Page 111 of It's Always Us

“Mark.” A woman, tall and slender, catches his arm. She has a microphone in hand, and this is the part that I’ve been dreading.

“Seems you’ve been busy teasing your fans during your recovery. Care to take this opportunity to set the record straight and put all those longing hearts to rest?”

She shoves the mic toward him, and he pulls me closer.

“I’ve been resting and letting my shoulder heal. I’m feeling good, and looking forward to getting back out on the field.”

“It appears you’ve been using your time wisely.” Her eyes move to me and then back to Mark.

“My time has been very well spent, if I do say so myself.” I pinch his side, and his grin spreads even wider. The reporter laughs. “My wife and I are excited for this next season for lots of reasons.”

“Wow. You heard it here first, ladies. Mark Sandberg is officially off the market and, dare I say, quite the proud papa.”

Mark doesn’t say anything, making the reporter squirm. He only grins, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

Unfazed by his game, she moves along. “Everyone knows you’re a big supporter of underprivileged youth. We’re all familiar with the organization you set up with Shane Carter and Sean Greyson. Tonight, you’re up for the Walter Peyton Man of the Year Award, and we were all surprised to learn that you—”

Mark cuts her off. “My goal is to fund and support causes I’m passionate about. Kids deserve to have equal opportunities no matter their background.”

I’ve followed Mark’s work with Shane and Sean. Their organization helps kids in the foster system have access and assistance to participate in sports and other extracurriculars they might not be able to otherwise.

“Well, you certainly seem to be doing that. Good luck tonight.” She drops her mic and thanks us for stopping, and off we go to the next reporter.

Mark answers questions about his recovery and the organizations rumored to be interested in signing him for the next season. A few questions about his non-profit are sprinkled in that he seems to dodge, along with the specifics about our marriage.

It’s the fourth stop where things take a different turn.

“Now, Mark. We’re all looking forward to seeing where you end up, but female fans want to know when your wife is going to teach us how to change our oil and rotate our tires.”

Mark looks around. “Man, word travels fast.” He laughs. “She can teach you a hell of a lot more than that. She’s brilliant and takes those big metal machines down to frame and puts them back together.”

The reporter turns her attention to me. “Pictures of you on that truck tire have taken social media by storm. Young girls and women are no longer asking for your head for snagging this guy but want to see more of what you can do. It’s not every day you see a powerful woman getting in there and fixing things.”

She points the mic at me, and I know I’m supposed to speak, but nothing comes out. The idea that anyone, let alone young girls or other women, would want to learn from me is . . . inconceivable.

“I . . . I just work in my grandpa’s garage. I started on a stool when I was six, and it’s my absolute favorite place to be.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a lot to teach us, and we’ll be anticipating more.”

I smile, but I’m so taken aback it can’t possibly look real.

Mark pulls me away, and we’ve finally made it to the auditorium. He stops me outside the doors. “You have nothing to worry about. These people see everything I’ve always known.”

It’s the first time in my life that my disability doesn’t feel so much like a curse, but maybe more like it made room for a gift I never allowed myself to see I had.

______

We’re ushered toward seats way farther to the front than I would ever choose—second row, dead center along the aisle. The auditorium fills with people, and Mark knows just about everyone.

He stands off to the side, talking to who I assume is a coach, while I settle in my seat, ready to sit back and watch. My body and mind relax, knowing my part of the show is OVER.

Mark’s tall frame folds into the chair next to me, and his hand finds my knee. It’s a little sweaty. Nerves and Mark don’t make sense.

“Hey, you all right? I can’t be the calm one in here.”

He leans closer. “You did good out there. No more hiding in that garage.”

“Great. The guys are never going to let me live this down.” His smile returns, but only halfway, and I lean closer. “I haven’t told you, but I’m so proud of you for all the work you’ve done to help so many kids. It’s really amazing.”

---