Page 63 of Last Slice of Pie

Of course they’re being optimistic right now; therapist is part of their job title. We lost and they are having to do damage control to fifty-plus brokenhearted grown men. I wouldn’t wish that upon my worst enemy, yet as a captain I have an obligation to this team, to these guys, and I am required to follow suit. I know this, and as much as I’m drowning on the inside, I know I’m going to do what’s right, even if I feel it’s all my fault to begin with. Accepting my lot in life for the next hour or so, I tighten my hand around the face mask of my helmet and slip into my role.

Damn, this sucks.

As I let out a deep breath, the guys and I follow behind them. I pat a few teammates on the back and give them encouraging smiles. It’s what I’m expected to do, so it’s what I do, but after this, after the interviews, I’m finding the closest grocery store so I can go back to my hotel room and drown my sorrows in a twelve-pack and a French silk chocolate pie.

French Silk Chocolate Pie

AS THE GAME came to an end, the mood in the suite was about as sad as I’ve ever felt. Conversations are kept quiet, a few are still shedding tears, and even the remaining food has turned soggy and wilted, the Swiss bacon bites looking less than appetizing.

Everyone is devastated. Sure, we’re sad because our team lost, but this feeling of inadequacy and helplessness is for our guys down there who are feeling a disappointment like they’ve never felt before.

There’s pandemonium on the field. People are running around everywhere, celebrating, but my eyes are glued to him. Amongst a thousand people, I can easily spot him—I can spot him anywhere. If anyone ever wonders what a broken heart looks like, there it is, and it’s walking through a sea of people donning black T-shirts and black hats that say Champions. More than anything, I wish they were teal, but destiny had a different outcome for today.

Fingers on my arm have me turning my head and coming face to face with Missy. Her eyes are damp, but she has her shoulders pulled back and a small smile on her face. Camille is standing behind her, and they both seem to be waiting for me.

“Are you ready?” she asks, shifting her bag over her shoulder. Most of the suite has cleared out, and there are only a few of us left.

“I don’t know,” I reply as my gaze drifts back to the free-for-all down below.

Will he want to see me? Will he blame me for the loss? I mean, I know it’s not my fault, but I’m not blind to the stares I’ve been getting today, not only from people in the suite but from the fans below us who’ve turned around to look our way.

“They need us,” she says quietly, and that’s all she has to say. My spine snaps straight, and the fog of uncertainty clears. After all, that’s why I’m here. Win or lose, everyone needs someone, and despite what he said that day at his house, I know I’m his someone. Deep down, I think I’ve always been his someone.

Collecting my things, I take one last look around the suite then follow them out. It’s okay, I tell myself. They’ll get their chance another year. I know as we make our way down to the family room and for the next few weeks there will be glares and comments tossed my way, and whereas a month ago I would have folded and retreated, today I will hold my head high. It isn’t about them; it’s about us. If he can stand on display day in and day out with the scrutiny and the judgment, so can I. After all, everyone knows they can only hurt me if I let them, and I choose not to let them. I choose him.

Two security guards and one member of the opposing team’s public relations department escort our group down to the ground level. This year, the losing team is being ushered to immediately do their postgame press conference while the winning team receives the championship trophy. This gets them in and out, and we all know they want to go home.

The holding room where we’ll wait is packed. There are family members everywhere, people from young to old, and I’m shocked by how crowded the room is. Maybe it’s because at the home games, people stayed home, but here it’s almost overwhelming, and as we walk in, I feel the lull in conversations as people stare.

Ignoring them, eyes forward, Missy, Camille, and I move as a unit to an empty space, which gives me a direct view of the door the guys will come through.

“Ignore them,” Camille whispers, leaning in.

“I am. I just keep telling myself you gotta fake it till you make it.” I wipe my hands across my thighs and let out a deep sigh.

“Darlin’,” Missy says, stepping in front of me to look me in the eye, “you don’t have to fake anything. You’re about as real as it gets, and we love you for it.” She squeezes my arm, and I feel my eyes burn.

Finding inner strength isn’t always easy. It takes an understanding of mindfulness and compassion, not only for ourselves but our surroundings too, and it gives us greater resilience. As much as I hate to admit it, I think the separation from Bryan was good for me. It gave me time to analyze myself, to see where the cracks were and how I needed to fill them. After all, resilience isn’t something we’re born with. It isn’t a personality trait; it’s about paying attention, listening to yourself, and channeling your inner superhero.

She’s right—I am real, I am strong, and I am the person I need to be, for me and for him. He just wants me, and I just want him, just as we are. It is that simple. Yes, stressful situations are going to happen in life, but I believe together we can change how we react during them and come out together on the other side.

We can do this. I know we can.

I just hope he does, too.

On both sides of the locker room exit door, two large televisions have been set up. They flicker to life and show that the press conference for the Tarpons is about to begin. There’s a short table, and at it are the team’s head coach and Bryan. Moving to stand behind them are the offensive and defensive coaches. All of them look exhausted, yet they exude a level of professionalism that can only be seen in true leaders.

Bryan has pulled a gray sweatshirt on in place of his pads and jersey, he has the black grease smudges under his eyes, and his hair, which is still sweaty, is sticking up everywhere. He looks good, and knowing he’s so close after the last couple of weeks, I feel like I’m going to burst.

The room quiets as Bryan leans forward, and into the Sports Network branded microphone, he says, “How are you doing, guys?”

His voice moves through me like a shot of adrenaline, and everyone around me disappears. It’s just me and him, and I can’t tear my eyes away. It’s then I realize Bryan isn’t channeling his inner superhero—he is a superhero, my superhero, and when given the chance, I’m going to tell him.

One by one, questions are fired at him, and he answers them honestly and openly.

“Yeah, we had a chance, but they consistently made a lot of good plays, and we just couldn’t get the job done. We battled, and it was competitive, but it just wasn’t our day.” He shrugs, nods, and looks at the next reporter.

We can’t hear the questions, but we do see the visceral reactions he has to them as he smiles, grimaces, rubs the back of his neck, runs his hand through his hair, and swipes it over his face.