His lips thin into a line as he closes his eyes and gives a slight shake of his head. “No, baby. They couldn’t resuscitate him.”
“Oh, Bryant, I’m so sorry.” I don’t know if there are words in the English language that will bring him comfort in this moment, so I wrap my arms around him and hold him tightly instead of saying more. And eventually he sinks down to his knees, taking me with him, and he quietly sobs for his father in our future child’s room.
When my father died, I was in shock for days. I couldn’t believe he was gone, and I didn’t know how to relay the sentiment to all the people who were sorry for my loss. I was lost in my own head for weeks after we’d buried Dad. And on the week anniversary of his death, it hit me he wasn’t coming back. It floored me he was gone so suddenly, and I was still so young. I still needed my dad.
So I don’t pressure Bryant to speak more than he feels he’s up to in the days leading up to the funeral or the days that follow. And I stay close and wait for the moment it hits him that his father is gone forever and ever. When it hit me, I’d come home to tell my father something exciting that had happened to me moments before. I opened the door to his study, and his stale scent hitting me in the face doubled me over. I’ve never felt something so painful before or since. The realization that life has forever been altered by their permanent absence is a jagged pill to swallow.
My husband is strong for his mother, and I’m proud of him for holding it together, but once we’ve buried his father and flown back to California, I grow more and more concerned for him. He’s quiet. Bryant isn’t a motor mouth, but he’s not quiet. I stick close by to make sure he knows I’m here when he’s ready to fall apart. I’ll pick up the pieces for him and put him back together.
And as the days pass and we grow closer to the Super Bowl, he doesn’t say anything at all. During the night, he still reaches for me as he cries in his sleep, and I cry right along with him. His pain becomes my own.
The night before the big game, he’s required to stay in a hotel with a 10 p.m. curfew. I toss and turn in our bed without him, hoping he’s okay without me there. God. He just lost his dad, and he had to go right back to work. He didn’t have the luxury of having time off to grieve, and I’m worried he’s holding it all in until he explodes.
The next morning, I rise around 8 and dress to the nines because there’ll be cameras everywhere. I opt for one of my Hudson Spartan jerseys and dark wash skinny jeans paired with black, heeled booties. I’ll be in the box most of the game, but they have cameras on the WAGs, even in the boxes.
At ten, my husband sends his first message of the day.
Bryant: I love you.
Zhanna: I love you, too. How are you?
Bryant: I missed you last night.
Zhanna: I missed sleeping with you. I tossed and turned all night.
He doesn’t say anything else, and I don’t see or hear from him until I arrive at the stadium. This year, we happened to be slated to play the Super Bowl in Los Angeles, and it was chosen as the venue long before the season began. I take a limo Bryant sent to the stadium to avoid having to drive in the city traffic and wait for my favorite quarterback.
Priscilla, who I met years ago at a party, saunters into the box reserved for Bryant’s family and friends. “Zhanna,” she says and offers a kind smile.
“Priscilla, how can I help you?”
She takes a seat but leaves two seats between us. “I’m sorry for the loss of your father-in-law.”
“Thank you, I appreciate it.”
“I’m not one to beat around the bush. May we speak candidly?” she asks.
I wave a hand out for her to continue.
“Charles isn’t doing all he can do for Bryant. He’s the top quarterback in the league right now. He’s favored to win tonight, and that means big things coming down the pipelines.”
“Sponsorships.”
“Charles has only gotten him relatively mediocre sponsorships. Bryant is worth so much more than he’s currently receiving.”
“And let me guess, you can get him much bigger paychecks?”
“Of course.”
“Why aren’t you talking to Bryant about this?”
“Bryant isn’t in a great place right now. He’s not thinking in the future, or at least not past getting a ring tonight. If he’s lucky, he’ll play until he’s 40? Brady and Brees have done it, but it’s not always likely in football. You know they have the shortest careers out of professional sports. He can set himself up for retirement now and not be stressed if he’s taken out of the game by injury.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I have a video game company interested in him if he wins tonight. And with a ring on his finger, the offers will pour in. Do you want someone who will do a mediocre job, or an agent who’ll give you and your family a big future?” She hands me her business card. “Talk to him. Convince him the move is in his best interest. He won’t make the move without your support.”
I turn her card over in my fingers. “I’ll think about it.”
