Bradley looked in the locker room mirror, and with one finger, smeared black lines beneath his eyes. This was his game-time ritual; it made him feel like a warrior, like the men who tattooed every inch of their bodies with symbols that told stories of victory.

He was interrupted by a slap on the back from his teammate, Jason.

“Hey man,” Jason said. “You ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Aw, come on, tell me you’re not excited.”

“Of course I’m excited,” Bradley replied. “But I’m also pretty fucking nervous.”

Jason nodded. “Yeah. Guess it’s not every day we get to play in the Super Bowl.”

Silence fell between them, as they took in the gravity of the statement. Sure, it was just a game, and they were just a couple of guys tossing a ball back and forth on a piece of grass. But it was also a game watched by an entire country and then some, and they were the guys on whose backs millions of dollars and dreams rode.

His season had been, as predicted, iconic. Touchdown after touchdown, until it became a running joke amongst his teammates. Sports networks, after only a handful of games, started calling him the year’s M.V.P., and jokingly asking what his ring size was. The pressure was, in a word, extreme.

And he found that he’d loved every second of it. Once he’d survived the media razing from the summer, he’d put his head down and focused on football. Easier to fill your head with calf raises and bicep curls than…well, than certain unmentionable people. He could no longer bear to even think her name; it became, mentally, hot to the touch.

So, he thought about football. Endlessly.

As if they were prayers, he recited on his lips lists of plays to run. Alley-oop, blitz, reverse, rush, slant, sluggo, on and on and on until the words swam in his eyes. He had become a master in distracting himself.

Here he was, having the season of his damn life, about to go play in the Super Bowl, and in reality, he knew it was all just a distraction. That stung him, somewhere deep, to realize that one of the biggest moments of his life would happen under a cloud.

“You okay, dude?”

Bradley jolted out of his reflection, and saw that Jason was still standing there, though the look on his boyish face had grown more concerned.

“This isn’t, like, a ’roids thing…right?” Jason asked, gesturing to the glazed expression on Bradley’s face.

“No, Jesus, of course not. Just nervous, like I said.”

“If you say so. Coach is calling us.”

“All right, I’m coming.”

Jason jogged off, leaving Bradley to take one more second of bittersweet consideration. He stared in the mirror at those black lines, and found strength in their neat edges. He was a warrior, and warriors keep their minds on the game.

You are a warrior, he repeated in his mind, and then aloud, “You’re a fucking warrior.”

The next few minutes were a blur. Coach Simon gave a pep talk that went through Bradley’s ears like water, dripping out the other side. The team did their traditional chant. They ran out onto the field, holding their helmets and waving to fans. Bradley had to stop himself from scanning the 50,000-person crowd for her face. He sipped some energy drink, and just like that, the game began.

By the end of the first quarter, the Sharks were wiping the field with their opponents, in most part due to Bradley’s stellar leadership.

He ran so fast that he worried his legs would catch fire. The ball became a part of him. He would later learn that, across America, sports commentators had gone silent at the pure majesty of his ability. One said it was “like watching Hercules play football.”

Everything after the first quarter was more of the same—the Sharks nailed every pass, and made tackles that seemed to defy gravity. They weren’t just winning; they were dominating, that kind of domination where for once, the opposing coach didn’t even try to argue with the ref’s calls. Everyone could see that the Sharks were kicking ass.

So when Bradley’s Super Bowl win came, it didn’t come on the wave of astonishment and awe that usually follows a win. There were no Hail Marys, no last-minute saves. They started on top and ended on top.

The final score was 42-7, Sharks. The buzzer rang, signaling the end of the fourth quarter, and the team rushed to lift Bradley on their shoulders, chanting his name.

“Fox, Fox, Fox!”

On and on it went. The stadium joined in the chant, until all Bradley could hear was his own name, filling an entire arena.

He had just played the greatest game of his life, and still he felt numb. The adulation was cool, and he was proud of his performance, but it all felt a little…well, hollow.

He felt the cup being forced into his hands, and he knew distantly that he pumped it in the air. As had been predicted, he was named the MVP.

In only a few hours, he’d achieved his wildest dreams. Never mind that he’d always imagined it feeling better.

Microphones were shoved in his face, and a hat that read “Champion” was placed on his head. Everyone wanted to know how he’d done it, what his big secret was.

“Faith,” he mumbled back, hoping the generic answer would satisfy the ravenous hordes. “Y’know, just faith and hard work.”

They pressed him with more questions: what was going to happen next year? What was next for Bradley Fox?

He shrugged his shoulders, and responded honestly.

“I have no fucking idea.”

The reporters laughed loudly. He hadn’t meant it as a joke, but whatever. They could laugh if they liked.

After the fanfare had died down from screaming, all-consuming roar to excited yelps and cheers and drinking in the stands, Bradley walked with his teammates back into the locker room. One after another lightly punched him in the arm, or slapped him on the ass.

“Aw look, Fox is so shook he’s gone mute!”

“Nah, he’s just thinking ‘bout all the pussy he’s gonna get.”

“Because he was doing so bad before?”

The friendly ribbing didn’t even register with him. It was true, he was in a daze. But no supportive words were going to get him out of it. He was coming down from the high of the game, and that former need for distraction was returning. But even still, when his teammates invited him to the after-party, which would take place at the running back’s mansion, Bradley turned them down.

“You can’t do that!” Mark cried.

“You’re the MVP; you gotta come,” added Luke.

“And besides,” said Jason with a grin, “there will be strippers. Like, good strippers. No expense spared. I hear they’re bringing poles. You telling me you wanna miss that?”

Bradley smiled, trying to appease them.

“Guys, you know I like a good party. But I’ve seen enough strippers. You’re not gonna drag me out with the promise of a sweet pair of legs.”

“Even if those legs are attached to a perfect ass?”

“Even then, I’m afraid.”

They grumbled, and booed him, but without any real antipathy. They were too swept up in the excitement to actually give a fuck about whether or not he came to the party. He held up both hands in the universal sign of mea culpa.

“Sorry, folks. Gonna be a quiet night in for me. Some of us,” he said jokingly, “played pretty hard today.”

“Oh ease up on him, ya’ll,” someone cried from down the locker room. “The man lined us all up for some sweet rings today.”

“You tell ‘em,” Bradley called back to whichever teammate had spoken. With that, he rolled off his leggings and undershirt, and headed to the showers.

Once he’d cleaned up and gotten his stuff in order, he was shepherded out of the stadium by an actual flock of security guards to a waiting blacked-out SUV. Bradley settled in, glad for the tinted windows. The camera flashes had gone on all day, and he needed to rest his eyes from the brightness.

The driver got him home with little fanfare, save for the moment when he opened the door to escort Bradley out, and said, “You fucking killed it today, Mr. Fox. The way you played… Man, that’s how football oughta be played.”

“Thanks,” Bradley replied sincerely.

I won the Super Bowl, he realized again, this time with more wonderment. Shit. Can’t believe I did that.

With a wave to the driver, Bradley walked up his curving driveway, and into the house. He at last had enough quiet to call his mom, which is what he’d really wanted to do for the past few hours.

She alternately screamed and sobbed into the phone, saying how proud she was of her boy. He’d offered, several times, to fly her out for the game, but she’d declined, on the grounds that she’d be so nervous, it’d make him nervous. Didn’t wanna mess up the big game by giving a set of the jitters to the QB. He had been disappointed, even though he’d known she was right.

It was still good to hear her voice, as she recounted how the entire town had crowded into Garrity’s, the local bar, to watch him play. She said that when the buzzer sounded, they’d flooded into the streets, dancing with joy. Bradley wished he could’ve seen that. Maybe some of their joy would’ve rubbed off on him.

His mother said goodbye after only a few minutes—the whole day had been so thrilling, she was exhausted. In that familiar, parental tone, she told him to get to bed, and said once more how proud she was before hanging up the phone.

Bradley was sitting on his enormous white couch, in his enormous living room, in his enormous house, and he was very much alone. There was no more football to think about; the season was over. The flood of sponsorship offers would hit tomorrow, and then there’d be those to sort through, but right now…nothing. Just quiet. He turned on his TV. A sports channel came on, and his own face dominated the picture.

“Fox, damn, this must be the best day of that young man’s life,” one guy in a well-tailored suit said.

“Can you imagine how good it feels to win the Super Bowl? Cause I can’t,” replied the co-host.

Bradley clicked off the TV. He didn’t need any more reminders about how awesome he should be feeling right now.

With no other bright shiny things to dangle in front of his mind’s eye, his thoughts slipped to Heidi.

Don’t say her name, he scolded himself instinctually, and then relented. He was too tired to fight the battle with her lingering ghost tonight, and she took over his brain.

His thoughts raked over every inch of her body, which seemed to suck him in like a whirlpool. Those voluminous auburn curls. The aquamarine eyes, which always had a secret smile just for him. Then, his thoughts turned to her soft breasts, the dimples above her perky ass…

Stop, he chastised himself.

He’d already spent enough nights by himself, thinking of the way her body flowed smoothly from one portion to another. It was the only time he’d permitted her image to enter his brain.

Now, though, the floodgates had been opened, and he was forced to reflect on how their relationship—or whatever it was—had ended. For the first time, he was able to face the truth: he’d done wrong by this woman. It was a shitty thought.

“You fucked her over,” he said to himself angrily. “You liked her, and then you put an end to any future you might’ve had together. Nice job.”

He saw, with clarity, how he always shut himself off from a stable relationship, how all of his one-night stands were just exercises in avoidance. If people got too close, he pulled away. The realization was even more painful because he had no idea how or why he’d become this isolated.

Bradley understood that it wasn’t actually all his fault, this time around. Heidi had done some, well, shady shit. Like, for instance, not telling him she’d parted ways with Image-ine. What was he supposed to make of that?

For what it was worth, he might’ve worked with her in spite of the fact that she was a freelancer. But the fact was that she’d hidden it, and after all their time together…that stung. The lack of transparency was what upset him, really. He’d been honest with her in ways that he’d never been with anyone else, yet she’d concealed a huge thing about herself.

It had made him feel vulnerable.

Could she have done what Todd and the lawyers accused her of? Could she have set up this whole scheme to profit twice, once from doing his media work, and then again from selling her stories to the gossip rags? He’d ruminated over this for weeks, and it was usually at this point in his train of thought that he’d decide to hit the gym again to distract himself.

Because, when he really thought about it, he knew she couldn’t have done it. That just wasn’t the kind of person he’d fallen for.

And if he’d had the chance to speak with her, if the legal team hadn’t passed down such firm no-contact instructions…what then? What might he have learned?

He could’ve—at the very least—given her the opportunity to defend herself. After all they’d shared, he owed her that much. He’d tarnished all their perfect memories together by refusing her the basic right of telling her side of the story.

Todd had assured him that Heidi would get the chance in court, but Bradley was skeptical. He’d hired, at Todd’s insistence, the best lawyers that money could buy. They’d paint her as such a villain that, by the time she got to speak her piece, the jury would already have turned against her.

He didn’t try to kid himself that maybe she would’ve hired a good defense; he was pretty confident she was low on funds since he and his people had effectively ended her career.

Neither of them had gotten closure, and he could feel it in his heart, like a hole had been torn open and healed poorly, without the aid of emotional stitches.

Bradley couldn’t think about it anymore. His mind was careening into depression, and on the so-called Best Day of His Life, it was too much.

Without anything else to do, he wandered to his bed, stripped down to his briefs, and sat on the edge of the mattress. He took a sip of water, and then queued up a podcast on his phone. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep without the sound of something to drown out his thoughts.

Bradley listened to the entire podcast, which was on the way Genghis Khan had shaped history, and what lessons could be learned from his conquests. Ordinarily, he would have been asleep a quarter of the way in, but this time, he made it all the way through the hour. His phone went silent, having been set to stop playing podcasts after the current episode was over. He reached for it and reset the app so that it would play background noise throughout the entire night, non-stop.

By the following morning, he’d listened to every podcast he had downloaded on his phone. The sleep had fallen somewhere between restless and non-existent.

Wearily, he sat up in bed, confronted with a rather painful realization: he needed to get in touch with Heidi.

It would be awkward. No, not just awkward—awfully, gut-wrenchingly miserable. It gave him stomach cramps just to think of potentially talking with her again. But it was the right thing to do.

He knew that some part of him had to have answers, and she deserved closure as much as he did. For the first time in months, he felt like he was embarking on the right path. He felt like he was doing the emotionally responsible thing, which would make his mom just as proud as him winning the Super Bowl. Because it was what a true man would do—address issues, talk frankly, and be open to truth.

Bradley grabbed his laptop. No time like the present to start a hero’s journey. He assumed that she’d blocked his number, so he began to look for her social media accounts. Every last one had been deleted. What the fuck?

This would be a bad sign from anyone, but was even more alarming given that Heidi’s very livelihood revolved (at least in part) around being on social media. What did it mean, that her web presence had apparently vanished? He shook his head, discouraged and worried.

He had saved her number in his phone, and decided that he had to give it a shot. Head spinning, he found her contact, and pressed ‘call.’ His heart was firmly in his throat, beating a mile a minute. Only seconds later, though, he heard a robotic voice say that the number he was trying to reach was no longer in service.

Oh, God. Had she left the country? No, no couldn’t be that, you can’t leave the States when you have a pending court case. Maybe this was just a kind message from the phone company, which actually meant you’d been blocked by the person, but they wanted to let you down easy? A cursory web search on some chat boards told him this was not the case. Had she been harassed by his fans? Did they give her so much grief that she had to disconnect form the entire world, for her own safety and mental health?

Growing increasingly concerned, Bradley made a last-ditch effort. He found the number of her apartment management company, and gave them a ring. A woman answered in a snarky voice and asked what he wanted.

“Do you have any contact information for Heidi Morris?”

“No,” she replied caustically.

“She’s the woman that lives in apartment 2083?”

There was a sigh on the end, and the sound of fingernails tapping on a keyboard.

“No,” the receptionist said. “The tenant in 2083 is a Hernandez. No Morris.”

“When did they move in?”

“Few months ago,” she said lazily, clearly annoyed at the question blitz.

He hung up without bothering to thank her, which wasn’t like him. He was swamped with fear for Heidi. She wouldn’t have moved out of her sweet digs unless shit had absolutely hit the fan.

He reddened. Of course shit had hit the fan. He was a football star, the shining hope of American sports. He got out of media jams with relative ease; even when the going had gotten tough with Coach Simon a while back, he had been confident he’d come out okay. After all, people don’t care so much about your private morality when you’re winning them trophies.

Heidi, on the other hand, was a “civilian,” so to speak. She didn’t have the insulation of a specific and wildly acclaimed skill set, or the backing of an enormous league with serious financial sway. Heidi was one woman, alone against a wall of hatred directed at her by everyone who thought they knew the full story.

And he was the one who had abandoned her there.