The restaurant is full, but not too busy as I scan the tables. It doesn’t take long to find my target. After all, there aren’t too many six-foot-five, two hundred and eighty-five pound men who have a build like my best friend.

“Jacob!” I call, seeing my friend turn. He’s so massive, I didn’t even see that he was talking to someone, a petite blonde girl who’s looking up at him with one purpose in her eyes. Jacob gives me a nod and turns back, scribbling a signature along with something else on the piece of paper the girl’s holding before sending her on her way.

“Good to see you, Derrick!” Jacob says as we embrace like we did back when we were roommates in college. It was a pure chance pairing, two jocks, one on the football team and one moving away from the sport, but it clicked.

“You too. How’s the shoulder treating you?” I ask.

“Not as bad as the sportswriters made it out to be. Mostly it was just one hell of a bruise. I’ve been resting it for two weeks now since we’ve got a bye week. I’m good heading into the rest of the season. Then, of course, contract talks.”

Contract talks. Big money. Jacob’s coming off two All-Pro years, and if he’s going to stay with his current team, they’re going to have to pony up some top-flight money this offseason to do it. Everyone’s saying the team would be smart to try and sign him to an extension before crunch time.

“Big contract so you can pay for all of your groupies,” I joke. “What is it, thirty-two girls for thirty-two cities now?”

“Don’t hate the player, hate the game,” Jacob jokes. “Green ain’t your color, bro. You ain’t a Notre Dame fan. Besides, I know that when I find the right girl, I’ll settle down. Until then, fuck it. What about you?”

“Not my thing,” I admit, sitting down at the table across from him. The waitress comes over, taking our orders, and then I continue. “I’m not gonna hate on you, but that’s just not what I’m looking for right now.”

“You never were,” Jacob admits. “No matter how many times I tried to bring you to the dark side.”

“What can I say? I saw the real thing with my parents, and I’ve never been able to settle for less. Besides, it’s not like I don’t get out there at all.”

“We all heard that. Lookin’ for that perfect freak in the sheets, lady in the streets, I guess. Anyway, I won’t bust your balls. How’s work?”

“Fine. Been busy, more folks calling in and we can’t even get to them all in a three-hour show. But the show seems to be helping people and the ratings are through the roof.”

Jacob laughs, sipping his sparkling water. “Yeah, I’m not surprised. I heard last night’s show. You probably caused every woman listening to come right then and there. Shit, I’m good, never get complaints for damn sure, but hell, even I was taking notes. Never hurts to up your game a little bit.”

We laugh, and I remember what Jacob told me last time we got together. Apparently, more and more of his teammates are listening in to my show as well. It seems odd that celebs and people I know would be listening to the show, but I do majorly appreciate the support. Somehow, when I’m on the mic, it feels more anonymous. The ‘Love Whisperer’ is just more of an amped-up facet of my personality, not exactly the real everyday version of me.

“You ever miss ball?” he asks me after we finish our food. “I mean, you helped me train during the offseasons. I know you still had the skills back in college.”

I shake my head, leaning back. I remember those days, sweating it out in the winter weight room, the summers running wind sprints with Jacob up and down the steps of the stadium. Even though I’m ninety pounds lighter than him, there were too many times I was a step behind or busting my ass just to keep pace. I had the love of the game, but not that one in ten thousand talent like him. “No, not really. I miss the teamwork, the brotherhood. But it wasn’t meant for me. I’m happy where I landed. You?”

He nods, rolling his shoulder unconsciously, and I wonder how much of what he told me about his injury being just a bruise was bullshit. If it is an injury, his season’s going to be a lot harder than he’s letting on. “Definitely happy. It’s a crazy amount of work and I already feel like an old man on some days, but it’s all I ever dreamed of.”

“I’m glad,” I reply honestly. “You think you’ll make All-Pro again?”

“Pretty sure,” Jacob says with a smile. “You coming to the game tomorrow? Season kick-off.”

I nod, grinning. “It’s a hell of a drive, but no way I’m missing it. Already pre-recorded my show for tomorrow. It’ll be an all-write-in show so that I can watch my boy get his ass whooped.”

Jacob laughs. “Fuck you, man. You know I’m going to be having a party in the backfield.”

“I hope you party all fucking night long. I’ll be partying right with you if you do.”

* * *

One of the benefits of being a radio celebrity is that my face isn’t as well-known as my name. So as I sit in prime seats, fifty yard line, two rows up, right behind the players, I’m pretty anonymous. If I yelled, Jacob could probably hear me, but I won’t distract him like that because he’s at work.

The game is close coming out of halftime, and the tension strums through the stadium. I can see Jacob stretching his shoulder subtly as he leans low to keep his hamstrings warm and loose. He’ll be going out with the defense to start the second half and there’s a bounce in his step that reminds me how much I loved playing ball.

It started when I was only four years old, throwing a miniball around with my dad, watching games, or at least highlights, since what four year old can sit through a three-hour football game when there were cartoons around, but I loved pretending I was one of the guys on the big TV in our living room.

When I was six, Dad started me with peewee flag ball, the ball damn-near the size of my head. In some ways, I was lucky. Spending four years playing flag allowed me to learn and understand the movements of the game without taking hits. Not that it started that way. For my first year, it seemed every snap the play turned into everyone being directionless ants, running around the field and sometimes generally toward someone who had the ball.

Once I got into sixth grade, he let me play a year of Pop Warner ball before junior high started, and the games got more serious. I learned to appreciate the smell of sweaty plastic and to listen for the sound of my parents in the stands, cheering for me. They never, ever missed a game.

It was during the last game of my junior year that I jacked up my knee. I was playing fullback and linebacker for my team—we were that sort of small school. A chop block on my blind side, two pops, and I was down on the grass with a lot of my dreams strained but not yet shattered.

The surgery wasn’t much, a quick repair to my meniscus,

some therapy, and I would’ve been good to go for my senior year. But while it healed, I reported on the playoffs for the little in-school TV program, and I was gone, hook, line, and sinker.

Sure, I played my senior year. I’d put too much into the team and too much time with my boys to just let it go like that. But I didn’t eat, sleep, and breathe football like I did before. Dad was disappointed at first, but I’d shown him how serious I was, even interning the summer after I graduated with our local news station as a gopher guy, running for coffees and making copies just so I could be in the excitement of the whole process.

Sitting in my seat, enjoying the late summer breeze and sunshine, watching Jacob and his team fight for victory, pushing their bodies to the limits . . . there’s a part of me that wants to be out there. But knowing that they’ll be traveling in a few days just to do it all again doesn’t make me miss playing.

Maybe I miss reporting sports, but not the actual playing. It was fun to be able to get to know and to watch the athletes, and hell, it was a lot of fun to be paid to watch. Then again, I had a lot of late nights trying to cram a story in to meet a deadline. The job I’ve got now is a pretty sweet gig, and I can always watch the game without playing or reporting on them. I can be casual and have fun with it now.

The second half kickoff soars through the air, and I sit forward, cheering as Jacob snugs his chinstrap tight. He jogs out onto the field, ready to defend his house.

In this instance, better him than me.