Page 35 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Player

Because I know what he looks like when he's himself.

He laughs too hard at terrible jokes. He apologizes every third sentence. He folds his clothes like he’s awaiting military inspection.

He texts good morning when he’s on his way to the gym, long before I wake up.

The man on television... Isn't him.

And my heart breaks for him. Especially knowing that he’s playing here in my own town in a stadium twenty minutes from my apartment. It’s not lost on me that Patrick and I could have been watching this game at the stadium if I’d played my cards differently.

I wish I could run there any hug him. I wish I could tell him everything will be okay.

Maybe that’s why I pick up my phone. And type in the number I swore to forget.

You may be playing against my hometown team, but I’m on your side.

I’m always on your side.

Win or lose, you’ve got this.

I’m proud of you.

I wait with bated breath for a response. But it doesn’t come. Of course, it doesn’t. The team has fifteen minutes in the locker room. I doubt any of the players are looking at their phones.

Still, I feel better for having sent the message.

Kind of.

The third quarter begins. Something changes.

Cal looks more comfortable. He scrambles for a first down. Then another. A perfect pass down the sideline.

Touchdown.

Patrick jumps off the couch. I can’t tell if he’s mad for his team or happy for Cal’s.

"Let's go!"

On TV The stadium erupts. Confetti cannons fire. The receiver spikes the football.

Everyone celebrates.

Except Cal.

He jogs toward the back of the end zone. Toward one of the television cameras. I lean forward. What is he doing?

He stops. Looks directly into the lens. Places one hand over his heart. Then... He mouths one word.

My name.

Everything around me disappears.

The crowd. The commentators.

Patrick yelling beside me.

I stop breathing.

"...Did he..."