2. Bigger Than Football #2
There was nothing intimate about it from where I stood. Her palm rested against plastic and fabric, not skin. The camera circled us. Reid stood ten feet away with executives watching from behind him. This was a set, even if somebody had built it inside a football stadium.
Sloane was a campaign partner.
That was it.
“Chin up a little, Nolan,” the creator said.
I adjusted.
“No, don’t look at me. Look at her.”
“You’re asking a lot from a man who needs an ice bath.”
“You survived eleven defenders. You’ll survive a camera.”
Reid pointed at my left hand. “Do something with it.”
I stared at him. “What would you like me to do with it?”
“Stop standing there like she’s serving you legal papers.”
One of the executives laughed.
Sloane tilted her head toward me. “Your father has such faith in our chemistry.”
“My father has faith in anything that comes with a licensing agreement.”
“That’s why we love him.”
“I’ll let you tell him that.”
The creator made another impatient motion. “Waist. Put your hand on her waist. Sloane, keep your hand where it is.”
I hesitated long enough to notice Reid’s expression change.
Not anger. Expectation.
The same look he gave me when a sponsor wanted another handshake after a loss, or an owner wanted me at a dinner after practice. He had spent years teaching me which inconveniences mattered and which ones were the price of getting everything we wanted.
A hand at Sloane’s waist belonged in the second category.
Piper knew that.
She knew what this business required. She knew who I went home to when the stadium emptied and the cameras shut off.
I put my hand at Sloane’s waist.
“There,” the creator said. “That’s the shot.”
Sloane looked up at me through her lashes, still holding the front of my jersey.
“You look less miserable now.”
“That’s because I can see freedom from here.”
“Try gratitude.”
“You’re a lifesaver, Sloane. Let’s give them the perfect shot so Reid can get these executives back to their hotel.”
“Much better.”
The camera moved closer.
“Hold that.”
The strobe flashed across us.
Sloane shifted nearer until her hip rested against mine, and I adjusted my hand to maintain the pose. Reid said something to one of the executives behind the camera, but I kept my attention where the creator had asked for it.
On Sloane.
On the shot.
On getting this over with.
The creator checked his screen and grinned. “That’s campaign gold.”
Good.
Let them use it on billboards. Let them cut it into ads, social clips, whatever else Reid had promised the brand.
None of it was real.
I kept my hand at her waist and smiled into the lens, already thinking about getting back to Piper.
“That’s enough.” I dropped my hand and stepped out of the lights. “Coach has me at the podium.”
The content creator lowered the rig. “One last angle. Give me thirty seconds.”
“You have what you need.”
“Nolan,” Reid said from behind the camera.
I turned toward the bench and picked up my helmet. The pads hung loose against my shoulders, one strap slapping against my side as I moved.
“Team media is mandatory,” I said. “You’re the one who keeps reminding me football comes first.”
Dad’s mouth flattened.
For once, that ended the argument.
Sloane pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Go charm the reporters, QB1.”
“They’re easier than this crowd.”
“Liar.”
The executives laughed as I walked out.
Walking beyond the media wing felt like stepping back into the actual stadium. Staff moved past with laundry carts and equipment bins. A pair of reporters waited near the restricted barrier farther down, craning for a look at anyone coming from the locker room.
I kept moving toward the training area.
A staffer reached for the locker-room door as I passed. “You heading in?”
“Training room first.”
“Those pads need help?”
“I’ve got them.”
The rehab room sat off the main traffic pattern, quiet enough that the reporters’ voices became a murmur behind two sets of doors. I put the helmet on a chair near the wall and worked the remaining strap loose.
The pads and jersey caught when I pulled them over my bad shoulder.
“Of course.”
I changed the angle and eased the pads off instead of fighting them. They landed beside the helmet.
Without them, my damp compression shirt stuck to my back and chest. The game had left grime along my forearms, black rubber specks from the turf clinging to the tape at my wrists.
An empty treatment table waited near the cooler.
I sat.
The vinyl creaked under me.
For the first time since the final whistle, nobody asked me to smile.
I opened the cooler, pulled out a bag of ice, and pressed it against my knee. The first bite made me pull it away.
“Son of a bitch.”
I put it back.
The ache settled into something manageable after a moment. I rested my head against the raised end of the table and just let the room be quiet.
This was why keeping Piper away from nights like this had always made sense.
Not hiding her from people we loved. That had never been the deal. She had made that clear from the beginning.
Private.
That was what we had promised each other.
No reporters waiting outside our door. No sponsors turning dinner into content. No cameras deciding that a touch meant something because somebody needed a headline.
The house gave her distance from all of it.
At least, that was what I told myself.
The door opened.
Our equipment manager leaned in. “You alive?”
“Debatable.”
His gaze dropped to the gear on the floor. “You want me to get those pads back to your locker?”
“Please.”
He crossed the room and picked them up.
“You’ve got about five minutes before Coach needs you at the podium. Can I grab you a Gatorade?”
“No, thank you.” I adjusted the ice pack against my knee. “I’m just going to sit here for a minute.”
“You sure? You look cooked.”
“I am cooked.”
He tucked the pads under one arm and glanced at the helmet.