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I thumbed it off, not thinking.
It wasn’t until later, much later, when I realized what I’d sent.
He never responded.
49
BILLIE
We were in the stands the next day, slightly buzzed, and I was fully stressed from this game.
Or, we were very buzzed.
Okay. Extremely buzzed.
Drunk. I was drunk.
So were Lo and Roger.
They got drunk first.
Brett and I weren’t able to finish our sexting conversation last night. He did reply later, but he didn’t comment on the ‘l’ message I’d accidentally and completely hadn’t meant to send, saying his roommate refused to leave. The timing wasn’t ideal, but Brett wasn’t a liar so I believed him, and some of the nerves there smoothed away.
Some of them. Not all.
I’d told him the ‘l’ word and his response was no response. No matter how I sliced that, it wasn’t good.
But we were here and the game was tied, and I was back to stressing. I couldn’t handle this. The back and forth. They were up. We were. They kicked a field goal. We did too. Hence, I was drinking. Travis was our sober bodyguard. Lo deemed him that title since the rest of us were already six beers in, and these beers were big. Roger went off on a whole tangent relating the depth and girth of the Orcas’ beers to certain body parts. Lo couldn’t stand, she was laughing so hard. The people in front of us heard Roger’s tangent, which turned into a lecture (somehow), and that transitioned into a pep-talk, and by the end, it was a motivational speech. Almost every person around us listened to him, and as he stood up on his seat, his beer raised, twenty-three other people joined him in a salute to the mighty Super Bowl defenders.
We were Kings.
As the group chanted together, I got goosebumps.
Wine Roger was now Beer Roger. I forgot how beer affected him.
Someone from the Orcas administration found out I was here and offered a private box. I didn’t think this was normal for the opposing team’s fans, but then again, I didn’t know. It was my first NFL game, much less the first one where I personally knew one of the players.
Brett hadn’t mentioned the use of a private box.
I turned it down, to Lo’s chagrin. It was for the best. Being in a box would’ve put more of a spotlight on me. Camera lenses would and did go there. I’d asked if Brett’s family could use it instead of us, which quieted some of Lo’s drunken whines.
Pun intended, which cracked Lo up so all was good.
Besides Roger’s motivational speech, I wasn’t concerned about being recognized in the stands. My outfit was excellent camouflage. Leggings. Ballcap pulled low over my forehead. Sunglasses. My hair was in a braid. Kings jersey. I’d wanted to wear Brett’s jersey, but wondered if that was pushing my luck. But man, oh man, I was excited for when I could wear his jersey. As a football geek, I was salivating over the chance. Until then, I’d make do with sleeping in it, which I had last night.
Roger was the one wearing Brett’s jersey. (His own. Not the one I slept in. I’d never surrender that to Beer Roger.)
“Let’s go!” Lo surged to her feet, her new beer in hand, and her Kings foam finger in the air. “Come on, Doubard. Make some magic happen.”
We were in the third quarter. Orcas now led seventeen to fourteen. Our offense was having a hard time getting yardage. The Orcas’ defense was one of the best, which showed that their shocking rookie franchise trip to the Super Bowl was not a fluke.
The Kings were mostly running the ball. Their running backs were getting pounded, but they were inching the ball forward. We’d just gotten another first down.
“Doubard hasn’t been able to connect to Reeves all night.” Travis groaned.
“I know.” I shook my head.
They snapped the ball. Lo started laughing as Doubard tried throwing again, but no one was open.
