MAVEN BLINKS BACK tears as she gapes at the suite.
It looks like an explosion of pink decorations, with eight dozen balloons and streamers. There are buffet tables with steaming food. An extra-large sheet cake covered in buttercream frosting sits on a table in the middle of the room, and each leather stadium seat has a jersey draped over the back.
“This is so cool.” She grabs a bite-sized burger and inhales the food faster than I can blink. “Uncle Shawn did all of this?”
“Yeah.” Maggie drapes her arm around Maven’s shoulder. “He came up here earlier. He wanted to make sure your birthday was perfect. Lacey picked up the cake from your favorite bakery, and your dad asked for the buffet to have all of your favorite game day foods.”
“You only turn eighteen once. Go big or go home,” I say, and Maven wipes her eyes.
“Thank you so much. All of you.” She reaches out and squeezes her dad’s hand, and the three of us wrap her in a bone-crushing hug she doesn’t try to pull free from. “This is the best birthday ever.”
After a minute, her friends tug her away from the embarrassing display of affection and move on to gush over the amenities of the suite.
It’s Shawn’s personal box, the one he donates to the team for charity invitations or season ticket holder upgrades. I’ve never been up here before, only sitting in the seats he has for us down by the field.
I don’t think he likes to flaunt his wealth, preferring to let others enjoy it instead.
It looks like an apartment. Despite the large space and how many people are together inside the four walls, it still feels cozy. Warm and welcoming, with blankets stacked on the velvet couch and the heat set at sixty-eight.
Glass windows overlook the field, and they’re so clean, you’d think we were standing on the turf. Televisions hang on either side of the room, and they all broadcast the pregame coverage on a national network. I see Shawn’s face flash across the screen, the picture of him with his fist raised in the air and sports drink dumped on his shirt from a game last month.
I imagine him up here earlier in the day, inflating balloons and leaving party hats on the counter, and I giggle.
“What?” Maggie asks. She hands me a drink, a fruity concoction with a pineapple hanging off the rim of the glass and a little umbrella speared through the ice.
“I’m picturing Shawn lugging a trash bag of decorations up here, and it’s the funniest thing in the world,” I say.
“He’s a good guy, isn’t he?”
“One of the best.”
Every detail is thought out, meticulously executed to make sure Maven has the best day ever. I pull out my phone and type out a quick message to Shawn, knowing he only has a matter of minutes before he’ll be running out of the tunnel and onto the field.
ME
We just got to the suite. It looks incredible. What time did you get here to set up? I could’ve helped.
SHAWN
Around seven. The security guards were confused why I had pink party hats. Can’t wait for that article to come out. I can see the ESPN headline now.
ME
You’re the father to a secret love child, or you’re having an affair with someone who has kids.
SHAWN
No good deed goes unpunished. Anybody need anything?
ME
Not a thing. Good luck today. We’ll be cheering loud.
SHAWN
See you after, Lace Face.
ME
Not if I see you first, Shawn Yawn.
SHAWN
Stupidest nickname ever.
ME
You started it.
SHAWN
I’m forty-six. No one should be calling me Shawn Yawn.
ME
Sorry, pal. You did it to yourself. Can you go do your job, please? I see your guys running onto the field.
I grin as the crowd roars to life, a growing crescendo of noise when they start to cheer. I feel the excitement and energy from seventy thousand fans pulse in my blood. The exhilaration turns tangible as my heartbeat matches the stomp of their feet and the clap of their hands.
I’ve never been a sports girl, and the only thing I know about football is the D.C. Titans are good. They have the best record in the league and they’re heading into this weekend undefeated, the only team without a loss.
A lot of it is Shawn’s doing.
They hired him four years ago, back when the Titans only won two games all season. You couldn’t give your tickets away for free, and premium seats sold for a fraction of the cost. The stadium was empty, and the fans that stuck around to watch the train wreck unfold did nothing but boo and toss garbage on the field.
The locker room was toxic and negative. Management was poisonous, and there were multiple harassment claims. A player even faked an injury just so he could sit out the rest of the season instead of getting beat by six touchdowns every week. The future of the team was bleak, and rumors swirled about a sale of the club for dirt cheap to a business tycoon who would’ve taken the Titans out of the city and moved them to San Diego where the weather is pleasant three hundred and sixty-five days a year.
Then Shawn came in and wiped the slate clean. He started from the lowest of lows an organization could be, and slowly earned the players’ trust. He didn’t just give them work to do and sit on his ass; he worked his ass off, too.
Lining up next to his guys on the fifty-yard line for sprints. Staying late and dripping sweat in the grueling summer months when they practiced lateral passes and trick plays at training camp. Throwing on a beanie and a pair of gloves as he ran two-point conversion drills with his quarterback in the freezing cold, a rookie he drafted in the sixth round out of Howard University. He could see the potential in the kid who, three years later, would win the NFL’s MVP award, the youngest to ever do it.
That’s just how Shawn is, though.
He commits and gives his all, all the time.
It’s how he approaches his friendships. How he treats the responsibilities of being Maven’s godfather. How he acts with his family and the volunteer activities he participates in not because he has to, but because he wants to.
He exemplifies the purest form of servant leadership I’ve ever seen.
It’s not for show, a smile for the camera that turns into a frown when the flash goes off. It’s not for money—he’s the first coach to take a salary cut so the rest of his staff can have league-leading assistant coach pay. It’s not because he thinks he has to check a box. He hires based on ability, not gender, and that’s why he has eight women as assistant coaches. His players respect them because he respects them.
He’s a friend who remembers details; birthdays. Favorite foods. Allergies. He knows I love to collect magnets when I travel somewhere. After being out of town for an away game, he always comes back with a gift for me: the silliest memento for my fridge he can find.
A hunk of cheese when he was in Wisconsin. An apple from New York. A beaver after a Texas circuit, hitting Houston and Dallas in the same month. It’s supposed to be the mascot of some gas station chain, but I don’t understand the joke no matter how many times he tries to explain it to me. The bright red double-decker bus from London when they played abroad last season.
There’s nothing but good bones in his body and a good soul in his chest. I’m lucky to have him in my life.
Maggie nudges my side, and I blink. The fluorescent stadium lights dim for the national anthem and player introductions.
“Aiden’s crying,” she whispers.
“He cries at the dog videos you send him,” I whisper back. I look over at her boyfriend wiping his eyes, and I smile. “He’s the gold standard for dads. Men in general, really.”
Maggie and I met in medical school after a seating chart mix-up with our last names. We embraced the faux pas and became fast friends who stood in each other’s corners not just in biochemistry and anatomy, but outside the lecture halls, too. We lean on each other in moments of darkness and pain. Laugh our asses off at all of our horrible mistakes—like the time she told me to get bangs, and the time I told her to wear a white dress to our annual hospital holiday gala. She ended the night with a red wine stain on her crotch.
She’s dealt with a lot in her personal life, experiencing a divorce and finding out she’s infertile all before turning thirty-one. Maggie is resilient, though, a woman who fights like hell for what she wants. She’s brighter these days and never not smiling. Aiden plays a big part in that.
They are star-crossed lovers and soulmates who both got a second shot at love, meeting at a Valentine’s Day photo shoot and having a sizzling one-night stand.
Neither could get the other out of their head after their rendezvous, and they discovered they worked in the same hospital, separated by a quick elevator ride without even knowing it. The rest is history, a happily ever after for a couple who deserves nothing but good things in life.
Aiden treats Maggie right. He loves her loudly and softly, in front of everyone and when no one is watching. I always catch him looking at her, this dopey smile of adoration on his face, like he can’t believe she’s his.
I want to make jokes about how over-the-top their love is, but the older I get, the closer to mid-thirty and beyond I am, the more I want that, too. Someone who finds me in a crowd and looks at me like I’m the only one in the world.
I’ve never had a love like that before. The selfless, all-encompassing type you’re not sure is real because you’re so sickeningly happy, you’re waiting to wake up from a dream. Swept off your feet with butterflies in your chest. Joy and elation and togetherness.
Maybe I’ll find it one day.
“Let’s go Titans,” Maggie bellows, and I shove those lonely thoughts away.
“I see Uncle Shawn,” Maven says. She presses her face against the window, and her friends crowd around her.
“That’s your uncle?” one girl asks. “Wow.”
“Technically he’s my godfather, but uncle sounds better,” Maven explains.
“He’s hot,” another adds.
“How many tattoos does he have?”
“Ew, stop,” Maven says. “He’s so old.”
Aiden rubs his hand over his face. “Christ,” he grumbles. “I’m not ready for her to date.”
“Sorry, honey.” Maggie slides her arm around his waist and rests her head on his shoulder. “It’s going to happen one day soon. Maybe it already is.”
He glances at her, and there is terror in his eyes. “What do you know? We’re a team here, Maggie Houston. Don’t keep secrets from me.”
“Nothing, I swear,” she laughs. “I promise I’ll tell you if she mentions a boy.”
“Or a girl,” I say, and Maggie nods in agreement.
“Or a girl,” she repeats.
I watch Shawn stand on the sideline and adjust his headset over his ear. He shields his eyes under the brim of his hat and turns his head, scanning the stadium. When he spots our box, he waves and smiles from ear to ear.
Maggie and Aiden are distracted, arguing over curfew and first dates. The teenage girls move on to the buffet table, grabbing plates and silverware and gabbing about the elasticity of football pants. I’m the only one paying attention to him, and I step toward the window and wave back, matching his megawatt smile.
Shawn spins his finger and I roll my eyes, turning to show him his name on the back of the jersey I’m wearing. It’s one of his from when he was a tight end in the league. He tossed it in my face at the start of last season when I said I didn’t have anything to wear to his game. When I tried to return it, he told me to keep it.
So I did.
I don’t even care that it’s not a Titans jersey.
I cut the nylon down the center and opened it up to keep cool in the warmer months when we’re standing outside for four, five hours at a time. With the temperature hovering around forty degrees today, I added a turtleneck and leather pants. I hold my hair off my neck so he can read the letters I bedazzled with glitter and sparkles.
When I turn back around, he gives me a thumbs up. I laugh and shake my head, our routine perfected after going to so many home games over the last two seasons.
“Time for kickoff,” Maggie says. “Want to grab some food?”
“I’ll eat after the first quarter,” I say. “I’m always nervous until someone scores.”
“Look at you knowing your sports terminology.” She pinches my cheek. “Did you stay up late studying what a punt return is?”
“I read an article or two. When I bring that guy next week—his name is Matthew, by the way—I want to make sure I don’t sound like a total idiot.”
“Lace, you could never sound like a total idiot. I’m pretty sure you could explain how paint dries and make it interesting,” Maggie says.
“Well, thanks, but it’s not that big of a deal. He likes sports, so I figured I’d at least try, you know?”
“Just as long as you’re not trying to be something you’re not for someone else. Shawn doesn’t care that you don’t know anything about sports.”
“I’m not dating Shawn,” I say. “Come on. They’re about to kick off. You know I like the little cheer everyone does.”
Maggie takes my hand. We settle into the leather seats and prop up our feet. The Titans win the coin toss and elect to defer. I lean forward and try to gauge Shawn’s level of nerves. He never admits he’s worried, always the pinnacle of calm, cool and collected, but there are telltale signs if you know where to look.
Hands in his pockets or arms crossed tightly over his chest, palms tucked under his shoulders. Pacing back and forth over the turf, his attention on the ground rather than the field. Moving his sunglasses to the top of his hat and squinting into the sun.
When the huddle breaks and the defense takes the field, he’s still looking at me, and I don’t see an ounce of strain on his face.
