I call my mom.

Obviously.

Who else would I call first?

She’s the reason I’m here. She’s the reason I have a chance at the post-season. She’s done everything for me.

“Hey, Mom, if I win the Super Bowl, want me to get you another house?”

She screams in excitement, so loudly I pull the phone from my ear. Then, she laughs. “Just a new Coach handbag and my favorite Chinese food, please. And I knew you’d make it to the post-season, sweetie. I just knew it.”

“Funny how a lot of people say that, but you actually said that when I was seven,” I say as I make my way toward the stadium exit, pressing the phone closer again.

“And eight, and nine, and ten, and so on. When will I see you again?”

“I’m heading back tonight. I can try to stop by tomorrow, but it’s a tight week since we’re the Thursday night game of the week.”

“You know where to find me, and you also know how to get me tickets on the fifty-yard line for Thursday night, so why don’t I plan on seeing you then?”

“It’s a date.”

“Besides, there’s someone you should see first.”

“Yeah, who’s that?”

She laughs. “Might it be a pretty little lady who you’ve had your eye on since you were a teenager?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say as I near the exit.

“Right. Sure. Keep telling yourself that. Incidentally, I always knew there was something real between the two of you.”

My chest twists when she says that. “You did?”

“I did,” she says, with a smile in her voice. “I could tell you two liked each other. I could tell at the game last week, and I could tell back in high school.”

I want to believe every word she’s saying, but I also don’t know if I can.

“Mom, I’m not sure it’s real for her.”

“Nonsense.”

“I’m serious. I don’t know if she’d get seriously involved with a guy like me.”

She scoffs. “You mean handsome, talented, rich, kind, and good?”

I laugh. “More specifically, I meant someone who’s married to football. That’s what Trent said about me last time I saw him. Do you think it’s true?”

“In many ways, you are, and that’s not a bad thing. What would be bad is not letting her know how much she means to you.”

I heave a sigh. “Why are you always right?”

“It’s a gift. It comes with being a mom,” she says with a light laugh.

I tell her I love her, then I hang up, and open Violet’s contact info.

Telling Violet how I feel isn’t as simple as it sounds, though. How do I convince her there’s room for both her and this other great love in my life? But more so, how do I even know if she wants to make room for me in her life? Not to mention, what the hell do I say to her brother?

I’m not sure I have the answers, but maybe the cross-country flight will give me time to sort them out. For now, I want to hear her voice.

I call her as the security guard opens the door that leads to the lot with our bus. She answers on the second ring. Her voice is a little hoarse. “The time you threw the touchdown pass in the fourth quarter against Baltimore in the game that sealed the wild card. That’s my new favorite play of the season.”

I laugh, remembering when we first played boyfriend–girlfriend Jeopardy! “Funny, that’s mine, too,” I say, mouthing a thank you to the security guard. I stop in my tracks when something wet lands on my forehead. Then my cheek. Then my hair. “It’s snowing.”

“It is?” she asks, with wonder in her voice. We don’t get snow in San Francisco.

I hold up my palm. “Holy shit. These are some fat flakes. I had no idea it was snowing. Guess that’s what happens when you play under the dome.”

“By the way, your play under the dome was amazing. My voice is shot from screaming in excitement at the TV,” she says.

“You sound like a frog. A sexy frog. Speaking of, can I see your sexy frog-ness when I return?”

“Ribbit,” she says by way of answer.

“I take it that’s a yes.”

She croaks out a yes.

“Good. There’s a lot I have to tell you. Lot of stuff that went down here before the game. Things I learned.”

“Oh,” she says, her tone suddenly heavy.

“It’s not bad. But it’s better shared in person.”

“I understand.”

I reach the bus. “I’ll let you know when I land. It might be late, though.”

“I’ll either be awake or asleep,” she deadpans.

I laugh. “Yes, those would be the two options.”

As we say goodbye, something seems different in her voice. As if it’s missing some excitement. Some enthusiasm for me. Maybe I’m imagining it, maybe I’m reading too much into one short phone call. I tell myself it’ll all be clear when I see her. But as I sink down into a plush seat on the team bus, I find myself wondering if maybe this is more one-sided than I thought. Perhaps it’s been pretend for her all along.

The snowflakes attack the tarmac, building aggressively into a crazy-ass snowstorm that grounds our flight for the night. We can’t take off on Monday morning, either. By then, the manager of operations is dealing with fifty-three cranky, big-ass players who want to return home because the one thing we like best after winning is our routine.

Living in limbo in Baltimore on a short week is not routine at all.

We pass the time practicing, playing ping-pong and video games, and watching game film at the hotel. We finally take off late Monday night, and by the time we land on the West Coast, it’s the middle of the night.

I text Violet an emoji of a bird landing, and then foolishly hope she’ll reply with come over or I’m waiting on your porch in my birthday suit, but it’s three in the morning and my phone, understandably, is silent. An hour later, I’m home, where my bed and I spend eight hours together before it’s time for a late practice and playoff prep all day Tuesday and into the evening.

I’m not complaining. This is where I want to be right now in my career.

But I also want to be someplace else. Someplace clear with her. When I leave the training facility late that night, it’s too late to see her. If I see her now, I won’t get enough rest, and I’ll play like crap. So I don’t ask if she’s free now. I text to ask when I can see her tomorrow. She replies that she has an early afternoon on-site appointment in the city tomorrow with a new client, so she can meet me at my house before.

Before.

Why does that word feel so fucking ominous?

Because it’s not after.

Because it’s not open-ended. Because it tells me what I need to know. She’s sandwiching me.

I’m not the end to her day.