Page 19 of The Player's Obsession

Why am I rambling?

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard of it,” she adds as she clicks her seatbelt. I safely back my vehicle out but check my rearview mirror to see if the car is following us. I assume it’s my imagination that they are interested in us because they remain in the parking lot.

I make the easy drive into Camden Hills and take in the football stadium as we pass it.

“Hey, our last game of the season is Thursday night. Do you want to go?” I can’t believe I’m making another date with her before the first one launches. What am I doing? Tonight could be a disaster.

Well, hell. I won’t be in the stands with her.

“I don’t know. Maybe?” Her hands are resting on the clutch in her lap.

“I’ll be on the field, so don’t worry about me,” I add, feeling a lack of confidence that she’d be impressed by the fact I’m a football player. “I’ll leave two tickets at Will Call for you. Bring a friend,” I suggest to take the pressure off.

Her face glows. “Thank you. That’s very generous of you. I love football.”

“Really? Did you know what I looked like before we met?”

“Not exactly. I mean, you wear helmets. I work on my computer all day so at night I watch TV to help my eyes relax. Your team has had a great season.”

“Yes, we’ve been fortunate. I can’t believe the playoffs are around the corner.”

“It went fast. I’m sure playing every week gets tiring.”

“Yes, especially two games in a week. Traveling can be tough. Snow days, delays. It’s a constant challenge no matter the time of the year.”

“I can imagine. Mainers have gnarly winters. It’s not for everyone, is what I mean.”

She’s self-conscious of the words she uses, and I find it cute. I look at her and take her in. She’s a breath of spring air in winter.

“I might be able to see you from the field Thursday. Do you have a jersey?”

“I don’t. Sorry. My bad,” she says with a tiny smile.

“That’s too bad.” Not that I would know what it’s like to part with half of a normal person’s weekly wages to see a pro football game. In the current economy, too many are struggling to stay in the middle-class tax bracket while even more are falling below it. I grew up privileged, but I’ve had teammates who grew up with one or both parents in prison by the time I went to college. After hearing stories of their life and how they struggled to make ends meet, I viewed my life differently, If I was born to different parents, I could have had a life like them. I donate to youth programs as a way to give back to my community. I can’t imagine a life growing up on dangerous streets where you were a target if you refused to join a gang, and you knew chances to get out alive were slim if you were a member of one. I’ve seen secondhand what it’s like to live paycheck to paycheck through others.

We fall silent, and a song by Shaggy is on the radio. “I like music from the early 2000s since it reminds me of my youth,” I say, breaking the silence. The lyrics about humping on the bathroom floor probably are not the best background music for our first date. The song “It Wasn’t Me” became a hit.

“Shaggy, what can I say? He was huge. I remember this song upsetting my conservative parents,” she says while fidgeting with her purse.

“I was too young to understand it, but I heard that song everywhere.”

“I guess you were young; you’re only twenty-four,” I reply as I take the exit ramp and follow the road to the valet area, where I put the vehicle in park. An attendant gives me a number, and I hurry to open the door for Penelope. I hold her hand as she steps out of the car and puts her hand on my elbow as we proceed into the restaurant.

We check our coats as we wait in line for the maître d'.

When Penelope turns to me, I’m speechless. She looked cute in her yoga outfit the day she was cleaning my house. But tonight, she’s stunning in her black cocktail dress. Her dark hair matches her dark eyes and flows down her back in waves.

I stand beside her and place my hand on her lower back. “You’re beautiful,” I murmur in her ear. I’m intrigued by this goddess and feel lucky that the cosmos sent her to my house.

“Thank you. You look handsome in dark blue.”

If she pays attention to football, she has seen the players walking from the bus to the stadium’s private entrance dressed in designer clothes that haven’t hit the stores yet. We try to start the trends rather than follow the trends. Some players use their clothes to make statements, and some just want to show off. Designers send us clothing, hoping we will wear it and subsequently increase their sales. The media takes our pictures because they know we’re eye candy for the female viewers. Plus, we have our own social media machine grinding out content 24/7. We’re basically the male version of JLo with her Dolce and Gabbana designer bags and sunglasses.

The restaurant is busy, and I’m relieved there’s no wait, and we’re seated right away. I’m sure it had everything to do with being recognized by the maître d’. It’s been months since I ate here. If I’m eating alone, I’m not going to do it in a public place like this. No, I buried my loneliness after the breakup.

I pull the chair out for Penelope, and she sits.

“Do you drink wine?”

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