CHAPTER 25 Ford Bradley
We’re a We
I’m not sure why I said New Year’s Eve. Maybe so I’ll always remember our anniversary, but deep down I know that’s not something I’d ever forget no matter what date we chose.
We.
We’re a we.
It’s just to get the money, but it also feels like it’s not just to get the money.
Lines are blurring, and we’re about to hyper speed this whole dating process during the time of my season when I’m supposed to have my focus on the field.
We’re making a playoff run, and we’re currently in second place in our division.
Every game matters now, and if we win against the team in first place when we play them in week sixteen, we have the best shot of a playoff spot without having to fight in the wild card game.
This is the toughest time of the year. We’re all under an immense amount of pressure.
We need to stay healthy, and that includes not just avoiding injury but our mental health as well.
I don’t need these dates and this impending wedding clouding my focus right now, but it’s not like I can pass up the chance to be with the woman I’ve loved since high school…to make her fall in love with me, too. What if marrying her is the thing that keeps my mental health in balance?
I text her before I pull out of the parking lot at practice on Wednesday.
Me: Put on shoes you can walk in and meet me downstairs in fifteen minutes.
She’s there when I pull up in front of the building, and she hops right into the passenger seat.
“What’s all this?” she asks, and she’s a little breathless, like she spent the last fifteen minutes running around getting ready for the mystery location where our first date will take place.
“It’s our first date,” I say.
She laughs as she buckles in. “Is it?”
“I don’t really count the cake tasting, do you?”
“I suppose not. It wasn’t intentionally a date. But then you kissed me and started this whole thing.” She waves a hand between us.
“I think we should definitely have the honey and fig sex cake at our wedding, don’t you?” I tease.
“Definitely,” she squeaks.
I chuckle as we head toward our destination. We arrive, and I pull into a parking lot.
“Where are you taking me?” she asks.
“The Riverwalk,” I say, nodding ahead of me. “They have food trucks tonight, so I thought we could grab a bite to eat and walk along the water. You know, like a real date.”
“I love it,” she says. She’s always been the type of person who’s up for anything, and maybe she appreciates the simplicity of this date.
It’s showing her that we can just be a normal couple even though there’s a chance I’ll be recognized.
It’s a little easier to stay incognito at night with a ball cap on than during the day without one, so I grab a hat from my backseat and slip it on.
We get out of the car, and I walk around to take her hand in mine.
And that’s how we walk along the Riverwalk.
The sun is sinking into the Hillsborough River, and the backdrop of Tampa is stunning at this time of the evening.
We walk along and see a variety of shops and bars along with statues and parks.
It’s a reminder of why I love this town. That even after my playing days are over, maybe I’ll stay. I have a reason to stay since I own a property here now—or half of one, anyway—and it’s just convincing enough to keep me here.
And it’s far, far away from my brother…my future wife’s ex.
The thought comes thunderously unbidden into my mind, and it clings on.
I need to tell him that I’m marrying Tatum. Or she needs to tell him. One of us needs to. He deserves that much.
And we will. We’re still three weeks out. We have time…sort of.
We stop at a food truck, and she orders fish tacos while I opt for a chicken and quinoa bowl to keep my diet as healthy as I can while I’m out on a date.
I kiss her goodnight at the front door, and I don’t make a move beyond that.
It takes exactly one hundred percent of my willpower not to ask her if she’d like to join me in my bedroom.
And so I fist my cock in the shower, pumping up and down until the cum spills out onto my hand with her name a breathless whisper on my lips.
I’m not as sensible with my eating the next night after we go miniature golfing and get ourselves an ice cream treat afterward.
Or the next night when we head to a drive-in movie theater and opt for hot dogs and popcorn.
I know what I should be doing when it comes to my eating habits—and my dating habits at this time in the season, for that matter. But I can’t seem to stop. I have zero self-control when it comes to her, and these dates are bonding us closer than ever. Why would I possibly want to stop that?
And once the movie starts and the lights go down, she leans her elbow on the console. I do the same, and soon my arm is around her, and we’re turning in toward each other, and then we’re making out as we miss the entire movie in favor of kissing. And a little over the shirt tit action.
It’s another night of jerking off in the shower.
On Saturday morning before I have to leave for practice, I ask over breakfast, “Do you want to come to the game on Sunday?”
She tilts her head as she thinks about it. “Where would I sit?”
“I can get you tickets pretty much wherever you want.”
“And I’d just go…by myself?”
“You could probably sit with Lindsay.”
“I could...but she’s a client, and if I go, I don’t want to talk shop. I want to watch the game.” She twists her lips and sighs. “I really need to make some friends here in Tampa.”
“No better way to get that underway than to attend a game,” I suggest, and she agrees.
Saturday night is spent away from each other, and I use the time at the team hotel to catch up on the film I should have been studying all week.
All games matter, but none are as important as our matchup next weekend against the Fury in Nashville.
We should easily be able to beat the Falcons this weekend, while the Fury has a harder matchup against the Forty-Niners.
We need them to lose. We need to win this week and next. It’s simple math. That’s our path to the playoffs.
I’m focused as I take the field on Sunday. I know Tatum is here somewhere, and that makes me feel a little lighter.
Everything is off to a good start. A great start, really. But it all sinks down the drain in the third quarter.
Our quarterback, Grant Landry, snaps the ball, and I’m being used as a blocker on this play.
I do my job, carefully keeping my weight balanced as I explode off the line to meet the defensive end.
I’m keeping him back using every tool in my arsenal, and that’s why I don’t see the defensive tackle slant on the outside.
He rushes right for Grant and takes him down.
Sacks are common in this game, averaging two or three per game. Some have none, some have seven. But what it comes down to is that someone didn’t do his job correctly. It wasn’t me. I kept Darius Briggs away from Grant.
So sacks are common. It’s common for the quarterback to get taken down and pop right back up to keep playing. Sometimes the wind gets knocked out of them, and that’s the worst of it. But on some rare occasions, the quarterback gets taken down, and he doesn’t get right back up.
This is one of those times. He’s grabbing onto the shoulder of his throwing arm, which is bad news for us.
Real bad news.
We’ve still got a chance to win this game, and we still have a shot at the playoffs. But if Grant’s injury is more serious than a bruise, we’re fucked. We’re not going to get past the teams waiting to beat us if we don’t have our starting quarterback.
The training staff rushes over to help him off the field, and he lifts to a stand to the thunderous roar of the crowd. But his arm doesn’t look right, and it’s a sharp reminder that none of us are invincible.
We finish the game with our backup, Reggie Maddox, and we were far enough ahead that we still win even though we don’t put more points on the board. He’s not a bad player, but he’s young, and his nerves are incredibly apparent each time he steps onto the line of scrimmage.
As we gather in the locker room, Coach looks emotional as he says, “Looks like Landry’s dealing with an AC joint sprain.” A collective groan rises up from the group, but Coach talks through it. “We’re looking at three to six weeks.”
Fuck. At the earliest end, that puts us at Wild Card Weekend. At the later end…we’d be out of contention.
Everyone in this room knows it’s a team sport, but if we don’t have a quarterback who can put up points the way he has all season, we’re fucked.
Coach gives us some encouraging words before he heads out to his presser. I take a shower and change into my clothes before I head out of the locker room.
Tatum is waiting for me in the hallway. She’s standing beside some of the other girlfriends of players, and a wide array of emotions comes crashing into me.
Disappointment that my season may be down the drain.
Gratitude that she’s here. Frustration that we can’t heal Grant’s shoulder any faster.
Love for the woman standing here waiting for me.
I rush toward her and take her in my arms, and not a single bit of what I’m feeling is fake—except if you count the fact that I’m holding back how much I actually feel for her.
She wraps me in her arms, and I force myself to remain the stoic man I’m known to be. I feel it, though. All of it. It’s plowing into me from every angle, but mobile phones are out, and plenty of people are around to catch my reaction to what went down on that field today.
I’m not here to comment on it. It’s Coach’s job to share what happened with Grant, not mine. So I pull out of our embrace, grab Tatum’s hand, and lead her toward my car in the player parking lot so we can head home.