by Ivy Jordan
“Don’t get too ahead of yourself,” I offer as advice. “Keep with it one play at a time and everything will happen just like coach says, you know? If you get too far ahead of yourself, then you set yourself up to fail... But yeah, we got this in the bag.”
They’re both still laughing as I leave the weight room and head for the locker room. Discarding the bag of pretty much melted ice in the trash, I get dressed and grab my things to head out. I wave to a couple trainers and security staff on my way to the parking lot and climb into my matte black Ford F-150 pickup truck. Lots of guys have expensive SUVs and sports cars, but I don’t need a flashy car.
Playing for the Los Angeles Condors has been the best thing about my life for a long time. It’s the team that drafted me, it’s been the team I’ve won with. I really don't have any doubts about winning again this year, either. We are truly the best team this season, one of the best the NFL has ever seen.
But something doesn't feel the same anymore.
I’m still on top of my game, and yeah, going to the Super Bowl is a big deal – but I’ve already got more rings than I do fingers on my left hand. Three years ago, we went to the Super Bowl as underdogs. Three years ago, no one thought we’d make the playoffs. We scraped our way through the season, barely making playoffs as a wild card. Every week, I made it my own personal goal to win that week, and we steamrolled through the competition. When we won our conference championship, my goal became setting the record for number of Super Bowl wins. It ended up being my easiest win to date.
Now, looking back on a career I knew was slowing down, I wondered what I was really living for anymore. I had had it all, and then some. But I didn’t have anyone to share it with. Sure, I had a girlfriend, but did I love her? Not particularly. I didn't even have a best friend. I had fame, fortune, and football. But not love, or friendship, or hell, even a family.
Waiting on traffic to turn out of the parking lot, I lean my head back with a sigh. Maybe I didn't have it all. Maybe I've been wrong. Because what kind of life is a life with no meaning?
Chapter Two
Serena
Physics is not a subject that most people find interesting or even fun. I know that. For me, though? It's my life. I love everything about it, and more than that, I love sharing it with others and connecting with them.
Which is why I fought so hard for this class this semester.
Physics at the Movies was my first real chance that let me connect with the students about science in the real world. Science education and outreach is my passion, and while I really want to be able to do this with younger kids, I'll settle for these college kids for now.
In my office, I pause from reading the first papers of the semester, and flick off the music playing in the background when I hear a knock at my door.
“Come in!” I call out.
A blonde girl from my Intro to Astrophysics class walks in with a tentative smile. I smile warmly. “How can I help you?”
“Ms. Jacobs, I was wondering if you could explain stellar evolution to me again? I'm not sure I've got it...” she trailed off.
I gestured towards the chair across from me. “Tell me your name again. I'm afraid I'm having a terrible time remembering everyone just yet.”
“It's Susan, Susan Cooper.”
“Well, Susan, tell me what is stellar evolution.”
“It's the lifetime of a star, how it changes over time.”
“And, how long is that time?”
“Every star is different. It could be a few million years, or a few trillion years.”
“And, how do we know this?”
“By studying numerous stars at varying points of their lifespan and by simulating models on a computer.”
I nod. “I think you know this better than you realize, Susan.”
“Thank you, Ms. Jacobs,” she sighs. “You're the best teacher in the science department.”
“That is kind of you to say.”
“I mean it. No one else takes the time to explain things the way you do and make it fun. I love science, but you make me love it more.”
“Thank you, Susan. Are there any other questions I can answer for you?”
She shakes her head and stands. “No, I'm good. Thanks for your time.”
“My door is always open,” I tell her as I stand walk towards the door with her. She smiles and waves goodbye and I stand in the doorway a minute. I am just about to close the door when I see a fellow professor heading right towards me.
I stifle a groan and force myself to not roll my eyes. Benjamin MacIntosh is the head of the science department, single, attractive, and a few years older than me. A number of the single female professors want to date him, an equally high number of the co-eds, too, and he's got his sights set on me.
I am not at all interested.
Besides the fact that I'm not attracted to him, I have no desire to date someone I work with. I want more than someone I have stuff in common with. I want a spark with someone. I want to feel the passion starting in my toes and coursing through my entire body.
Benjamin MacIntosh does none of that for me.
“Serena, I was just thinking about you,” he starts, leaning in to kiss one of my cheeks and then the other.
I smile although on the inside I want to gag. “What can I do for you today, Ben?”
“Everyone in the department is getting together for a Super Bowl party at my place. The Condors are playing again this year, so it's a pretty big deal. I wanted to invite you personally.”
I had never heard of the Condors. Sports had never been my thing, but I played along. “When is it again?”
“A week from Sunday.”
“I'd love to come, but I have plans with sister. She has a painting in a show that night.”
Benjamin’s smile falters. “Oh, well, if you change your mind, I'll text you the address. Just in case.”
“Just in case,” I humor him. “If you'll excuse me, though, I have some papers to read.”
“Of course. I'll see you soon.”
I wave and disappear inside my office, leaning against the closed door with a sigh. Crossing to my desk, I push the papers aside and flip open my laptop. I mean, I know the Super Bowl is football, but I'm not interested in learning more. Knowing what sport someone is referring to when I hear talk over the next few weeks so I don't look completely clueless is enough.
I click until I get to my email. There’s a notification about new messages on a dating profile I made a few weeks ago when I was home alone with a bottle of wine. Okay. Fine. Two bottles of wine.
I login to the site and click through to the messages. The first few ask for nudes. Delete. The next one is a picture of the sender’s penis. Classy. Delete again. There are three more messages deleted in quick succession. Clicking to my profile, I change a couple of things. If this is what men are like these days, my love life just might be a lost cause.
Looking at the clock and realizing I have a class to teach in ten minutes, I save my profile and close my computer. Collecting my things, I shove everything in my bag.
If it's meant to be, it'll be, I tell myself as I hurry to my next class.
Chapter Three
Cade
I drape a towel over my head and inhale deeply to gather myself. The third quarter is seconds away from starting and we’re down 3-21. It was not what any of us were expecting, getting our asses handed to us in the first half. I'm angry, not at my guys or myself, but the circumstances. It's not that we've played bad; we're playing our game, but the breaks just aren't going our way. I want to win for the new guys, for the rookies, for Jake and Malcolm.
The whistle blows, and I take the field with the rest of my offensive line. In the huddle, I relay the play to the others and we break, lining up on the field. I look over at the defense for Carolina, glaring at each of them, when something in my mind ticks. With a gleaming smile, I get into position and call an audible.
The ball snaps to me, and I search for
my favorite receiver, Gibson. He’s wide open, and I spiral a perfect pass to him as he takes off running, no one covering him since my audible has their defense scrambling. Incredibly, Gibson makes it 65 yards before he is taken down. Two plays later we’re in the end zone, and with the score on the extra point, it’s 10-21.
On the sideline, the team is abuzz with an unmistakable energy as I jog over and take my helmet off. We’re in it. Take no prisoners, in it to win it, whatever you want to call it, but we are in the zone. It is exactly the start we need for the second half.
On the field, Carolina snaps the ball, but our defensive line reads the play perfectly and sacks the quarterback. They gain seven yards on their next play, and ten on the play after that.
And then it happens.
I rise to my feet, everything happening in slow motion as Carolina’s quarterback throws the ball and Malcolm jumps up, snatching the pass from the air and running towards our end zone. It is an incredible play, and I can hardly believe it when the kid reaches the end zone. I hold my breath as we set up for the extra point. We’re playing outdoors, and the wind has picked up from even five minutes ago. I know it might be a problem, hell, everyone in the stadium knows it might be a problem. Lee Smith has been our kicker longer than I’ve been the Condors quarterback, and his success rate is close to perfect.
Time seems to stand still as the ball sails through the air, every one of us on the sideline is willing the ball to go between the posts. A groan runs down our sideline as the ball goes just left of the post. No good. 16-21.
The rest of the quarter passes in a blur until we’re in the fourth quarter, still down. I move the ball down the field, and Carolina’s defense is right there with us, keeping us from the end zone. They move the ball down field, and our defense keeps them from scoring. It’s become like a chess game, trying to anticipate the other guy’s next move, trying to score, trying to keep them from scoring.
I’m pretty sure this game has taken a year off my life, but I’m too wrapped up into it to care. I want this for my team. We have a goal, and now we need to achieve it.
The clock ticks down until there is less than ninety seconds left in the game. We have the ball, but we’re 95 yards from the end zone. In the huddle, I call the play, and we line up on the line of scrimmage. I exhale a breath, yell out at my offensive. “Hut, hut!”
The ball is snapped into my hands, and I’m looking for an open receiver – any open receiver – but there are none. There's only one option for me here: run.
I run like the devil, tearing down the middle of the field as the defense scrambles, my receivers doing everything in their power to stop them from reaching me. I hear the roar of the crowd in my ears, and I have tunnel vision on the end zone. I barely hear the whistle as my feet cross the line, the ref’s arms shooting up in the air. Touchdown.
I just scored a ninety-yard touchdown. In the Super Bowl. A winning ninety-yard touchdown. It’s another record that will have my name on it. The special teams are on the field and setting up for the extra point. The celebrating is already starting on the sideline, guys slapping me on the back, hugging each other. When the extra point is good, there’s more hugging and yelling. We’ve won, 23-21.
I give interviews on the field, but I don’t remember any of them. When they announce the MVP of the game, I’m excited, but not overly surprised to hear them say my name. I accept my award, the cheering crowd deafening, and look around at my teammates and the joy in their smiles. I smile, too, but it almost feels forced. My teammates are celebrating, and I see Jake and Malcolm whooping it up together. I remember those days, I think.
On the big screen, I see the camera pan to Josephine Lowell — blonde, beautiful, bombshell, A-list Hollywood actress — also known as my girlfriend. She’s waving and blowing kisses. Lapping up every moment of the attention, even though she hates football and her agent had to force her to come.
I look away and catch sight of some of my married teammates interacting with their wives and kids. I've played for seventeen years, and while the accolades I've earned have always been nice, there's a feeling in the pit of my stomach I can no longer shake. I yearn for something different. I want something more. I want something football doesn't offer, but I just don't know what it is yet.
Or maybe I do, I just don’t know if I’ll ever get it.
Chapter Four
Serena
“Why did I let you drag me out tonight of all nights?”
My sister Ashley laughs. “Because I promised you a free meal.”
“But it’s Valentine’s Day, and we’re surrounded by happy, lovey dovey couples. Everyone probably thinks we’re lesbians.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing, except you’re my sister, not my lover.”
“Do you have a lover?”
“No.”
“You should take one...or three,” she laughs.
Ashley is a free spirit, or at least that’s how everyone starts off when they describe her. She is a painter, and her art projects are always just a little over my head, but she is my sister and I love her, so here I am.
Ashley is babbling on about the commercialization of love by way of Valentine's Day, a rant I’ve heard every year since she was a freshman in high school and I was a freshman in college.
“I mean, why do we need a day to be told we have to tell the person we love that we love them? Shouldn't you be showing that every day? I don’t want to be taken out and romanced one day a year; I want it every day,” she rants.
I nod in agreement and sip my wine as she continues. “Look at this guy,” she says with a tilt of her head. I follow her eyes and see a couple, probably around my age, and the man has just moved from his chair to one knee. The woman’s hand moves to cover her mouth and even from across the room we can see her eyes glisten with tears. Ashley scoffs.
“This is what I'm talking about. What’s romantic about getting proposed to in a restaurant with dozens of strangers watching right after you ate the salmon? I guarantee he thinks this is some grand romantic gesture because that’s what Hallmark told him. But it’s not. It might even be worse than proposing to a girl at a sporting event. Get real, dude, and come up with a more inventive way to ask your girl to marry you.”
“What do you know about romance, Ash? You are a love ‘em and leave ‘em girl,” I say. My sister loves hard and fast, and it flames out just as quickly. She’s had more boyfriends in the last year than I’ve had in my entire thirty-three years.
“Says the spinster,” Ashley snarks back.
“I’m not a spinster.”
“When was your last date?”
“Eight months ago,” I mumble.
“I’m sorry, come again?”
“Eight months ago.”
“And, your last boyfriend?”
“Fourteen months ago. But that doesn't make me a spinster. I’m selective. I don't want to just date random guys — I want to feel a connection.”
“So, what do you want then?”
“I don’t know. Someone who makes me laugh, who supports me with my dreams.”
“And, what does he look like?”
“Looks aren't everything.”
“They aren't, but you have to be physically attracted to him, nonetheless.”
“I don’t think what he looks like is important, though. He should be kind, and have a job, and love me.”
“So really, he could be anyone.”
I shrug. “When it’s right, you just know. And, I’ll know when it’s right.”
“Okay, but while you wait for him to show up, maybe you could just get laid. You work too much, Serena, and you never go anywhere to meet people, so how is Mr. Right going to find you? Besides, Mr. Right Now could end up being Mr. Right if you went out and met him.”
“I have the online dating profile you insisted I make.”
“And, how many dates have you been on?”
“None.”
“Let’s make a
deal then. You go out on one date in the next week with someone from the dating site, and I will not bug you for a week about meeting someone.”
“I don't know...”
“I know you are my big sister, but seriously, Serena, if you don’t put yourself out there, you won’t ever meet the one. If you’re not at work, you have your nose in a book. If you don’t have your nose in a book, you’re trying to turn nine-year-olds into astrophysicists. And while that is perfectly admirable, it’s all you do: work. You gotta get out and enjoy life for yourself.”
A sigh escapes me. I knows she’s right, even though I don’t want to admit it aloud. “I will try to find one decent guy to go out on a date with this week, okay?”
“Okay. Now, do you see this?” she points subtly at a couple who is being seated nearby. She is carrying a single red rose and looking at her date with what can only be described as heart eyes.
“A red rose on Valentine’s day. Does it get any more generic than that?” Ashley continues. “If a guy ever shows up for a date with me with a single red rose, I swear I’ll swat him in the face with it. The least he could do is find out her favorite flower and bring her that.”
“What if her favorite flower is a rose?” I ask her.
“No one’s favorite flower is a rose.”
I tune out while Ashley continues her rant about flowers. As I look around at the other couples, I realize that despite the corniness of it, I want what these women have. Perhaps not the stereotypically Valentine’s Day gifts, I’d appreciate something a bit more imaginative — but the companionship, I realize, I crave. I'm lonely and I want someone to share my life with.
Chapter Five
Cade
For someone who won the Super Bowl three weeks ago, you wouldn’t know if you saw me. I’ve been in what I can only describe as a funk since that night, probably even before. I have become the living embodiment of a moody, sullen teenager, and I’m thirty-eight years old. It’s ridiculous.
