SHANE

 

June 8th

Charles Windt Stadium

Los Angeles, CA

 

 

“I cannot believe you talked me into this,” Sutton mutters under her breath.

I look down at her with a proud smile. “I can’t either. You’re such a sucker.”

She glances around to make sure we’re out of earshot. No one is close by. Mom has disappeared to the bathroom and everyone else attending the ring ceremony is either at the bar, on the dancefloor, or around one of the fifty tables set up in the hall. It looks a lot like the Draft parties we have every April. Same decorations. Same caterers. Same lame DJ. The only difference is the atmosphere. The energy is higher. We’ve never had a Super Bowl win before. Every Kodiak in the room is proud to be a part of making history for the franchise. We’ll be remembered forever for this. Someday we’ll be old men sitting in nursing homes with bad knees, head trauma, and milky eyes, but we’ll remember this moment like we’re living it again. Like we’re immortal.

“You asked me to come to this party with you when I was still hoarse from a screaming orgasm,” Sutton whispers to me ferociously. “That’s entrapment in any country.”

“Tell it to the cops,” I reply flippantly.

“Don’t think I won’t call them.”

“Do it. I’ll tell them I want you arrested for the hate crime you committed on my shoes.”

“Yes,” she agrees dryly. “Because I meant to vomit on your shoes. That was the whole reason I did it. To mess up your kicks.”

I snort. “Don’t say ‘kicks’. You’re way too Upper East Side to get away with it.”

“Fuck ya mutha,” she tells me in a thick New York accent that is anything but Upper East.

I smile down at her. “You sounded like Joe Pesci. How was that hot?”

“Because you’re weird.”

“I think everything you do is hot. Even puking on my shoes.”

“Oh my God,” she groans. “Send me the bill. Let it go.”

“Which bill? For the shoes or the emotional scarring?”

“All of it. It doesn’t matter. I won’t pay any of it.”

“Pay for what?” Mom asks, appearing out of nowhere like a fifty-year-old ninja. My skills are slipping. I forgot how light her tread is. She used to sneak up on Clint and me doing all kinds of bad shit when we were kids. It wasn’t fair. It was like living with the CIA. She saw everything…

“My shoes,” I answer dryly. “Sutton puked on them.”

Mom waves me away dismissively. “Shane, you spend more money on tennis shoes than you do on food. You can do without one pair.”

 I nod slowly. “So this is how it’s gonna be, huh? You’re just gonna gang up on me?”

“Yes.”

“Cool. This’ll be a fun night. I’m going to the bar. I need a beer.” I swing my hand between the two of them. “Do either of you need anything?”

“Ice water, please,” Sutton replies cordially, like she’s a perfect little angel.

“Lemon?”

“Perfect.”

“Mom?”

She eyes the bar like there’s a menu to read from. There’s not. “Do you think they have whiskey?”

“I think they mostly have whiskey.”

“The good stuff, too,” Sloane says from behind me. I turn to find her smiling in a little black dress with a gray baby sling strapped across her chest. She holds up a glass with about two fingers of amber liquid at the bottom. “Eighteen year old Macallan.”

“Oh!” Mom cries excitedly. She opens her arms to give Sloane a quick hug before looking down into the bundle pressed to her body. “This must be Ben. He’s so beautiful, sweetheart.”

“Thank you, Lynn.”

Mom has met Sloane before. They bonded over a love of alcohol at Colt and Lilly’s engagement party and have been Facebook BFFs ever since. Sloane has a soft side that not everyone gets to see, but my mom brings it out in her. They share adorable pictures of animals back and forth, and Mom has been working on teaching Sloane how to cook. She sends her crockpot recipes and Tasty videos that she feels are in Sloane’s depth. I think Mom sees Sloane as the daughter she always secretly wanted.

“How’s he doing?”

Sloane smiles proudly. “He’s getting chunky. He’s doing great.”

“Good job, baby boy,” Mom sings to him. “You gave us all a scare there, didn’t you? Yes, you did. But you’re strong like your mommy and you’re going to be big like Daddy, aren’t you? Yes. Yes, you are.”

I look Sloane dead in the eye. “She’s gonna steal your baby. Keep him close tonight.”

“Shut up, Shane,” Mom sings to me, still looking down at Ben. “I’ll take what Sloane’s having. Macallan, neat.”

“You got it.”

“I’ll have the same,” Sutton calls after me.

I turn slowly to look at her. “Are you sure? Neat means there’s nothing diluting it. You’re ordering straight whiskey.”

“It won’t kill me to try it. And besides, how bad can it be?”

“It’s good,” Sloane assures her happily. “It’s so good I pumped all day to make sure I had enough milk to drink my ass off. Ben and I are both on the bottle tonight.”

Sutton shrugs. “I’ll give it a shot.”

“Your funeral. Two Macallans coming right up.”

“Thank you!” Mom and Sutton shout after me.

On the way to the bar, I stop by one of the TVs set up around the room. They’re playing the Super Bowl game. Some are hitting the highlights but this one is playing every single second of it as though it’s airing live right now. It’s the fourth quarter. We’re up, but the fight isn’t over yet. The defense just forced a turnover. The ball is ours again.

I feel a knot rise in my throat when I realize what’s about to happen.

The ball is snapped. You can see it better on the tape than I could there on the field in the fray, but the reality is the same – they’re blitzing our quarterback. Domata falls back. He sees the pocket shrinking but he doesn’t panic because that’s just not what Trey ‘Ice Man’ Domata does. He keeps his cool, his eyes downfield, and just as one of the Pat’s linemen is making a charge at him, he launches the ball in a tight spiral that nails Kurtis Matthews in the chest like a bullet. And then that guy is gone. Good night and good luck, you’re never gonna catch that man. He runs through coverage, assisted by blocks coming from Lefao and Hibbert. He’s at the twenty. The ten. Touchdown. The crowd goes wild.

But that’s not what I’m watching. That’s not the highlight of the play, not for me. My moment is about to come in three… two… one.

Boom!

Domata takes a late hit from some lard ass in blue. The ball has been out of Trey’s hands for at least three seconds, and Fattie still lays him out like a rug. Angry cries rise from around the stadium. A whistle is blown, flags are on the field, but I don’t give a shit. Not then and not now. I feel an echo of the anger I see in the video as I watch myself rip off my helmet, rush toward Domata, and grab the collar of the Pat getting up off him. He’s talking shit, which already pisses me off, but when he spits on Domata’s jersey, I see red.

I yank back hard, throwing him off balance. He’s three hundred-plus pounds of defensive linemen, but I throw him to the ground like he’s made of feathers. His helmet pops off, and right there I’m in trouble. I know it. He’ll get a penalty for the late hit but I’ll probably get benched for manhandling him. But Domata is down and it’s my job to protect him, so when I see the Pat’s sweaty face glaring up at me, I don’t hesitate to punch Fattie hard in the nose.

More whistles. More flags. Blood on the field and arms around my waist to pull me back. I didn’t know it was Hibbert at the time but it’s good that it was. He’s one of the few guys on the team bigger than I am.

Coach Allen stands on the sidelines without moving. He’s a statue as he watches me shout shit I can’t remember at the guy on the ground. His teammates rush in to help him up. My teammates work together to hold me back. A ref gets in my face (this part I actually remember) and tells me I’m out of the game. I’m being ejected from the Super Bowl and I’m not the least bit sorry.

I leave the field with my head held high.

The TV blinks off. The lights flicker, bringing everything in the room to a halt. All eyes turn to the stage as Trey goes to stand behind the microphone. The room erupts in cheers as he walks across the platform with a smile on his face. He’s dressed in a sharp blue suit. He holds a beer in one hand, his long fingers wrapped loosely around the neck so it dangles at his side. His other hand is stuffed in his pocket casually. He looks totally at ease standing in front of a crowd of over a hundred people, a hundred sets of eyes watching and waiting, and it’s clear why he’s one of the best QBs in the nation. Trey Domata has pure ice water in his veins. Nothing shakes him.

“How’s everyone doing?” he asks the room.

We cheer loudly. Women ‘woo!’ Men whistle.

Trey smiles at the enthusiasm. “It’s a good night, am I right?”

“Fuck yeah!” Hibbert cries above everyone else.

Trey chuckles. “I hope no one has their kids in the room because I have a feeling that’s going to keep happening.”

“Just yours!” Sloane shouts laughingly.

“Get him a beer. He’ll be alright.”

The room laughs quietly. Eyes linger on Sloane and Ben, but I’m looking at Sutton smiling next to her. I’ve always thought Sloane was hands down one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen, but standing next to Sutton, she pales in comparison. My girl could outshine the sun.

“This is a big night for the Kodiaks,” Trey continues. “We are the first ever Super Bowl champions for this franchise.”

“Yeah!” we roar.

Trey waits patiently for us to quiet down. “It’s been a long road full of injuries and close calls, but we came out on top. We finally brought it home. And this coming year, I know we can do it again. You feel me?!”

“Yeah!” the Kodiaks shout in unison.

Trey starts our cheer with, “Raise the banner!”

“Fly it high!” we call back.

“Bang the drum!”

“We hear it cry!”

“Bring it home!”

“It’s do or die!”

“Who dat?! Huh?!” he chants, riling us up higher the way he does on the field before the game. “Who dat?!”

“The Kodiaks!” we roar. “What?!”

“Who dat, huh?! Who dat?!”

“The Kodiaks!”

“The Kodiaks!”

“The Kodiaks! Hoo!” Trey sings with us.

He claps, leading us all to clap with him. We’re applauding ourselves and our brothers. Our team. Our victory. It feels so good, I have tears in my eyes as I shout to the roof.

“Go Kodiaks!”

“Our rings are here!” Trey cries over the din.

“Yeah!”

“Are you ready for them?!”

“Yeah!”

“I can’t hear you!”

“Yeah!”

Trey smiles, bringing his hands down slowly. It immediately lowers our applause with it, quieting the room. In the corner, I can hear Ben crying angrily at the raucous we’ve caused. “Sit tight. Those are coming at the end of the ceremony. First, we have awards to give out and a couple surprises up our sleeves. Colt! Tyus! Come on up guys. Floor is yours.”

We applaud as Trey hands things over to Colt and Tyus. They wheel out a table covered in small gold trophies that look a lot like the kind you give a kid who just played soccer for the first time. This part of the ceremony isn’t serious in any way. Some of the awards going out will be for real achievements like the MVP and Best Rookie. But the others are for fun. Shit like Most Tacos Eaten in Texas with a follow up award for Laid the Biggest Dump in Texas.

I get my beer and the whiskeys for Mom and Sutton before heading back to our corner. Trey gets there about the same time. The girls have scored a table all to themselves, and he leans down to kiss Sloane on the cheek. Ben gets one on the top of his bald little head. He’s quieted as Sloane rocks him back and forth in her arms, but she doesn’t let up. Once she does, he’ll probably go off again. 

I hand my girls their drinks just as the first award is being announced.

“The MVP isn’t going to be a surprise to anyone,” Colt announces. He holds a legit trophy in his hand. It’s curving glass on a smooth black base that looks like a flame from a candle. “He’s the reason we’ve gotten anywhere these last couple years. He’s smooth. He’s sharp. He’s devilishly handsome. He probably should have stayed up here because now we’re calling him back – Trey Domata!”

“Shit,” Trey chuckles, running up to accept his award.

“The MVP is the Most Valuable Player, right?” Sutton asks quietly.

“Yeah. He won it last year too. And Best Rookie.”

“The quarterback almost always wins MVP,” Sloane explains. “They’re in the spotlight a lot. It’s easy to get noticed.”

“He’s the face of the team. When people think Kodiaks they think Trey Domata.”

“What position do you play?” Sutton asks me curiously.

I meet Sloane’s eyes over her head. She winces at me sympathetically.

“Left guard,” I tell Sutton patiently.

“Do you ever win these awards?”

“He did last year,” Mom tells her proudly. “He got the Pumpkin King award.”

“What’s that?”

“A made up thing,” I mutter like it’s nothing.

Sloane isn’t having that. She happily explains to Sutton, “We had a family day at the pumpkin patch and Shane was playing with a bunch of the kids. They dared him to eat a whole, raw pumpkin. Seeds and all.”

Sutton looks up at me aghast. “And you did?”

“Hell yeah, I did,” I laugh. “No regrets.”

“He even ate the stem,” Mom adds.

“I pooped orange for like three days after.”

Sutton’s lips curl away from her teeth. “That’s disgusting.”

“You’re not proud of me for eating my vegetables?”

“No.”

“Hater,” I mutter.

The night moves on slowly. Tyus and Colt hand out a shit ton of awards for some seriously stupid stuff, but it’s fun. Matthews gets the Media Hostility award for never speaking to the press. Swanson gets the Benjamin Button award for shaving his beard and shocking us all with the baby face he was hiding underneath. An hour later and the table is looking sparse. The food has been eaten. Guys are getting anxious to get their Super Bowl ring already, including me.

“How much longer do these awards go on?” Sutton whispers to me.

I check my watch, grimacing. “Probably another hour.”

“Oh. Okay.”

She says it like it’s no big deal, but I can see the anxiety in her eyes. She’s miserable. When I look around the room, I know that she’s not alone. These awards are fun for the guys on the team because most of them are inside jokes that have built up throughout the year. For anyone on the outside, though, it’s lame. It doesn’t make much sense and it’s dragging on for way too long. It’s like if Sutton made me go to opera or something. I wouldn’t know anyone or what was going on, and I’d be checking my watch every twenty minutes to see if the torture was over yet.

I bump her leg with mine under the table. “Hey. You wanna sneak out for a minute?”

She eyes me suspiciously. “Sneak out to where and to do what?”

“What are you up for?”

“Not that,” she warns sharply.

I grin, shrugging my shoulders. “I had to ask. That’s not what I meant.”

“What’d you mean?”

“Do you want to see the field?”

Sutton glances around the room before deciding anything has to be better than this. “Yes,” she answer firmly.

I whisper to my mom that we’re taking a walk because Sutton is bored. She nods in understanding without looking at me. She’s too busy playing Candy Crush on her phone.

Sutton and I slip out of the room without much notice. Sloane and Trey see us, but they don’t care. They look worn out and uninterested in anything but alcohol and their baby, like every other parent of a newborn.

It takes a while to make our way through the building to the field. We’re in the big hall on the second floor by the offices for administration and coaching staff. To get to the field, we have to cross to another building, go down a massive freight elevator, and walk through the long tunnels under the seating surrounding the stadium. Sutton perks up once we’re ‘backstage’. It probably feels somewhat familiar to her to be behind the scenes where things aren’t nearly as pretty as they are up front. This is where the real work goes on and it’s gritty and massive, but she takes it in with a genuine look of interest in her eyes.

I didn’t realize until now how much I want her to like the stadium. I’m anxious about how she’ll react to being on the field.

“Locker rooms,” I tell her as we pass them. “Utility room. Storage. Clinic. Saunas.”

“Is this how you come out to the field?” she asks curiously.

“This is the tunnel. On the other side are the locker rooms for visiting teams. They come out that tunnel. The shitty one.”

“What makes it shitty?”

“It’s for teams other than ours.”

She snickers, the soft sound echoing off the walls around us, mingling with our footsteps. Hers are faster than mine. Even though I’m trying to keep a slow pace for her, the difference in the length of our legs forces her to work harder to keep up with me. She doesn’t complain, though. That’s something I’ve noticed about Sutton. Despite her anger and irritation, it’s rare that she actually complains about anything. Scolds, yes. But she doesn’t complain.

The field is dark when we get outside. It’s underwhelming. There’s a lot more impact when you come out with all of the lights blazing and fans in every corner screaming your name. Calling for blood. Tonight it’s silent and still. It’s just a field surrounded by cement, and I nearly apologize for bringing her out here.

“How many people can fit in here?” she asks curiously, her voice quiet. Almost hushed.

“Over ninety-thousand.”

“Wow,” she whispers. “That is… wow.”

“It’s the largest football stadium in the world.”

She smiles sideways at me. “Do you know what the largest theater on Broadway is?”

“No clue.”

“Gershwin. It has one thousand nine hundred and thirty-three seats.”

“Broadway needs to up its game.”

She chuckles quietly, her eyes still scanning the stands.

“Have you performed there?” I ask seriously.

“Yes. We sold it out with Peter Pan. I thought I was pulling in a big crowd, but this…” Sutton laughs in amazement. “Your audience is nearly fifty-times that size.”

“It’s not my audience,” I remind her.

“You know what I mean.”

“I do, but it’s different. If you were in a production of Cats that was going head to head with a production of Rent, you’d pull in more than two thousand people.”

“Going head to head doing what?”

“I don’t know. Mud wrestling?”

She frowns. “What?”

“Whatever,” I laugh. “The point is, ninety thousand people don’t come here just to watch the Kodiaks. It’s two different fan bases. There’s nothing to compare here.”

She shakes her head, looking around at the stands again. “I don’t know. I think you won this one. Hands down.”

“Maybe, but I’d buy every seat in the Gershwin to see you perform.”

“Tough luck. I don’t do that anymore.”

“You could.”

“No,” she laughs dismissively. “I really can’t.”

“Could you try? Right now? For me?”

She looks at me in surprise. “What are you asking me to do? Dance for you?”

I shake my head, backing away toward the stands. “Nope. I’ve seen you dance. You’re decent.”

“Gee, thanks,” she replies dryly.

“I want a show I’ve never seen before.” I can’t get up into the stands. The gates leading to them are locked and I’m not about to climb the wall in my suit. But I’m able to take a seat on a bench on the Kodiak’s sideline. “I want to hear you sing,” I call to her.

Sutton laughs. Her voice echoes over the field, bouncing off the cement surrounding us. “You do, do you?”

“Stalling!”

She scowls at me viciously. “Don’t be an idiot. Come back over here.”

“Not until you sing for me.”

“I don’t sing for free.”

“I’ll give you all the money in my wallet.”

“How much is that?”

“I don’t know. Four hundred, I think.”

She gapes at me. “You’re running around with four hundred dollars in your wallet?”

“Stalling!” I laugh.

“Ugh,” she groans miserably. She’s legit torn. Part of her wants to do it, maybe just to see how it would feel to perform on the largest stage she’s ever seen. But another part of her doesn’t want to dredge up her past. I wonder if it’s wrong of me to push her. Am I treating her like her mom did? Am I forcing her to do things she genuinely does not want to do? Or am I helping her reclaim that part of her that was stripped away too soon?

I honestly don’t know and I’m about to stand up and tell her to forget I said anything when suddenly she lifts her head. She points her face to the stands behind me. She inhales deeply and she starts to sing.

I’ve never heard the song before but I don’t go to the theater. Ever. It’s probably famous as hell. It’s probably been sung by a thousand actors and actresses before her, earning awards for some. Standing ovations for others. More than likely, it’s been done to death, but for me it’s brand new. It’s fresh as the night air it dances along, her perfectly pure voice rising and falling on the waves of the wind. It’s a beautiful sound. Better than this stadium deserves. Bigger than Broadway could contain. It’s a shining silver piece of her that’s been kept locked in for years, sheltered from the world and the tarnish it brings.

It’s the achingly beautiful sound of Sutton finally freed.