Page 78 of False Start
I take a seat for a moment and try to catch my breath as I watch Bryant celebrate the victory with his teammates. The men pick him up and carry him across the field to his coach, who they also hoist up. And the two men hug it out above the rest of the players.
I don’t know what Coach says to my husband, but unadulterated emotion crosses Bryant’s face for just a moment before he locks it down and nods. They shake hands before they’re let down and encircled by the Spartan army.
Security shows moments after the end of the game to escort me to my husband, and I anxiously speed walk to get to him as quickly as possible. On the field, he turns to see me headed for him just in time to smirk and sprint toward me. He picks me up, spins us around, and lowers me to kiss him as my feet continue to dangle in the air. He’s sweaty and gross, but I couldn’t care less. God. He won the Super Bowl. And his dad would be incredibly proud of him. I hope his mom, who just couldn’t understandably make it to the game today, can see her son on TV and is cheering him on from home.
“What did Coach say?” I ask.
Bryant presses his forehead against mine as his green eyes meet my blues. There’s moisture in his. “He said Dad was with me.”
“Yeah, babe.”
“You think?”
“You think your dad would miss his son playing the Super Bowl?”
He chuckles through his tears. “No. He’s probably talking your dad’s ear off though.”
I love the thought of our dad’s being together. “You know those two were arguing the entire game.”
We share a quiet laugh.
“Do you love me, Coach?”
“To the moon and back, quarterback.”
— 27 —
Then
GRIEF CAN BE A deep, black hole of misery and pain. In the months following his title win, Bryant sinks into that hole, and I don’t know how to help him. It’s hard to stand by and watch him drown in a sea of alcohol and partying all the time, but I do. For the months following the Super Bowl, I hold his hair while he pukes over our toilet at all hours of the morning. I strip him down, bathe him, and put him to bed because I love him. I’d do just about anything to make him feel better.
“I love you, Coach,” he slurs.
I turn my head to stave off the stench of bourbon. “I love you, too, Quarterback,” I say as the tears stream down my face.
He has to pull it together before preseason begins. I just hope the game will help him refocus on our dreams of having a family. For now, I’ve put our baby dream on the back-burner. I started taking my birth control again, because he’s not ready. He needs more time to process his father’s death before he can center his attention on creating a family.
I manage to grab a few hours of shuteye before work the next morning, and I leave Bryant in bed to recover from his late night out with some of the other players who live in Los Angeles during the offseason. He says they most often remain indoors at one player or another’s home, but sometimes they do go out.
On my drive into work, Priscilla calls which isn’t entirely unusual since Bryant signed with her the day after his win. His daily hangover and recovery leave him out of touch before noon each day.
“Good morning,” I greet.
“Sorry to bother, Zhanna. I tried to reach out to Bryant first, but there’s no answer.”
“He had another late night,” I admit.
“Did you get a chance to talk to him about therapy? I think it would do him some good.”
“Not yet. He’s been irritable, and I haven’t found the right time to broach the subject.”
While Priscilla and I got off on the wrong foot when we initially met years ago, she’s become somewhat of an ally in the effort to get Bryant back on track before the preseason begins in two months.
“I have three video game companies vying for his attention. I need him up and dressed in an hour because I’ll be by with the first group of techies who want to give Bryant a gazillion dollars for using his image and name.”
Fuck. I’ll have to call out of work again today. It’s become more common since the Super Bowl win, and I fear I’ll lose my job if I miss any more unexcused time. But Bryant’s job is crazy important, not more important than mine, but there’s a lot on the line if he fucks up his career. So I call into work and cringe when my boss compassionately advises that I should take a leave of absence for a few weeks to straighten out my home life. I’m thankful for the time, but I know I’m skating on thin ice.
I rush home and rouse Bryant from sleep. He looks at the clock on his nightstand. “What are you doing here?”
