The Fighters kick off, and the defense goes on the field. It's another strange thing, being on the field level. I can't see nearly as much of the game as when I'm in the stands, but there's a sort of visceral, emotional connection that even being in the second or third row on the center line doesn't give you. I can hear the players calling to each other, yelling at each other, and even some of the nearly constant smack-talking. How did I ever think games were somber events? I mean, I remember my days in high school basketball before Thomas, and even us girls were constantly digging on the other team, talking constantly. What was I thinking that football players are any different?
The defense holds the Ottawa offense after a very short drive, and Tyler leads the offense out, the crowd giving him a roar that deafens me. He's been embraced by the Toronto crowd, even more than before. Now he isn't just an athlete putting up tremendous performances, he's a Fighter, and a Torontonian. Still, there's been a lot of questions, and the buzz is heavy on the television today leading up to the game. Since his much publicized turning down of Baltimore's offer, he hasn't done any interviews, only issuing a single short statement through the team. I've memorized it.
First, thank you for your interest in my decision. I thought long and hard about this and made a choice that I feel is best for myself, my team, and the people I love.
With that, however, I am temporarily turning down any and all interviews due to a recent death in the family. I ask your patience and respect in this difficult time for me. We've all lost loved ones and can understand the need for some privacy. I promise, when some time has passed, I'll be happy to answer any questions you may have.
Go Fighters. Fight On.
Tyler Paulson
I smiled when I first read the message, as not only did Tyler protect my privacy, but he included me and my parents as part of 'his family.' The idea of us being together forever has been on my mind more and more as time's gone on, especially after Dad gave his blessing.
I'm so lost in my thoughts that I miss the first play, wincing when I see Tyler picking himself up from the turf, where he's just gotten sacked. He nods once and covers the holes on his helmet, listening for the call in from the sidelines from Coach, and sets up the offense again. The ball snaps, and he pumps once before letting loose a pass down the right side that goes long, and we're punting.
Jogging off the field, Tyler's frustrated, and as he comes by I call out to him. “Tyler!”
He looks over and pulls off his helmet. “Great start, huh?”
I shake my head. “Don't worry about it. Don't worry about me, or the doctors, or anything else. You go out there and play your ass off.”
Tyler looks into my eyes, then nods in understanding. I can read it in his eyes, he's carrying too many burdens. The new deal, Dad's funeral, my emotional bitchiness, the team's expectations . . . all of it. He's carrying lead weights in his wristbands and shoes even before fatigue sets in. “I'll try.”
“You can do it. I'll help you. Remember, we're a team too, right?”
Tyler nods, then grins. “Damn right. Okay.”
Ottawa scores a field goal off their next drive, and our kickoff team gets stiffed, putting Tyler and the offense pinned at our own ten yard line for the start of the next drive. “Tyler! Kick their ass!” I holler as he jogs out again, loud enough that a few of the other players look over at me in surprise. “What?”
Vince, the backup quarterback who's playing in his last season before becoming a coach, gives me a thumbs up. “Didn't know you could yell that loud. Good to see it.”
Tyler and the offense strike quickly, with the lightning fast plays that have made the Fighters a highlight reel team this season. We've lost five games, but it certainly hasn't been Tyler's fault.
I'm caught up in the game, only resting when the team jogs off the field for halftime. Sitting on the bench with the cheerleaders before their halftime performance, I'm surprised when Tyler comes out of the tunnel, still in his gear. “April, can I talk to you?”
“Sure,” I reply, wondering what the hell is going on. Where's the rest of the team, and why is Tyler out here instead of warming up and getting ready with the rest of the Fighters?
Tyler comes around and takes my hands, pulling me up. “I've been thinking, and well . . . I don't want to wait any longer. I was going to do this at home after the game, but with what you said, I don't want to wait.”
The whole stadium goes silent, a thick held breath as Tyler gets down on one knee, holding my hand. I'm not breathing, and I'm barely aware of everyone else surrounding us. Francine, the other cheerleaders, the thirty thousand fans . . . they're in another universe. Instead, all I can see is Tyler reaching into the fuzzy pouch that he keeps around his waist to keep his hands warm, and he takes out a little black case, and opens it with a flick of his thumb. “April Gray . . . you're the woman I love. Would you do me the honor of accepting this ring, and becoming my wife?”