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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
