The city buzzes. The fountains flow red. The Chiefs flags fly. Tailgaters dust off their hibachis, shake out their banners, freshen up their skin paints, stock up on booze, and practice their trash-talk. Stats and projections zip over Internet, TV, and radio lines. Hopes run high.
“This is the year,” fans declare without a hint of doubt. “Knox and Busch are the best duo in the league. The running game is strong, making us unpredictable. Our offensive line has never looked better, thanks to free agency and Draft pick-ups. Our defense is stout. Our kicker is the clutchest of clutch. This is it! See you at the Super Bowl, suckers!”
We’ve already primed ourselves for action with four preseason games, mostly serving as a final try-out for second-stringers and practice team hopefuls. But now we’re ready for the real deal.
It was an amazing summer, and I’m sad to see it go. Between training camps, fall job fair preps, and a mini-vacation to the Gulf Coast for a long weekend, it was busy but happy. And over in a flash.
Now, we’re on the brink of another NFL season. Surviving those sixteen weeks (seventeen, including the bye), plus possible postseason play in January and early February, will be the ultimate test of my relationship with Jet, to date, and a rehearsal for the rest of our lives.
When I think of it that way, it’s a bit daunting. But that’s what this season is. And I’m not going to lie. I’m worried.
I roll over and bury my face in Jet’s pillow, inhale his scent, and moan. He left for the training facility for his first day of regular season practice a while ago. I need to get up and get ready for work, since I have a long commute this morning. Thanks to our final off-season sleepover, though, my limbs don’t seem to want to work in concert. They don’t want to give up this feeling. The moment I move, the sex drought official begins.
Of course, that’s the least of my worries. I’m focusing on that like a horny teenager because it’s easier to make sex the scapegoat for everything than deal with the real challenges, which are plentiful. There are so many other what ifs, enough that without the “love” factor, I would have bolted a long time ago. Too many variables exist that could lead to failure. We all know I’d rather not try at all than try and not succeed. It’s what’s kept me in this town and has served as the theme for my entire adult life.
What Jet and I have is too important to play it safe, though. Walking away will require outright defeat. Because the horror of living without him outweighs my usual crippling fear of failure. That’s scary enough in itself. I’ve never cared about another person (not related to me) that much. Especially not a man.
If this doesn’t work out, I’m finished with romantic entanglements. I’m going to take a page from Colin’s playbook and fondly remember my one true love but never go there again.
In the meantime, while I’m still in the game, it’s important to stay focused on the important things. Scratching my various carnal itches isn’t one of those important things. Not really, in the grand scheme of things.
What is important, at least in Jet’s world, is that the first match of the regular season is a less than a week away. It’s an away game in Miami, but that doesn’t dampen our spirit; it simply heightens the anticipation for the Week Two home opener, a prestigious Monday night rematch against the Patriots.
GO CHIEFS!
At that rousing thought, I drag myself from the warm, tousled sheets and stagger to the shower on weak legs. I may not be in the strategy meetings or out on the practice field or treating injuries, but I’m still a member of the team. An important member. I’ll be providing emotional support, in both victory and defeat.
My spine straightens, and my chest inflates. Under the hot stream, I strengthen physically and mentally. I can do this. I can be this.
I’m also about to be seriously late for work.
Dressing in the clothes I brought with me last night, I grab my purse and rush downstairs to the kitchen, where I pour coffee into a giant stainless steel travel mug and snatch a scone from the kitchen. With a quiet “See ya” to Beau—it’s still awkward to encounter “staff members” first thing in the morning, especially when so freshly sated—I run to my car to drive back to reality.
About halfway through my second appointment of the day, my purse starts making noise on its door hook.
My client half-turns to see where the dings and beeps originate, so I blush and say, “So sorry. I forgot to silence my phone this morning. As I was saying about these prospects…”
But Rae’s tinny ringtone blares next. Then Jet’s.
Mortified—and somewhat worried—I jump from my chair, round my desk, and cross to the door, where I reach into my handbag and blindly silence the device, breathlessly apologizing once more to my clearly put-out guest, a first-timer who has no idea how unusual this is. Way to make a great first impression, Maura.
Returning to my desk, I waste no more time on excuses or apologies but get back to business. I devote my full attention to the woman looking for a paralegal position for her first job after five years out of the workforce as a stay-at-home mom for her son, now a kindergartner.
After sending her on her way with three referrals to large law firms, I greet my next client. My phone beckons me from my purse, but I can’t satisfy my curiosity right now. I have a jam-packed schedule until lunch. Whatever Jet and Rae want will have to wait. Knowing them, they’re bickering about something and trying to drag me into the middle of it. I can’t justify neglecting my clients to indulge their childishness.
Finally, lunchtime arrives. I close my
