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Note to self: Google that pronto.
Whenever they pan to him, a woman’s hand resting on the sleeve of his forearm keeps showing up on camera. How to describe the feeling…it’s like getting Tasered every time I see it. I never get to see the rest of her, though. I even catch myself leaning left and right from my spot on the couch as if I could peer into the television and get a better look.
“Move over!” I keep growling at the TV.
By the time Grant’s award is announced Sam is passed out on the couch, sleeping next to Roxy.
The host, Peyton Manning, calls Grant’s name after going down an insanely long list of accomplishments too numerous to discuss. The camera finally focuses on Grant––and the beautiful blonde with her arm hooked under his.
I can feel my pulse in my throat.
She flashes him a million-dollar smile and reluctantly lets him go when he stands to accept his award. Jogging up the steps, he shares a number of bro-pats on the back with Peyton. They exchange many words; it’s obvious they’re friends. Then, Peyton hands him the statue.
I am crestfallen. I don’t recognize him anymore. He’s smiling, loose, happy. I’m not saying he needs to be sad but this isn’t him.
Who is this dude and what happened to the one who left yesterday morning? The man that has steadily and methodically taken me apart piece by piece only to put me back together again better than I have ever been. Where’s that guy?
Tamping down the storm of emotions that are gathering, I get a hold of my composure.
“...I was blessed with skill that allowed me to do what I love at the highest level. Few of us can say that and I’ve always been acutely aware of how lucky I am––”
His voice, the voice that yesterday felt like home at present sounds stiff and unfeeling, foreign. It’s Siberia to me now.
“We play the game for the love of the game, but we also play for the glory. And with the glory comes responsibility––”
Dev: Are you watching? Don’t turn into a love zombie.
I’m so down I don’t have the energy to text her back.
“––To shed light on the ones that are ignored. To listen to the ones without a voice. To defend the ones that can’t defend themselves. This, the work we do when we aren’t on the field, isn’t about glory or trophies. It’s about how many we can help. And if I’ve made one woman or child’s life just a little bit better, then I’ve succeeded. But we can’t do it alone. Give your time, give a dollar, give a hug. Do whatever you can.”
Holding up the statue, he nods curtly at the audience and walks off, stage left.
The texts start at 1 a.m.
Klutzy Knight: Hey. Sorry I didn’t text back sooner.
Klutzy Knight: Did you watch?
Klutzy Knight: Amanda…
Klutzy Knight: Hello?
Klutzy Knight: I’m getting worried. Please text me back so I know you’re okay.
Klutzy Knight: Are you ignoring me?
Klutzy Knight: answer the phone.
The phone rings exactly ten times after that. By 3 a.m. I’m tired, pissed, and worried that he’ll send a police cruiser over if I don’t answer.
“Yes?”
“What the fuck?” he says in a low voice.
He never ever uses the f word so I know we’re treading new territory.
“What? I’m tired, Grant. What is it?” Sitting up in bed, I rub my face.
“What is it?” he echoes, tone incredulous. “I’m going nuts over here, thinking something’s wrong. That something God forbid happened to you or Sam and you’re tired?”
“Don’t you have people to wow? To dazzle with your sparkling personality? Why are you calling me?”
He gasps or chokes or growls, something of that nature. “What’s going on with you? What is it, Amanda?”
“What’s going on with me?” I huff. “What’s going on is that I’m an idiot! A naive idiot. I knew it was a mistake to let myself believe and yet I called an audible when I should have stuck with the original game plan. But I didn’t. My fault. I knew I had no business even contemplating whatever it was that I imagined was happening between us. And for that, I have only myself to blame. I’m an emotional masochist and you’re an incredible temptation. When you’re being the sweet guy. Not the other guy––the faker I saw on camera. Eyes wide open. Eyes! Wide! Open! Now I know it’s an act. Fine. Good. No harm no foul. Nothing happened. The summer is almost over. You’ll be back to doing…you––since you’re healed and ready to venture back into the world. And I’ll do whatever it is I do. Which is usually food shopping. And working. And cleaning. Rinse. Repeat. Okay? Is that okay with you? I’m happy doing that. I’m happy. Haaappy. Are we done now? The bell has rung on this bitch––time to go to our mutual corners.”
