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“He’s impossible,” Tanya said when everyone finally meandered out into the box, a long room filled with computers and cameras and overlooking the stadium proper. “One of those men that will never admit a woman can know sports as well as he does. He might be a good reporter, but he’s a lousy human being.” Still muttering, she strode to her station.
I took a seat at the side of the box, pulling my chair close to the windows so I could watch everything. Soon enough, the music started blasting, the fog pluming, and the players jogged out onto the field accompanied by screams and cheers of fans.
I could feel my heart fall onto that field.
There he was, number 7, raising one hand to wave and then streaming across the green.
The thing was, it didn’t matter if I sometimes started thinking about a novel in the middle of a game. It didn’t matter if I didn’t understand all the rules, or know what a squib kick meant or what a cutback referred to.
What mattered was Ryan.
Because of Ryan, I could watch this game for hours. Because of him, I wanted to know the rules, to understand, to be able to share it with him. And even now, where I still confused positions and missed vital plays—I wanted to watch.
As he ran, as he threw, caught, passed, crumpled to the ground with the football tucked securely against him. He made this beautiful. I could watch him play football, or cook dinner, or laugh with fans, forever. I wanted to watch him, and to talk to him, and laugh. I wanted to curl up against his side and talk about the world, and I wanted to ride on the carousel. I wanted to listen to his bad singing and hear his bad jokes and travel and go home with him.
I just wanted him.
“Got your eye on one of them down there?” Eddie Bruge chuckled at me during halftime. “I heard you sighing.”
Well, that was awkward. “Oh, I’m just—watching.”
He winked at me. “Maybe you’ll get lucky and catch one of them in the locker room later. Shouldn’t take much for a pretty young thing like you.”
“Leave her alone.” Tanya Jones shot an irritated look at Bruge. “She’s working, not here to catch a boyfriend.”
“Then she oughta be careful about how she dresses.” When Tanya glared even harder at him, he laughed and backed away. “I’m just sayin’...”
“What’s he saying?”
Anger deepened the lines in Tanya’s face, but she drained it away with a sigh. “There’s been some fuss about women in the locker rooms. We go there after the game,” she explained. “So we can get interviews out as quick as possible. But occasionally, there’s some backlash against women going in, because the guys sometimes holler. And then they don’t get blamed, but the women do, for wearing inappropriate clothing.”
I was shocked. “That’s ridiculous. I mean—are guys allowed in the equivalent? What about gay guys? Are they allowed in?”
“Men are allowed in the WNBA locker rooms. And there are parts of the locker rooms that are hidden from sight, for those who want privacy when showering and dressing.”
I would definitely want privacy. I wouldn’t want people shoving microphones in my face while half dressed and still digesting the outcome of a game. Especially not when I lost. I bristled on the guys’ behalf.
The Leopards were six points behind when the third quarter started, and I watched with furrowed brows and white knuckles, my fingers clenching my pen. Ryan played with a raw energy and recklessness I hadn’t seen before, and when he slammed into the ground, his legs twisting in the air like a rag doll’s, I bit my lip until I tasted blood.
I turned to Tanya. “What’s he doing? He’s not usually so crazy.”
Tanya tapped her fingers against the desk. “I don’t know. He was like this last week, too. Could be he’s letting his personal life interfere with his game, though he’s usually better than that.”
I straightened, startled. “What about his personal life?”
She shook her head. “There’re rumors he has a girlfriend. But he’s never let anything affect him before.” Her expression was cool, analytical. “He’s made some great long passes, but he’s acting unpredictably.”
I swallowed and stared down at him. It shook me, the idea that I—that what we had—could affect something this large, a game that so many others depended on.
“Do you think they’ll win? I mean, not just this game, but—how far do you think they’ll go?”
Tanya considered this. “They won the AFC Championship the last go-around, though they had Danvers and Gutierrez in that line-up. But after they bounced back from that crash, they’ve been steady, and they still have Carter and Lindsey. Krasner’s a good change—he’ll get Rookie of the Year, no doubt.” She shrugged. “I’d peg them for the division winner, at least.”
I nodded, and we went back to the game.
By the end, my stomach had tied into a knot. I watched a kick-off that pulled the Leopards even in the last ten minutes, and then, in the last three, watched Ryan pass the ball one last time, ridiculously, impossibly tipping into Malcolm’s hands. As everyone around me cheered and wrote and clapped each other on the back, my entire body trembled from stress. When Bruge’s thick hand landed on my shoulder, I almost jumped from sheer nerves. “Showtime, darling.” He smiled his white smile. “Let’s go meet the Leopards.”
We flowed downstairs, a mass of badges and cameras and recorders. Then we stopped, in front of the locker room, waiting the requisite ten minutes that the players stole for privacy.
