There is no time for delving deeper. Another player approaches, this one slightly less giant than the others. A kicker, perhaps? He shakes hands with Turk, and I watch in fascination as it turns into a back-slapping body slam. Men are such odd creatures. They exchange a few words, then the player removes his helmet, presenting me with a smile clearly meant to charm.
“And who is this?”
It’s instantaneous—Turk’s reaction. He hauls me up against his side. Then decides to take it one step further by lifting me off the ground and holding me like a child with my face pressed into his neck. “She’s my girlfriend, motherfucker. Take that smile somewhere else.”
“Jesus, man,” responds the player with a laugh. “I’m married with two kids. I was just glad to see you finally convinced someone to date your noisy ass.”
Apparently Turk is not reassured. His muscles are still stiffer than concrete.
“I’m more than dating him,” I blurt, wanting to defuse the situation with no idea how. “He’s going to get me pregnant tonight.”
Silence lands heavily on the three of us, although Turk seems to be holding in a laugh. “You heard her. I’m going to be a daddy.”
“You’re already a Daddy,” I say matter-of-factly. “Mine.”
The kicker chokes. “Well good luck with…everything.” He backs away, turns, takes two steps in one direction, before reversing and going in the other.
“How did that go?” I ask Turk, wrapping my arms around his neck, relieved to find him totally devoid of tension.
“Oh, cutie.” He wraps his big arms around me and plants a lingering kiss on my temple. “That went fucking great.”
The game gets underway behind us. Turk seems content to hold me for the entire first half, but I can’t see the game with my nose flattened in his neck, so I ask him to put me down. He obliges, keeping me tucked into his side. And then I unexpectedly become totally entranced by the game. Turk explains the rules to me here and there, cheering at other times, but my mind has locked into what’s taking place on the field. I’m detecting patterns and cataloguing the strengths and weaknesses of both teams’ offense and defense. I’m listening to the coach yell into his headset and call plays. Occasionally, I Google something on my phone that I’m curious about or don’t understand and I begin to recognize plays. Spreads. Formations.
That’s how I already know the outcome of the game before halftime.
When the buzzer sounds to signal the end of the first half, the coach of Turk’s former team stops to shake his hand heartily. “Hey there, Langley,” he says good-naturedly. “You want to suit up for the second half? We could use a bruiser like you in there.”
“My knee surgeon begs to differ.” He squeezes my shoulders. “Coach, this is my girlfriend, Missy.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Missy. Are you enjoying the game?”
“Yes.” Don’t say it. Don’t do it. “I don’t want to tell you how to coach your team, sir, but you need to switch to a shotgun formation. Your quarterback is getting slaughtered out there.” His eyes widen. Is he offended? I don’t know, but the words are already pouring out and I can hear Turk in the back of my head, encouraging me to be honest. “And on defense, your blitz isn’t getting anywhere so it’s just expending energy. The other team throws long on almost every play. It’s possible that a prevent defense would be a better option.”
No one speaks for a full ten seconds.
I’ve definitely embarrassed Turk, haven’t I?
He’s staring down at me dumbstruck, probably in disbelief that he agreed to bring me to this game. I should apologize and call a cab to bring me home, instead of remaining for the second half.
“Hot damn, she’s right,” Turk says, sending a shock wave down the center of me. “Better listen to her, coach. It’s not every day you get a genius to weigh in on football strategy.” He pulls me close and kisses the crown of my head. “Smart girl. You might have saved the day.”
“Yeah…” The coach is furiously making notes on his clipboard. “I need to get to the locker room.”
“Good luck in the second half,” I say on a rush of breath, stunned to find my insight has been valued, instead of resented.
“Apparently I don’t need luck. I’ve got you.”
“Hey,” Turk booms, picking me up off the ground again. “I’ve got her. Just to be clear.”
The coach walks away laughing.
And…I can’t stop smiling. I circle my legs around Turk’s waist and lean into him, our foreheads touching, his eyes seemingly arrested by my mouth. “That was incredible,” I whisper.
“You were incredible.”
“Yes, I was.” Turk laughs warmly at this. “But he followed your lead. He wasn’t going to give me his vote of confidence unless you did it first. And that might not be right, but it’s true.” I snuggle as close as possible, overcome by the safety and acceptance this man makes me feel. “You’re a leader. I told you.”