The play clock is ticking down when he finally claps both hands together and the ball shoots between the center’s legs and right into Quinton’s strong grip. One lineman misses his block and a Cleveland defender slips through the line protecting Quinton. My breath catches in my throat and my stomach clenches as I brace for him to get hit. But at the last second, he fakes to the right before dodging to the left and sprinting out of the defender’s grip. He runs toward the sideline, keeping his gaze down the field before spotting an open receiver in the end zone and snapping his arm back, firing the ball over the helmets heading straight for him.
It’s not the longest pass, so we aren’t kept in suspense as the ball whizzes to Beck, who doesn’t even have to jump to catch it. Quinton, who never doubted that it would be caught, is already running toward Beck, jumping up and meeting him midair as they slam their shoulders into one another. If anyone in the crowd has a problem with Quinton’s protest, they’ve put it to the side for now as they jump and scream, shaking the stadium floors.
The offense clears off the field as the special teams runs back on and Butler, the kicker, lines up behind the ball before kicking it directly between the goal posts.
The crowd cheers a little more—the poor kicker has all of the pressure but none of the glory—before finally settling into their seats. Their expectations for the game are set.
“Oh! Guacamole!” Greer pulls my attention off the game as she leans over and nabs one of my chips. She loads it with dip and shoves it in her mouth before I can say that I don’t think any of it is organic.
“Just don’t,” Brynn says before I can warn Greer. “Trust me.”
“I told you guys,” Greer says after she’s finished chewing on a most def not GMO-free chip. “Didn’t I tell you?”
“Tell us what?” Vonnie is using the same tone she used with her kids when they were asking her what felt like twenty questions in the car.
“I gave Darren a list of positive affirmations to pass out to the guys last night so they could start reading them before bed and up until the game.” She looks super fucking proud of herself as she grabs one more chip. “They’re totally going to win today.”
Vonnie just looks at her for a second before shaking her head and turning her attention to the game.
“This is why you are one of my favorite Lady Mustangs,” Brynn says with no sarcasm in her voice. “You upped my vodka game at HERS and you do wild shit like that. We need more Greers in the world.”
“Cosigned.” I lift up my plate, giving her the option to dip, which she takes me up on.
And even though I’ve kind of resigned myself to the idea that I will not be working with the Mustangs come the end of the season, I really need to figure out a way to make sure these women are forced to stay friends with me.
I might be a bigger fan of the Lady Mustangs than I am of the actual Mustangs.
Twenty-six
I don’t know if it was the positive affirmations like Greer assured us or the Mustangs were just that much better than Cleveland, but it was a blowout. So much so that Jax fell asleep during the third quarter and I hitched a ride home with Vonnie in the middle of the fourth.
But despite the fact that we left early and I didn’t drink nearly as much as I wanted to, thanks to Greer’s judgy side-eye—even though she ate almost all of Jett’s gummy bears and half of my chips—I still had a terrible case of the Mondays all week long. And now, of course, this is the bye week, so there is no game and I have two back-to-back meetings on a Saturday. I’m supposed to meet with Paul after them, but I fake being sick and cancel instead.
It has nothing to do with today still being Halloween, no matter how many times I tried to get it to not come this year.
Who am I kidding?
It has everything to do with it being Halloween. I’ve been teetering on the cusp of tears all week long. I had no idea the depths of grief until I experienced it myself. I wish I didn’t know how the smallest things could set me off. Or how logic has failed me all day and I keep hoping my phone will ring and my dad will be on the other end. I wish I didn’t resent all of my carefree coworkers and hate them when they wandered through the office with a painted face or ridiculous hat. I can’t even talk about how much I wanted to punch Paul when he offered me a piece of candy from his pumpkin-shaped bowl yesterday. What he thought was nice felt like he was mocking my hurt.
I really need to call my therapist again because I am not properly equipped to handle this. Not even close.
I get home midday and kids are running all over the complex, probably counting down the minutes until they can trick or treat. I keep my sunglasses on as I make my way up the stairs, trying to decide whether or not I want to be a curmudgeon and keep my outside light off and eat the candy instead of handing it out.
I want the candy.
I unlock my door and I drop my keys into the bowl. I walk straight to my room, where I promptly kick off my shoes, unbutton my pants, and take off my bra before heading into my bathroom. I turn on the hot water, staring at the stream until I see the steam starting to billow up from the porcelain sink.
Even though I wear makeup every day, I don’t love wearing it. Washing my face
