“Nah, not really.” I smiled. “Speaking of which, didn’t you call me hours before you beat my team in the Super Bowl to tell me I would lose?”

“Fair enough.” He paused. “Is Courtney there to watch?”

“She should be.”

“So, she decided not to marry the other guy?”

“No, she decided that she wanted to win at life.”

His laughter came over the line, followed by his son’s giggles in the background.

“Good luck, Kyle,” he said. “I’ll be watching. Unfortunately.”

“Can you make sure that my godson wears the onesie I sent him last week?”

“The one that says, ‘My Daddy Sucks’ or the one that says, ‘Grayson Connors is Overrated?’”

“If there’s a way that you can layer them, so that he can wear both, that would be great.”

He hung up in my face, laughing.

Before I turned off my phone, it buzzed with a text. Taylor.

Taylor: Thank you for making me search the entire stadium for your girlfriend. *eyeroll emoji* attaching her picture from when she checked in at the media stand. You’re welcome. [.img] [.img] [.img]

I downloaded the image, staring at Courtney as she stood under an awning, dressed in a fitted red dress. Her rose colored press pass hung from her neck, and she was carrying a ‘Forever a Kyle Stanton fan’ button on her chest.

“Um, Kyle?” The offensive coordinator cleared his throat. “Do you plan on joining your teammates for the pre-ritual?”

“Yeah, sorry.” I took one last look at Courtney before turning off my phone. Then I followed him into the locker room.

“We need to stay completely focused on the field today, gentlemen.” Coach stood in the middle of the room, clipboard in hand. “Don’t look up at the scoreboard, and don’t hyper focus on minor mistakes. If we stay focused on our own game plan, if we believe in everything that we’ve worked on over the past year, we’ll be hoisting up that trophy at the end of the fourth quarter. All in, on three! One, two, three!”

“All in!” I yelled in unison with my teammates.

Per our routine, we huddled together and repeated this year’s motto ten more times.

“Don’t let up! Win at all costs!”

When we’d uttered the last one, I gave a few high fives and walked over to my locker.

“Can I have a few words with you, Kyle?” Mr. Bausch, the owner of the team, stepped in front of me.

“Only if whatever you want to say can’t possibly wait until after the game.”

“It can’t,” he said, looking genuine.

I sighed and followed him past my teammates and into an office on the far side of the room.

“I want to thank you for getting us here,” he said, shutting the door. “I also want you to know that regardless of whether we win today or not, that you’ve meant the world to me and this franchise for years.”

“I thought you said that this couldn’t wait…”

“Are you serious about wanting to be traded at the end of this season?” He looked as if he was on the verge of tears. “I would like to know.”

I gave him a blank stare.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sighing, “I’m just emotional and shit, and everyone on staff is on edge. I’m willing to do whatever it takes to keep you in Boston, and I know the fans can be a bit much, but they do love you.”

“I’m staying.” I put an end to his tears. “I never really wanted to be traded, Mr. Bausch. I made that announcement for personal reasons.”

“What?” His eyes widened. "You felt like giving everyone a heart attack for shits and giggles? To make all the fans hate you?"

“No,” I said. “I just needed to get someone’s attention. And for the record, I’m pretty sure that the fans already hated me.”

“True on that last part.” He smiled, but he didn't let it stay. “Who the hell in your life is worth doing all that, just for attention?”

I didn't answer him.

“Can I finish preparing for the game now, or would you like to discuss more of your emotions?”

“You can go back.” He patted my shoulder. “If you need anything moving forward—and I do mean anything—please let me know.”

I doubted that I would need him between now and the end of the fourth quarter, so I gave him a handshake and walked away.

“Wait, Mr. Bausch.” I said, turning around. “There is one thing you can do for me.”

“I’ll do whatever it is, just tell me when you need it done.”

“Today.”

Courtney: Now

Present Day

Super Bowl Sunday

I pushed my way through the press’s seating area and found a spot near the edge of the box.

“Attention, journalists!” A woman in all-grey stood at the front. “Journalists, can I please have your attention?”

The conversations around me slowly dissipated, until the only sounds around us were the roars from the crowd.

“Thank you,” she said, clearing her throat. “The National Football Organization would like to thank you for your dedication in covering our league and its players.”

“We would also like to let you know that although we may not see eye to eye on all things, we appreciate your reporting. And we hope you appreciate the special opportunities and media gifts that were given to you this weekend."

I looked past her and down the field where my old co-workers sat in a row with the top journalists, far away from us. That's where the real opportunities were offered this weekend. Those of us in this box, the delusional newbies, received the crumbs.

“Please remain in this press box for the entirety of the game and only use the designated restrooms that are in the hallway behind you,” she said. “Do not live-stream any part of the game or the halftime show. And please do not engage with—”

“Mr. Bausch! Mr. Bausch! I have a question!” My colleagues started shouting over her as the Falcons’ owner stepped closer. “How do you feel about today? How are you taking it all in?”

The woman stood still, speechless and star-struck.

“What would today’s win mean for your organization?” They couldn’t stop asking questions. “How does it feel to be one of the youngest owners to reach this point?”

“I’m not here for any interviews.” He lifted a hand, silencing their questions. “I have a question of my own. Is there a Courtney Johnson from Courtney Rose Media here?”

“That’s me.” I raised my hand, and he motioned for me to stand to my feet.

“I need you to come with me for a few moments, Miss Johnson,” he said. “It’s important.”

Grateful for a break, I made sure that all of my things were tucked into my bag, and then I headed his way.

“Mr. Bausch! Mr. Bausch!” They continued to shout questions at his back as we walked away.

He ignored them and led me down a tunnel, then in front of an elevator.

Pressing the down button, he cleared his throat, "How rude of me,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Peter Bausch, Miss Johnson. I own the New England Falcons team.”