“THANKS FOR PUTTING me in the box tonight,” I say as Shawn opens the door to his Range Rover. “It’s freezing outside.”
“What? Standing in the cold doesn’t sound appealing?” he asks. He offers me his hand so I can climb inside the car, and I take it. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“Frostbite on my toes is not on the list of things I enjoy, believe it or not.” I wiggle against the leather interior, grateful for his fancy car with its fancy heated seats he can start from upstairs. “Who are you playing today?”
“The Tornadoes. They have the second-best record in the league behind us. If we want to go to the Super Bowl, they’re going to be our toughest competition in the post season.” Shawn starts the ignition and adjusts his mirrors. “I told Dallas his sister can sit in the box with you tonight. She’s in town with her daughter visiting for Thanksgiving, and I didn’t think they’d have a lot of fun down in the bleachers. Don’t worry—she’s chill. I’ve met her once or twice, and she’s down to earth.”
“That was nice of you. There’s plenty of room to share. It’s going to be weird being at a game without Maggie and Aiden.”
“Maggie fell asleep mid-bite on the couch. I don’t think she’d enjoy watching football tonight.” He chuckles and pulls onto the road. “Snow’s really coming down, huh?”
“The news said it’s a record for the most amount of snowfall this early in the year. I like it.” I glance out the window and smile at the houses decorated with Christmas lights and big blow-up reindeer. “It makes it really feel like the holidays.”
“We leave for California on Thursday. Not a lick of snow out there,” he says.
“Do you ever get messed up with time zones? It must be confusing being in a different place every week.”
“It’s not too bad. Three hours is manageable. When we were in London last year for two weeks, I was fucked up. I couldn’t sleep for days. The jet lag hit my ass hard.” He glances over at me and grins. “That’s what happens when you get old.”
“Okay, Father Christmas. Should we talk about the logistics of tonight?”
“So forward of you. Buy me dinner first, Daniels.”
I flick his ear. “Be serious for a minute.”
“Fine.” He turns off the radio and silence fills the car. “We enter the stadium through the player’s tunnel off the garage. There is usually a reporter or two lingering around, but I’m not sure how many will be there tonight. More, probably. Maybe some cameras, too. To the left is the hallway the press can’t access, so we’re safe in there. Security will take you up to the box, and no one is allowed in without credentials. You don’t have to worry about being bothered. After the game, I talk to the guys in the locker room, then I have a league-mandated press conference that lasts about twenty minutes. Then we’ll be good to leave.”
“League-mandated?” I ask. “It’s required of you? I had no idea.”
“Yeah. The commissioner is trying to foster this relationship between the coaches and the media. I respect the freedom of speech and why he’s doing it, but I also think we need to put some boundaries in place. When we were on a losing streak my first year, some dickbag journalist thought he was being funny when he called my playing career a joke. He said he couldn’t believe a team would hire someone without any experience as the head coach—especially someone who had a panic attack on the field back in college. As if that diminishes all my other capabilities. He said some nasty things about one of my sisters, too, and I almost climbed over the table and punched him. I’ve matured a lot since then, believe it or not.”
“Fuck that guy,” I say fiercely. “Using personal shit in an interview should be off-limits.”
“Should be, but it isn’t. It makes no sense to me; these people want to hound us with their questions, but the second an athlete speaks out about any of the political or social issues happening in our world, we’re told to shut up and just play.” Shawn sighs. “It is what it is. Anyway, tonight shouldn’t be too bad. Someone might try to stop us when we’re walking in, but other than that, we should be okay.”
“Are we going to—” I swallow and adjust the beanie on my head. I don’t know how to bring up this subject without it sounding weird. “Touch? Hold hands? I don’t want to be caught off guard.”
“Oh.” His eyes flick over to me, then back to the road. “I didn’t think about that, to be honest.”
“We could,” I say. “Hold hands. That’s safe, right? You’ve held my hand before—remember the time after we went out for Maggie’s birthday? I couldn’t walk straight after those strawberry daiquiris.”
“You almost walked into the road.” His grip tightens around the steering wheel, and he nods. “Okay. Hand holding is allowed in front of the cameras.”
“Where should I wait while you’re doing the press conference? Do you think they’re going to ask about me?”
“They’re definitely going to ask about you. I was planning to just reiterate what I said before about wanting privacy, but if you want me to say something else, I will. It’s not like they don’t know your name.”
“What do you think would get them off your back? Ignoring it or giving them the answers they want?”
“Answers, probably. I’ve found the more honest and open I am with them, the less they care and the less digging they do. They’re like vultures when it comes to secrets; the elusive rumors always intrigue them more than the confirmed suspicions. When I was in high school and waiting to announce my college decision, they swarmed me after every game. I kept putting it off and putting it off. After I announced, it was quiet as hell. Like a breath of fresh air.”
“I want you to answer however you feel comfortable. Whatever feels right in the moment. Like you said, they know my name. They already know things about me, and they’re just waiting for you to say it, too. I trust you, Shawn.”
I reach over and fold my hand over his arm. He’s still in his clothes from Thanksgiving lunch, and there’s a duffle bag in the backseat full of his game day attire. I like that he sets aside his professional life when he’s not at work. It doesn’t bleed into his friendships or dominate conversations. If you talked with him on the street and he didn’t say his name, you’d never know who he was.
There are two sides to Shawn Holmes, and I like that I get to see both of them.
We’ve never arrived at the stadium together before. I usually ride with Maggie and Aiden or take the Metro when the weather is nice. Shawn always shows up three or four hours before kickoff to run through plays with his squad and write out last-minute lineup changes. He’s pushing his time today, though, after eating a second piece of pumpkin pie and sipping a hot coffee. I had to practically drag him out of the chair in the corner of Maggie and Aiden’s living room. He rubbed his eyes when we stepped outside into the cold winter air to wake up.
“That means an awful lot, Lace Face,” he says softly. “I know I can’t stop every nasty article that might be printed about you or tell you to block every asshole comment on your photos on social media. But I promise to protect you from what I can control. When you’re with me, you’re going to be safe, alright?”
“Alright.” I nod, and I feel his words in the center of my chest.
They inflate like a balloon and fill the space behind my ribs and next to my heart. He’s such a good guy, and I believe him with my whole soul.
We cruise down the highway, and the traffic is light for a late holiday afternoon. Shawn parks the car in his designated spot, and I give him shit for having HEAD COACH written on a sign like he’s all big and fancy.
I guess to these people, he is.
I only see the guy who has a speck of whipped cream on his cheek.
I lick my thumb and lean over the center console. I wipe away the remnants from dessert, and he smiles.
“Flirting with me, Daniels?” he asks with the lift of his eyebrow.
“In your dreams, Holmes,” I say, and I tug on his ear. “It’s time to get out of the car, isn’t it?”
“Mhm. You could stay in here the whole game, if you want. I can have someone wheel out a television for you.”
“You have a lot of power, don’t you?”
Shawn laughs. “Hardly. It took two weeks for me to get a new water bottle because it had to go through the proper channels before being approved. I don’t get special treatment.”
“NFL head coaches: they’re just like us.” I open my door and jump out of the car. I adjust my skirt and do a spin. “Do I look okay? Like I can pull off being the girlfriend of the league’s most eligible bachelor and everyone’s favorite golden boy?”
“I am not the league’s golden boy,” he says.
“Yes, my friend, you are. The people love you.”
He climbs out of the car and walks toward me. He looks me up and down, and he smiles big and wide. “You look great. Minus the hole in your shirt, of course. Was that intentional?”
“What?” My hands reach for the hem of my sweater, and I search for the snag. “Where?”
He flicks my nose and laughs again. “Made you look.”
“Asshole. I don’t want to look like an idiot in the photos that are inevitably going to wind up on some gossip site.”
“You could never look like an idiot.” He holds out his hand in invitation. “Ready for the shit storm to begin?”
“Yeah.” I take a deep breath and thread my fingers through his. His palm is warm, and I feel steady when he gives my hand a squeeze. Like I can conquer all of my fears. “Let’s do this.”
