Two Years and Three Months Later
Scott
“What’s wrong with you?” James, Royals’ new receiver, asked. He’d been traded from the Jets, and while he was a great receiver, he wasn’t so great in the hygiene department.
The dude stank.
We knew he took showers, but he always smelled of onions and garlic, and it would be great if his agent could grab him an endorsement for Febreze or any type of deodorizer.
“What?” I threw the ball back and it landed in Dillon’s hands. “Nothing’s wrong with me.”
“The fuck nothing’s wrong. You’re all twitchy and shit,” he retorted, and I swear I saw garlic spew out of his mouth. How could he not smell his own stink? “I haven’t seen you like this since you got the ring last year.”
“You watched Scott twitch on TV?” Dillon’s eyes were filled with confusion. “You’re sick man.”
“I’m not sick. I have a 110-inch TV. I could see his mouth twitching in nervousness when the Giants got the ball in the last minute,” James responded.
He was right.
I twitched.
It wasn’t the seizure-filled kind of twitch.
I haven’t had one for the last two and a half years. And if I did, my teammates knew what to do. In a way, it was a blessing in disguise that it happened to me while I was in the NFL. I used my platform to talk about epilepsy and seizures. The Royals’ were very stringent with concussion protocols and made sure that when I did get hit, my brain was okay. Of course, there was no way they could totally guarantee it, but they didn’t mess around with the safeguards to protect me. I had to be cleared by my neurologist when I played and my backup, Tyson, was aware that he could be called in at any time if I had an episode.
That’s right.
Tyson was my backup.
Dex was traded to San Francisco.
He and Rikko had been shooting me texts that they would pound LA in the division championships.
They weren’t wrong.
They might.
But I wouldn’t let them.
Anyways, James had a point. I was nervous when the Giants had the ball because we were up by only a touchdown.
Royals’ defense made Giants’ work for it though, and my heart left my chest when the defense intercepted the ball with thirteen seconds left.
I got my first Super Bowl ring that night.
My girl wasn’t in the stands because she was knee deep in the astronaut business.
But her brother and Kara were there for me. Rikko flew in to Miami to watch the game, and so did my stepmom, Stef, who was in the process of divorcing my father. I’d also given special tickets to Rianna and Miguel, Bridge’s friends, and they’d invited Bridge’s former students at Paint Me Mine to watch the game in the private suite I’d had my agent reserve for them. It cost me a fortune, but knowing that they were there made me feel like Bridge was right there, watching me play the game of my life.
My father didn’t tell Stef about his indiscretions. Nope. He wasn’t the stand-up guy I thought he was.
Two other women came out to tell their stories, and my father had resigned from his post as the President of Texas U.
Stef said that he was spending a lot of time on golf courses and in country clubs.
He tried to call me several times. Maybe one day I’d answer, but right now, I was only hoping for one person to call.
“Hold on,” Dillon said out loud. “Is Bridgette flying back today?”
Ding, ding, ding.
I passed the ball to Roman and he caught it solid.
“You guys are worse than E News,” I muttered as I called out the play. “Focus.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re the one who can’t focus.” Trey shouted, “Especially now that your sexy astronaut girl is on the bleachers.”
What?
Bridge had completed her training program with flying colors. People said that time flew by when you were having fun.
Well, my girlfriend was gone most of the time, so I was definitely not having any fun.
I’d seen her for a total of fourteen days in a span of two years.
You bet I made good use of those fourteen days. Bridge could hardly walk each time she left the bed and she never blamed me.
My cock was locked, loaded, and ready to go off when she was around.
We had gone through a ton of shit. Jealousy sometimes ate at her, especially when she saw me in magazines with an actress or a model by my side. But I made sure that the photos taken were never scandalous. And I’m sure it helped that I gave my girlfriend a shout-out every time I was on TV.
There was that one time though when I was ready to fly to Texas and punch the shit out of the asshole who dared to laugh with Bridgette when I was having a shitty day. I’d called her and she’d Facetimed me. She was having lunch with two women and a guy who she introduced as Sergeant Whatever.
Sergeant Butthole’s eyes had lingered too long on Bridge when I watched them eat lunch as she’d said it was the only free time she had that day. Bridge told me that I was reading into things, but as smart as she was, I knew what Sergeant Asshat was thinking about my woman. Bridge was a beautiful woman. The fact that she didn’t care how beautiful she was made her all the more so.
By the end of the conversation, I was pretty sure Bridge’s ears were burning up with all the sweet, sappy shit I said. I wanted to make her uncomfortable and I wanted to make Sergeant No Chance know that yeah, I would sock him in his face if he ever put the moves on my woman.
So when Bridge said, “I love you too, babe,” in front of everyone within hearing perimeter, I felt like I could walk backwards and rap better than G-Eazy and Eminem combined.
I got a tongue lashing the next day, but when Bridge said that Sergeant Fuck Foot told her that he wouldn’t be spending his lunch Facetiming in front of me, I calmed my shit down.
My head turned towards the bleachers and found out that Trey wasn’t lying.
Bridge was there, up on the second bleacher.
I called for a timeout and my teammates chuckled.
I ran towards the bleachers as Bridge walked down.
She looked delicious in tight jeans and a simple shirt that said, “Royals do it better.” She’d no doubt gotten it from her friend, Rianna, who was now obsessed with everything Harry and Meghan.
Her eyes were shielded by sunglasses since Los Angeles had never-ending sunshine even if it was October already.
Her hair was longer and she’d gotten more toned around her arms, since she’d been doing three sets of ten pushups before she got in the shower for the day. She’d also gotten leaner since she ran five miles a day as part of her training regimen.
I pulled my helmet off my head, and I reached for her neck. As soon as her mouth lowered to mine, I tasted her, fruits and flowers, my Bridge. I knew I had to keep it PG because there were kids who watched our practices, so I saved the tongue for later.
“Strauss, what are you doing?” I heard Coach Henderson yell as Bridge’s shoulders shook.
“Kissing my girlfriend, Coach!” I yelled back and my teammates hollered. Some even hooted and the rest threw a bunch of expletives disguised as whistles.
“Get back in here,” Coach ordered. I let my hands roam over her waist and I touched my lips to her hands.
“I thought I was gonna see you at my place.” Ignoring Coach, I savored the presence of Bridge. She’d removed her sunglasses and I glimpsed at the love reflecting in her eyes. She had the key to my place and when she was in LA, she usually surprised me by ordering pizza and greeting me naked in bed.
“I couldn’t wait,” she said, the twin dimples punching holes against her cheeks as she gave me a beautiful smile.
I gave her another quick kiss, hearing the sounds of Coach’s footsteps closing in on us. “I gotta go, babe.”
“I’ll be waiting.” Her facial features softened, showing me just how much she’d missed me, and I wanted to sneak another kiss, but Coach was already at my side.
“Good afternoon, Bridgette.” Coach Henderson had gotten to know Bridge at one of the Royals’ fundraising events that Bridge was able to attend with me. He’d taken a liking to her and called her an absolute gem. “As much as I like you, I need my quarterback on the field before I ship him off to another team.”
Bridgette laughed and replied, “Oh no. I wouldn’t want that, Coach.”
Coach and I jogged back to where my teammates were congregated, each one of them giving me shit-eating grins.
I waited for the teasing.
But none came.
We went into a huddle and I called out, “Twenty two sunshine, forty one space.”
I could hear my cornerback, Bob, chuckle, “Showing up for your girl, huh?”
I’d named a few plays for Bridge.
“Scotty’s gonna get some tonight!” James shouted and I ignored them.
The play called for my receiver, Dillon, to run up forty yards and quickly stop to turn back around and instead of running straight back from the turn, he changed his route, making him unpredictable for the defense.
As he made the turn, I got into position to throw the ball. When the ball landed in his arms, Dillon pointed towards the stands, where Bridge was sitting.
“This one’s for you.”
Bridge waved her hands at us.
I used that play in the Super Bowl.
Only after I made the pass and Dillon caught it, I turned my palms up, raised them up in the air, then pointed towards the skies.
I wanted Bridge to know that it didn’t matter where her dreams took her; she was always on my mind.
And in my heart.
Always.