As Marty moved around us to film, I propped my hands on my hips and really studied the kid for the first time.
He looked like a teenager, and he was talking to me about my college days and about his wife. And the conversation immediately had two incredibly strange, incredibly humbling effects on me.
The apathy tumbled headlong into emptiness. Everything about this game felt empty.
The win.
The record.
And the fact that I invested my entire life into seeking both of those things above anything else.
Without answering, I started tugging my jersey off, and his face broke into a relieved smile. It was all I could do to meet his grateful gaze.
He lost the game, he didn't break any records, hell, he probably didn't stand on that turf for a single second of the game, and here he stood, happier than I'd felt since … since South Dakota.
The thought slipped into my head, slithering easily underneath the iron brackets I'd kept around my heart since the day I talked to her on the phone.
That should have been my warning, that I couldn't even think her name without feeling like everything around me would tumble down, unprotected and vulnerable to every vivid second with her. Every kiss. Every touch. Every moan I'd unleashed in her. Every quiet moment when all I did was hold her in my arms as she slept.
He said something, and I blinked back to the present in time to take his jersey as he handed it to me. It was pristine—no sweat, no dirt, no grass stains—unlike mine.
"Remind me of your name again," I said slowly, tucking the jersey carefully under my arm so that I didn't drop it.
"Michaelson," he said hurriedly. "Eric Michaelson."
I held out my hand. "It's an honor to have your jersey, Eric."
"The honor is all mine. I can't wait to tell my wife about this." The returning pump of my hand was so vigorous, so enthusiastic, that I found myself smiling for the first time in weeks.
"Did she come to the game today?"
He shook his head, still beaming. "No, she stayed home. We had our first baby a few weeks ago." In the next breath, he pulled out his phone and showed me a picture of a wrinkled, red-faced baby. "Her name is Molly."
A steel beam to my temple would have had less of an impact. It knocked the breath clean out of my lungs for a second. I patted him on the back and managed a polite smile. "She's beautiful. Congratulations to both of you."
He left, and I managed to get off the field and into the locker room uninhibited while Marty trailed me quietly.
Filming had been that way every week.
Quiet. Uneventful.
Boring as all hell, if I tried to imagine it from his perspective.
Before I showered, I spoke to a few people from the press in the locker room about the record, answers I gave by rote about the honor it was, the work I'd put in, and the solid play by our competitors. By the time Rick approached me when I was dressed and clean and packing my bag, I couldn't even remember a single word I'd said.
"Great game, as usual." His smile was subdued.
"Thanks." I shoved my cleats into my duffel. "Can I do something for you?"
"Do you have a few minutes to talk?"
I sighed. "What is it, Rick? I'd like to get home."
"Why? Need to work out more? Watch film? Stare blankly at the wall?" My jaw clenched, and I straightened to my full height. He smiled, completely unintimidated. "I have something I'd like to discuss with you before I bring it to Beatrice for her approval. We have …" He paused, clearing his throat slightly before continuing, "I have an idea for the documentary. A new angle I'd like to explore."
I studied him. "Will I have to be there when you meet with Beatrice?"
"I think you should be, yes. Just giving you the opportunity to talk about it beforehand."
"When are we doing this? Because I'd rather not sit through the same meeting twice, if we can get it out of the way."
Hearing myself talk, it was no wonder everyone had left me alone. I could practically see people tiptoe around the invisible forcefield I was projecting. But Rick, that asshole, was undaunted. She would've been too, if she hadn't created a forcefield of her own. It was a toss-up whose was more impressive, but I had a feeling I would lose if I went to head to head with her on that.
"If you're sure," he said, eyeing me carefully.
"The sooner we do this, the sooner I can go home."
He held up his hands. "You got it. If you're ready, let's head down to that empty office past the press room. She said she had time to chat with us when you were done with the media."