Or maybe, like so many people online, he thinks this is my fault.
Anyone else notice that Knox sucks now that he has a girlfriend?
Someone doesn’t have his head in the game.
It’s like Tomossi and Samantha Wallace all over again. Remember that mess?
Less time with the chick and more time with the playbook and on the practice field, please.
If Jet’s demeanor is any indication, he does agree with them. He hardly talks to me at all. He says “Please” and “Thanks” when I help him with things that require two hands with opposable, working thumbs, but the monosyllables are killing me. I might as well be one of his handlers, an employee, someone he barely knows, paid to get him from place to place and make sure he’s comfortable.
Going back to work has been somewhat of a relief. I took Monday off, but you can only call in so many times because your boyfriend sprained his thumb, even if he is the beloved Jet Knox.
Fortunately, he’s back to a semi-normal schedule, too, despite not participating in full workouts or practices. Mentoring Michael Wilcox, his temporary replacement, is his main job duty now. I bet he’s thrilled about that.
Again, I wouldn’t know. That information is apparently classified, and I’m not one of the people on a need-to-know.
My idea of a perfect Friday night at the end of such a craptastic week includes pizza, a good movie from my collection, and my solitary, sweats-clad ass on my couch. Unfortunately, Jet and I are expected to attend tonight’s Red Friday, the team’s official pep rally for the home opener.
That means I make myself presentable to play Happy Couple around thousands of strangers, many of whom hate me right now and blame me for their hero’s fall, which they’re treating like the end of the world, rather than the temporary setback it is.
At the rally, Jet turns on the charm for his teammates and the fans, signing autographs (unrecognizable, considering he can’t hold a football, much less grip a pen), while I’m expected to socialize with the other wives and girlfriends, or WAGs. And the cheerleaders.
One such conversationalist is Dixie, the Southern-accented woman who rides the white horse, Warpaint, at home games. I have to listen to Horse Lady gush about her myriad “blassin’s,” which include dressing up in a crop top and chaps to bounce around in front of drunk spectators. Nursing my red plastic cup of hard cider, I play my own private drinking game, taking a gulp every time she utters any variation of, “Ah’m so blassed!” In order to prevent being completely blasted by the end of the evening, I take small sips, so I’m only moderately tipsy by the time we leave.
Fortunately, the players aren’t expected to stay late, so Jet and I are home by nine. Well, at Jet’s home. He seemed to be driving home on auto-pilot, and in my pique, I didn’t realize it until we were almost here. Instead of asking him to take me home, I figure I’ll sleep in a guest room and borrow one of his cars in the morning. No need for discussion, since that’s, apparently, something we no longer do.
When we enter the house, and I walk straight to the stairs with a listless, “Good night,” he says, “Hey,” drawing me up short.
I pause halfway up the flight, looking down on him while Torzi catches up to me.
“You’re going to bed already?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh. Okay. I have to do my physical therapy real quick.”
“No rush,” I reassure him, clomping the rest of the way to the second floor.
My sole requirement is a bed, so I choose the first room at the top of the stairs. There, I listlessly kick off my cute new cowboy boots and shed the casual red dress I bought weeks ago in such joyful anticipation of this night. The balled-up dress gets tossed in the general direction of the wing-backed chair in the corner. My denim jacket stays on the floor where I dropped it.
Stripped down to my underwear, I find a new toothbrush in the bathroom and unwrap it. While brushing my teeth, I study myself in the mirror over the sink. I look miserable. Which makes sense. Because that’s exactly how I feel.
Maybe this is my reality check. Maybe I’m not cut out for this life, being another actor in a show that runs four months—sometimes longer, if the players are lucky—then spending the rest of the year preparing for the show’s next run, all the while ignoring the audience’s heckles and making sure they never glimpse what’s going on backstage.
When I return to the bedroom, Torzi is patiently waiting for me at the foot of the bed. As soon as I slide under the covers and settle on my side with my back facing the closed door, he burrows beneath the sheet and curls up in the space between my legs and torso.
I absently stroke his head. “You keepin’ me company tonight, Bud? Maybe you have some tips. You’ve been keeping the home fires bright and warm for a while now. Is this how it always is?”
He licks my hand, so I move it to discourage the behavior that always grosses me out, but I continue talking, because, no matter how ridiculous I feel talking to a dog, it still feels better than holding it all inside for another minute.
“You might not have realized this about me yet, Torzi, but I’m not a big fan of responsibility. This NFL support person gig is a big responsibility, you know? It’s hard to keep everything in perspective. But that’s our job. To make sure Jet’s not letting everything that goes along with this life mess with his head. Right? But how do you keep it from messing with your head?”
After a few more attempts at licking and my consistent rebuffs, the dog gives up with a resigned exhale. Surprisingly quickly, I doze, then fall deeply asleep.
I wake up slowly when something
