An unfortunate accident has sent Grace Reeves spiraling out of control. Having lost her voice, as well as her closest friends. , she returns home to recuperate. But as time passes, Grace's family grows concerned with the severity of her depression...
The atmosphere stirs with inquisitive energy. Fifty-two pairs of ears tune to the conversation. Players nearby dart their eyes in my direction. The Saints locker room is huge, with armchairs and sofas in the center of the floor. Our cubbies surround them, and are lined with recessed lighting. A fleur-de-lis is painted into the ceiling.
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There's a delicate way to handle locker room talk. It consists of grinning lasciviously and keeping my mouth shut—don't confirm, don't deny. If my team thinks I'm keeping secrets from them, it could affect camaraderie. But these men also understand the desire to maintain a semblance of privacy off the field.
The safety leans against his cubby, strapping a sweatband to his wrist. "You're a married man, Arlington."
"Is that so?" I muse, sliding a thigh pad into the slot in my pants.
We've been here for hours—in physical therapy, reviewing tape, running plays—but this is the first time I've been in one place with the entirety of my team. We're getting suited up to practice on the turf while the stadium fills.
"You've been holdin' out on us," the safety continues, raising a heavy brow. "Is that how it is?"
"Hey, bro," one of the receivers cuts in, his expression empathetic. "It's a surprise, but we're happy for you."
"Thanks, Graham," I grunt, swiping my footgear off the shelf.
A murmur of agreement ripples through the room, and a few players slap my shoulder while I'm lacing my cleats. Further away, I hear fragments of a conversation—something about Mason Reeves, daughter, and plane crash—but none of them are directed at me. In a matter of minutes, most of the men have filtered out through the underground tunnel. I follow in their wake, but the head coach pulls me aside before I reach the door.
"There's a lot of white noise out there, Arlington," he warns, tugging a cap over his graying hair. "I don't give a fuck about any of that, and neither should you. I need you to keep your head tonight, and every other night until we win the Bowl."
"I always do," I assure him, exiting the locker room.
In the concrete corridor, a slew of VIPs wait beyond the velvet rope. I sign a few autographs, skirt questions about Grace, then head to the field to warm up. The stadium fills slowly, and the energy grows along with the occupancy.
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