Page 162 of How to Lose at Love

This entire goddamngame is turning into a goddamn nightmare.

Worst I’ve ever played.

I can’t focus my mind despite Eli having told me the world would be watching. In the wake of my “scandal”, all eyes are on me, and this is not a time to bite the green weenie.

But I did, and I bit it hard.

“What’s your problem, brother?” Lamar Randall is staring at me through the white cage of his helmet, mouth guard dangling so he can speak to me.

“I’m sorry, guys. I’m just…off.”

“Dude, get it together.” Diego slaps me on the back. “We have your back, but you’ve got to stop playing like shit.”

No shit I have to stop playing like shit. It’s not like I’m trying to lose this game, not when the entire nation is likely watching.

The stakes are high.

I can’t keep my mind off the fact that there’s a possibility thatSportsCenterwill be running my story at halftime. Eli circled back around with an update that he was able to contact the paparazzi who had the video rights to my images, and they did indeed have video content in addition to the photographs.

My stomach is a ball of nerves.

The ball slips from my hands more times than it doesn’t.

My teammates and coaches think I’ve lost my damn mind, and I don’t blame them because it feels like I’m going crazy.

Are they going to run the story?

Do the commentators for the network give a shit enough to play the tape during halftime?

Al Dannenberg—a retired NFL quarterback who played with my father—has the final say, and during our pregame rally in the tunnel leading to the playing field, I sent up a prayer to the almighty that Al will have my back.

The first two quarters feel like an eternity.

Whether they play the piece today or scrap it on the cutting room floor will be a mystery until I’m out of the shower and out of the stadium and buckling into my truck.

For the first time in my entire career as an athlete, I watch the clock on the big screen—not to see how much more time we have to score another goal, but so I know when I can go to the locker room and look at the internet.

How fucked up is that?

This is why my father discouraged us from having relationships—this mind-fuckery right here, this worrying about how another human feels and what the public thinks about me.

I barely recognize myself.

These are not the thoughts to be having when a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound lineman is staring you down, wanting to bust through the line like a runaway train.

The crowd is deafening.

Coaches on the sidelines shouting into our earpieces, my special teams coach using obscenities.

I throw my hands up. “What?”

Everything happens so fast for a guy who’s not focused, bodies smashing into me that I barely see it coming, my ass getting knocked to the ground, one of the very few times I’ve ever been sacked.

Great.

Just fucking great.

The crowd boos me as Lance Morris helps me off my feet. “What the fuck, dude.”

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