The Cheat Sheet

* * *

I love that we’re joking like this. Behind me a daytime soap opera is unfolding, and Nathan and I are pretending we’re going to elope.

* * *

Nathan: Perfect. Well, my boss says I gotta get back to work. Love you.

Me: Love you!! Go kick your fellow employees’ asses!

Nathan: *shark emoji*

* * *

I turn around to the sight of Mrs. Donelson and Lily hugging. What the hell did I miss?!

We’ve all been holding our breath for the last ten minutes. This game is so tight. Currently, the score is 21-17, Sharks down by four. There are only thirty seconds left on the clock, and it’s fourth down. They need to get a first down in order to have a chance at winning, and they have no timeouts left. The stress in this stadium is palpable, and I honestly can’t imagine the pressure Nathan has on his shoulders right now as he sees the clock running out.

Both teams get into formation quickly, and then the ball is snapped to Nathan. He shuffles on his feet a few times, looking for an open receiver, but there’s not one. My heart hammers as I watch him tuck the ball under his arm and run. He has no choice but to try to get the first down himself.

At first, things look promising, but then, as if I’m seeing it all in slow motion, a defensive player busts through the line and plows into Nathan, laying him flat on his back.

The ball is knocked loose. Fumbled. Game over.

A collective gasp tremors through the stadium, and all of our shoulders sink. The player who tackled Nathan stands and extends his hand to help him up. I sigh with audible relief when Nathan takes it and stands unharmed.

I realize at that moment that I’m stuck to the glass wall like a bug on a windshield. Peeling myself free, I turn to face my sister and Nathan’s mom. Somehow, we’ve all managed to bond over this second half of the game. Lily really gave Vivian something to think about during their verbal spar, and she’s been more pliable ever since. Oh, don’t get me wrong, she’s still a major pill, but I think in that moment when Lily helped Vivian see that she had somehow become an exact replica of her own mother whom she despised, it stunned her.

We’ve gone through a lot, the three of us during this Super Bowl game.

And now it’s over.

The Stallions take a knee on the next snap, ending the game officially. I don’t give myself even a moment to search for Nathan’s face on the sidelines, because all I want to do is wrap my arms around him as soon as possible. So I use this time to hustle my booty down the elevator and to the media entrance. Security guards check my badge at the gate, and then I’m herded with the rest of the players’ family members through a dark tunnel that leads to the field.

Oops. I just realized I moved so fast out of the box that I accidentally left Lily and Mrs

. Donelson in my dust. Too bad. Got to hustle, ladies.

I emerge from the tunnel just in time to see Nathan in the middle of the field, sharing a quick hug with the quarterback of the winning team. He’s classy, that Nathan. The man manages to look genuinely happy for his opponent, even though I know he’s devastated.

He has worked so hard to get to this moment, only to be the one who delivered the losing play in the end. I hope the media doesn’t harp on that one fault, because that man played a hell of a game before that moment and it deserves to be noted. But somehow, I know they will. That one clip of Nathan fumbling the ball will get shown on repeat over and over.

Cameras are all over the two quarterbacks exchanging words. Confetti rains down from above as players congratulate each other and show good sportsmanship that I know they are not feeling. Jamal is across the field, and he presses his finger and thumb into his eyes to stop tears from falling. Derek is on the bench with his head hanging low. I can’t find Price and Lawrence, but I’m sure their vibes are similar.

It’s a kaleidoscope of emotions on this field. Where one man is elated and chest-bumping his teammate or kissing his wife, another’s eyes are cast down and he’s choking back disappointment.

I lose sight of Nathan and feel slightly panicky. How is he holding up? My steel teddy bear of a perfectionist is on this field somewhere, and I know he’s crushed. I need to get to him.

Standing on my toes in the endzone, I crane my neck to see, but it’s difficult with so many other bodies on the field. I consider asking one of these giants in pads to lift me on their shoulders, but I’m saved when I finally spot Nathan on the sidelines exchanging words with one of his coaches. The man hands him something then points in my direction. I throw my arms open wide, ready to hold Nathan while he cries into my bosom.

When he turns, his gaze hits me like a heavy weight champion in the ring. I’m breathless. He doesn’t need to cry into my bosom. That man is smiling.

He walks toward me, confetti raining down on him, people hugging, celebrating, and crying all around him, and he parts the emotions like the Red Sea. He is sweaty and glistening. Sinewy arms are pumped and veiny from playing a long, exhausting game. Camera crews see his smile and swarm him. (I understand their curiosity.) Maybe he’s having a mental breakdown at this very moment? Maybe he threw the game on purpose? Because this is not the look of a person who just lost everything he’s ever wanted.

No. He gets close to me, and his bright white teeth glint under the field lights. He drops his helmet at his feet, and then his knee follows suit. All the chaos around us disappears. It’s me and my best friend. And he’s proposing.

“Hi, pretty friend,” he tells me, taking my hand in his, which is rough with new calluses and wrapped in medical tape. “I know we already planned it last night, but I thought you might like to hear it from my mouth rather than over text.” Nathan squeezes my hand, and I’m already crying. “Bree, my best friend, I love you. We haven’t been together very long, but we’ve also been together for years. Will you marry me? Will you let me love you every day from now on? Will you finally move out of your shitty apartment and into mine?”

I laugh. “This is all just a ploy to get me away from the mold, isn’t it?”