They’re not. They’re mahoossive. Even the kickers and punters, who usually seem so tiny on the field, are my height (5’11”) or taller. In this setting, my friend, Rae, at 5’6”, looks like an extra from The Wizard of Oz or Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. This is the only place in the world I can wear three-inch heels (which are killing me, by the dubs), and still feel tiny. So far tonight, I’ve seen a lot of nose hair. I defy the most dedicated fan to claim he or she can identify any of these guys based on that feature. I suspect second- and third-stringers and support staff comprise the majority of the attendees.
How disappointing! (Says the girl who’s the least of the nobodies here.)
Obviously, not one of the players has given me a second glance. Part of that may be due to the fact that I’m attending the party with an openly gay woman. They all assume I’m Rae’s date-date, not her straight friend who would love to dance with one or two ripped, rich guys. Since Rae doesn’t seem eager to introduce me to any of these “sex-starved a-holes,” and none of them will approach me to talk to me, there’s no way to tactfully get that message across. A blinking “Straight” sign around my neck would come in handy right now, but it would ruin the lines of the red, beaded, one-shouldered number I’m wearing.
When Rae first texted me, asking if I’d be her “plus-one” to this shindig, I was thrilled. As a lifelong Chiefs fan, it was a dream come true for me.
It was too momentous an occasion to discuss via the text conversation she had initiated, so I called her to accept her invitation.
“Before you go all fangirl on me,” she said, “this isn’t just a social outing. These are my new co-workers. I need you to play it cool at this thing.”
“I will be the epitome of cool.”
Following the previous few months of lengthy silences and stilted conversations, usually in written electronic format, I was surprised she was asking me to go with her. The last thing I wanted was to add more strain to our friendship. So I resisted squealing in her ear when it became clear she wasn’t playing an elaborate joke on me and was truly inviting me to something so amazing.
The squealing impulse remained close to the surface throughout that call, every time I thought of another player I’d have a chance to meet (Keaton Busch) or dance with (Keaton Busch!) or even drunkenly make out with but not go any further, because that’s groupie behavior, and I’m so above that. (Keaton Busch!!) I knew any hint of a squeak or mention of the player she claims is a “doofus” and a “douche,” and she’d rescind her invite, so I kept all noises in check.
Keeping silent wouldn’t have been as big of a challenge if I’d known it was going to be like this.
My “date” disappeared a few minutes ago, following one of the players toward the locker room after he approached her to complain about his painfully pulled groin muscle. Ever the workaholic, Rae readily agreed to massage it for him. Anyone else, and I’d think they were speaking euphemistically, but the literalness of the situation is much more depressing.
I’m so over the entire night that when the air next to me moves as someone sits in Rae’s abandoned chair, I refuse to look away from the sight of Giant Running Man. (The floor is shaking from the impact, and I don’t want to miss when it finally gives way and swallows him.) That is, until I catch whiff of my visitor, like a rainy forest in the fall, and can’t resist turning my head to see who belongs to that intoxicating smell. An equally mesmerizing smile is my reward for finding my manners. It’s so pretty that I’m almost okay with it not residing on the face of Keaton Busch. (Dang it, where is that guy?)
“Hey, there,” says someone who doesn’t require a jersey for me to instantly recognize him.
Starting quarterback Jet Knox’s face is plastered all over the city, most notably on the billboard I pass every day on my way to work. Plus I’ve seen him plenty of times with his helmet off. Somehow, his grin is more dazzling tonight than in any of the retouched photos of him I’ve seen in print. Sweaty post-game interviews don’t do this guy justice. Close up, clean, and in person, he’s a god.
My fluttery hands and twitchy mouth betray my nervousness at his proximity. He’s no Mr. Tight End, but judging by my physical response right now, I’d probably faint if I came face-to-face with my biggest crush, so maybe it’s a good thing he’s MIA.
“Hey,” I manage to squeak back softly enough to require the QB’s ability to read lips in loud stadiums.
He leans closer to be heard over the thumping music. “You’re Rae’s friend, right?”
“Yep. Just friends!” I shout back. “Friend-friends!” Screw subtlety. It’s too late in the evening and noisy in here for that.
He laughs loudly. “Okay, then. Thanks for clearing that up. But I already knew.”
I manage to keep my vocal cords steady, hopefully sounding more flirtatious than desperate, when I say, “Oh, good. Word’s getting around.”
He either doesn’t notice his effect on me or does a good job of pretending not to. In fact, he does his own share of squirming when he says, “I passed Rae and Joaquin in the hallway, and when I teased her for leaving her pretty date alone, she snapped my head off and said you weren’t her date, and maybe I should come up here and keep
