m lingering here staring at the wall, waiting for I don’t know what. Divine intervention? Some excuse for why I can’t play today?
The rational side of me knows that neither of those things is going to happen. It’s the opening game. I’m the starting center back. It’s not an option for me to sit out unless I’ve suddenly vomited up my left kidney. And even then.
I picture Gracie’s face when she realizes I’ve cleared a team box for her to eat her favorite snacks and watch the game. I hope she likes the gesture, but the bigger part of me thinks it may be too trite and simple. She deserves more than text messages and big gestures.
But this is what I have.
I untie my left shoe and pull the laces tighter. They were tight enough before, but I’m stalling. The moment I go outside, therewon’t be time for the self-loathing that still has a grip on me. Indulging it for a few more minutes might fight it out of my system before it swallows me whole.
Gracie’s face flits through my head, and I allow it to take over. Images of her lying in my bed, her hair messy and cheeks flushed. Memories of her laughing with me, at me…no matter. The gentle sound of her laughter stirs me like a warm breeze. Thoughts of the last time I saw her, disappointed in how stubborn and nearsighted I was being.
That image takes over, and I feel like I might actually puke up a kidney. There’s no one else to blame for the utter loneliness I feel, even when I have a team full of guys who have been my friends for years. Guys who have my back. I’d trade them all for one more night with her.
The emptiness in my gut feels like someone’s blown a hole straight through me. There’s a cavernous, hollow space where there once was warmth. Where there once was love.
I did this. I know I need to take responsibility for the ache in my heart. For a short while, I had everything I wanted. Gracie opened herself up to me fully and I turned her away, pretending it was for her own good.
If this is what I do when someone offers me her whole heart, maybe I deserve to be alone. I deserve the sadness I feel. I don’t deserve her. Never did.
No, that was the old narrative. I’m better than that.
