Chapter 5: Lambeau Pilgrimage, Hotel Room Heat
The hotel room was a time capsule of bad decisions and better football seasons.
The carpet had been brown once. Now it was a patchwork of stains and shadows, the kind of floor that made you keep your socks on and your expectations low. The curtains—a faded floral print that had probably been fashionable in 1987—did almost nothing to block the neon glow of the downtown Green Bay strip. It bled through the fabric in pulses of red and blue, painting the walls in colors that didn't exist in nature.
Jordan stood by the window, peeling back the curtain with one finger.
He could see it. Just there, past the cluster of bars and the strip mall and the parking lot that charged thirty bucks for game-day parking—Lambeau Field. The stadium's facade glowed against the night sky like a cathedral, all brick and steel and history. The concrete sentinels of the Packers Hall of Fame stood guard in the darkness. The whole thing looked like it had been carved out of the Wisconsin winter itself.
He let the curtain fall and turned around.
Maria was sitting on the edge of the bed.
She hadn't moved since they'd walked in. She hadn't unpacked. She hadn't complained about the smell of stale coffee and old carpet, or the TV perched on the wobbly dresser, or the crack in the screen that ran from corner to corner like a lightning bolt frozen in glass. She hadn't even made a joke about the single folding table groaning under a tower of pizza boxes someone had left behind—probably the previous guests, probably Bears fans, probably assholes.
She was just sitting there. Staring at him.
Her eyes were wet.
"Maria?"
She blinked. A tear escaped down her cheek, and she wiped it away with the back of her hand like she was embarrassed to be caught.
"I'm fine," she said.
"You're crying."
"I'm not crying. I'm—" She gestured vaguely at the room, at the window, at the neon glow bleeding through the curtains. "I'm just. This is a lot."
Jordan crossed the room and sat down next to her. The mattress sagged under his weight, and a spring creaked somewhere beneath them, but he didn't care. He reached out and took her hand—the same hand she'd used to wipe away the tear, still damp, still trembling.
"We don't have to stay," he said. "We can drive back. We can find another hotel. We can—"
"Shut up."
"What?"
She turned to look at him. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her nose was starting to run, and she was smiling in a way that made his chest ache.
"Shut up," she said again, softer this time. "I'm not crying because I'm upset. I'm crying because—" She shook her head. "Because you brought me here. Because you drove seven hours. Because you—"
She stopped. Swallowed. Started again.
"Because you remembered."
Jordan frowned. "Remembered what?"
"When we first started watching games together. Remember what I said?"
He thought back. It was almost a year ago now—a random Sunday in September, the Packers playing the Vikings, Maria showing up at his door with a bag of chips and a six-pack and a chip on her shoulder. She'd sat on his futon and trash-talked Kirk Cousins for three hours straight, and at some point, during a commercial break, she'd mentioned that she'd never actually been to Lambeau.
"Stupid," she'd said. "I know. I'm a fake fan. My dad's from Green Bay and I've never even seen the stadium."
Jordan had filed it away. Not consciously, not deliberately—just tucked it into the back of his mind like a book he meant to read later. And then, six weeks ago, when he'd seen the tickets go on sale, he'd bought them without thinking. Two seats. Section 134. Row 22. Right behind the end zone.
"You said it didn't matter," he said. "You said watching on TV was the same thing."
"I lied."
"You lied?"
"I lie about a lot of things." She laughed, wet and shaky. "I lie about how much I care. I lie about how much this means to me. I lie about—" She gestured at him, at the room, at everything. "This."
Jordan didn't know what to say. So he didn't say anything. He just sat there, holding her hand, watching the neon light flicker across her face.
She kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't tentative. It was the kind of kiss that meant business—the kind that said I'm done talking now, the kind that said I want you, the kind that said shut up and let me show you.
Her hands found his shoulders and pushed. He fell back on the bed, and she followed him down, her body landing on top of his, her knees straddling his hips. The mattress groaned. The headboard knocked against the wall. She didn't care.
"You brought me to Lambeau," she said, her voice low and rough. "You drove seven hours. You—"
"I know."
"You don't know. You don't know what this means."
"Then show me."
She grinned. There was nothing soft about it. It was all teeth and hunger and the kind of dangerous energy that made Jordan's pulse spike.
She reached down and grabbed the hem of his shirt. He helped her pull it over his head, and then she was running her hands over his chest—not gentle, not teasing, just touching, feeling, claiming. Her nails scraped against his skin, and he hissed through his teeth.
"Shut up," she said.
"I didn't say anything."
"You were thinking it."
She leaned down and kissed his neck, his collarbone, his chest. Her hair fell around her face in dark curls that smelled like cheap hotel shampoo and something else—something that was just her, something that Jordan had come to associate with Sundays and arguments and the particular thrill of being right about a play call.
She ground her hips against his.
He was already hard—had been hard since the moment she'd pushed him onto the bed, maybe since the moment she'd started crying, maybe since the moment they'd walked into this shitty hotel room and she'd seen the stadium through the window. Her jeans were rough against his cock, the seam pressing in a way that was almost painful, almost perfect.
"You feel that?" she said. "That's what you do to me."
"I—"
"Shut up."
She sat up and pulled off her sweatshirt—the green one, the one she'd worn every Sunday since October, the one that was starting to wear thin at the elbows. Underneath, she was bare. No bra. Her tits were small and perfect, her nipples already hard, and Jordan reached up to touch them, but she caught his wrists and pinned them to the bed.
"Not yet," she said.
"What?"
"Not yet."
She leaned back and started working on his belt. The buckle was stubborn, and she cursed under her breath, but she got it undone, got his zipper down, got her hand inside his jeans. When her fingers wrapped around his cock, Jordan groaned.
"Fuck," he breathed.
"That's the idea."
She pulled him out—fully out, the cool air of the hotel room hitting his skin like a shock—and looked down at him with an expression that was half appreciation, half hunger.
"You're so hard," she said.
"You're—"
"Shut up."
She slid off the bed and knelt on the floor. The carpet was disgusting. Jordan wanted to tell her to stop, to get back on the bed, to not put her knees on whatever bodily fluids had soaked into that brown polyester monstrosity—but she was already leaning forward, her breath warm against the tip of his cock.
"If you tell me to stop," she said, "I'll bite you again."
"I wasn't going to tell you to stop."
"Good."
She took him in her mouth.
Jordan's head fell back against the pillow. The ceiling was water-stained. The neon light flickered. Maria's tongue was doing something that made his vision blur at the edges.
She started slow—lips wrapped tight around the head, tongue working the underside, one hand braced on his thigh. Then she went deeper, taking him in until he could feel the back of her throat, until he could feel her swallowing around him.
"Jesus," he said.
She hummed in response. The vibration went through him like an electric shock.
She pulled back, gasping, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his cock. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and looked up at him.
"You like that?"
"Yes."
"You want more?"
"Yes."
She took him again. Sloppier this time—wet sounds filling the room, mixing with the hum of the mini-fridge and the distant thump of music from the bar down the street. She used her hand at the base, working him in tandem with her mouth, and her other hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently, squeezing just enough to make him gasp.
"You're going to make me come," he said.
She pulled off. "Not yet."
"Maria—"
"I said not yet."
She stood up and shimmied out of her jeans, kicking them across the room. Her underwear followed. Then she climbed back onto the bed, back on top of him, and he could feel how wet she was—how hot, how ready—even before she positioned herself over his cock.
She sank down.
They both moaned.
She was tight. So fucking tight, gripping him from the first inch, and Jordan grabbed her hips to steady her, to hold her, to keep himself from immediately coming like a goddamn teenager.
"Fuck," she whispered. "You feel so good."
"You feel—"
"Shut up."
She started to move.
She rode him hard. Not the slow, teasing grind from earlier—this was something else. This was the kind of riding that came from a year of frustration, a year of banter and arguments and pretending that this was just about football. Her nails dug into his chest. Her hair fell in her face. The headboard slammed against the wall in a rhythm that was definitely disturbing the neighbors, and Jordan didn't give a single fuck.
"Harder," he said.
She obliged.
Her hips moved faster. Her breathing turned ragged. She reached down and started rubbing her clit—fast, sloppy, desperate—and Jordan could feel her getting close, feel the way her body was tightening around him.
"Look at me," he said.
She looked down. Her eyes were wild. Her lip was bleeding—she'd bitten it, probably, without even noticing—and a drop of blood ran down her chin.
"I'm going to come," she said.
"Good."
"I'm going to—"
"Come on my cock."
She did.
Her body locked up. Her nails raked down his chest, leaving red lines that would probably show up tomorrow. She moaned—loud, long, shameless—and the sound went straight through Jordan like a freight train.
He didn't last much longer after that.
She was still trembling when he grabbed her hips and flipped her over. She landed on her stomach, and he was behind her before she could react, pulling her up by the waist, positioning himself at her entrance.
"Again?" she said.
"Again."
He pushed inside.
She was even wetter now—slick and hot and perfect—and he fucked her from behind the way he'd wanted to since the first time she'd shown up at his door with that chip on her shoulder. He grabbed her hair. He grabbed her hip. He fucked her hard and deep and dirty, and she pushed back against him like she wanted every inch.
"Fuck," she said. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—"
"You like that?"
"Yes."
"Tell me you like it."
"I like it. I love it. I—"
He drove in harder. She buried her face in the pillow to muffle her scream.
The headboard kept slamming. The neon kept flickering. Somewhere in the distance, a train horn sounded—a long, low note that hung in the air like a promise.
Jordan felt it building. A pressure at the base of his spine, a heat spreading through his legs. He grabbed Maria's hips with both hands and fucked her as hard as he could.
"Come in me," she gasped. "Please, Jordan, come in me—"
He did.
It hit him like a flood—that release, that rush, that total loss of control. He emptied himself inside her, groaning, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. For a long moment, he couldn't think. Couldn't speak. Couldn't do anything but feel.
Then he collapsed.
They landed in a heap—sweaty, tangled, breathing hard. Maria's hair was everywhere. Jordan's chest was a war zone of scratches and bite marks. The sheets were ruined. The room stank of sex and old pizza.
Maria rolled over and looked at him.
Her face was flushed. Her lip was still bleeding. Her eyes were the softest he'd ever seen them.
"This is the best surprise anyone's ever given me," she said.
Jordan laughed—breathless, exhausted, happier than he could remember being in a long time.
"You're bleeding," he said.
"So are you."
She leaned over and kissed him. Gentle this time. Slow. The kind of kiss that meant something more than just desire.
"We should shower," she said.
"Together?"
"Obviously."
She stood up and pulled him toward the bathroom. The shower was small—barely big enough for one person, definitely not big enough for two—but they made it work. They washed each other. They touched each other. They didn't talk about what this meant, or what would happen when they drove back to Minnesota, or whether this was something more than Sundays and football and cheap hotel rooms.
They just stood there, under the hot water, and breathed.
When they got back to the bed, Maria pulled on his shirt—the one she'd stripped off him earlier—and curled up against his side. Jordan put his arm around her. The window was still glowing with that neon light. The stadium was still out there, waiting.
"Tomorrow," Maria said.
"Tomorrow."
"We go to Lambeau."
"We go to Lambeau."
She smiled against his chest.
"I love you," she said.
The words hung in the air like a train horn—long and low and impossible to ignore.
Jordan didn't answer right away. He wasn't sure he was supposed to. But when he looked down at her—at the curls, at the chewed lip, at the shirt she'd stolen from him without asking—he knew.
"I love you too," he said.
She didn't say anything. She just held him tighter.
And somewhere, past the neon and the bars and the parking lot, Lambeau Field waited for them both.
The shower ran cold by the time they finished, and neither of them cared.
Maria stood under the weak spray with her forehead pressed against the tile, water beading on her shoulders, dripping from the ends of her hair. Jordan watched her from behind—the curve of her spine, the constellation of freckles across her back that he'd never noticed before, the way her breathing had finally slowed to something normal. He reached out and traced one of the scratches he'd left on her hip.
"Sorry," he said.
"Don't be."
She turned around and looked at him. Her lip had stopped bleeding, but the wound was still there—a small split in the center of her bottom lip that would probably sting tomorrow when she tried to eat or smile or kiss him again.
"Worth it," she said, answering a question he hadn't asked.
They dried off with towels that were too small and too thin, the kind of towels that had probably been washed ten thousand times and had given up any pretense of softness years ago. Maria pulled his shirt back on. Jordan found his boxers on the floor and stepped into them.
The bed was a disaster. The sheets had come untucked from the corners. The pillows were scattered. There was a wet spot near the center that neither of them acknowledged.
"Should we call the front desk?" Jordan asked.
"For what?"
"Extra towels. Maybe a new sheet."
Maria laughed. "It's a Green Bay hotel room the night before a game. They've seen worse."
She crawled under the covers and patted the space next to her. Jordan climbed in, and she immediately curled against him, her head on his chest, her leg thrown over his thigh. The neon light from outside painted stripes across the ceiling. The mini-fridge hummed. Somewhere down the hall, someone was watching SportsCenter at full volume.
"Tell me something," Maria said.
"Like what?"
"Anything. Something I don't know."
Jordan thought about it. His hand moved absently through her hair, fingers catching in the tangles, working them out without thinking.
"I used to hate you," he said.
She lifted her head. "What?"
"Not hate. That's too strong." He paused. "I used to think you were annoying."
"Gee, thanks."
"You showed up at my door the first week of sophomore year with a six-pack and a bag of chips and told me my futon was uncomfortable."
"It was uncomfortable."
"It was brand new."
"It was still uncomfortable."
Jordan laughed. The sound surprised him—it came out easy, unguarded, the way it did when he was with her and only her.
"My point is," he said, "I didn't want you there. I wanted to watch the game alone. I wanted to pace and yell and not have to explain myself to anyone."
"And then?"
"And then you explained the game to me."
Maria snorted. "I did not."
"You did. You told me why the Packers were running play-action on second down. You told me why the Bears' defensive scheme was garbage. You told me—"
"I remember."
"You told me things I didn't know. And I'd been watching football since I was six."
She was quiet for a moment. Her fingers traced circles on his chest, slow and deliberate.
"My dad taught me," she said.
"I figured."
"He had season tickets. Back in the nineties. Before I was born."
Jordan waited. She didn't talk about her dad often—not the way some people did, not with stories and memories and nostalgia. When she mentioned him, it was always in passing, always in fragments.
"He died when I was fourteen," she said.
"I know."
"I know you know. I told you. But I don't think I told you—" She stopped. Started again. "He used to sit me on his lap during games. I couldn't have been more than three or four. He'd point at the screen and say, 'That's the quarterback, Maria. That's the one who throws the ball.'"
Jordan didn't say anything. He just kept his hand moving through her hair.
"I didn't understand anything. I just liked being close to him. I liked the noise, the crowd, the way he'd cheer when something good happened." She paused. "After he died, I stopped watching. For like two years. I couldn't do it. It felt wrong without him."
"What changed?"
"The Packers won the Super Bowl."
Jordan smiled. "Of course they did."
"I watched the game alone in my room. And when they won, I just—" She made a small sound, something between a laugh and a sob. "I started crying. And I realized I wasn't sad. I was happy. And I thought, he would have wanted this. He would have wanted me to be happy."
She lifted her head and looked at him. Her eyes were dry this time, but there was something heavy in them—something she'd been carrying for a long time.
"That's why I'm a Packers fan," she said. "Not because I inherited it. Because I chose it. Because it's the one thing I have left of him."
Jordan reached up and touched her face. His thumb brushed across her cheekbone, down to the corner of her mouth.
"Thank you," he said.
"For what?"
"For telling me."
She didn't answer. She just kissed him—soft this time, no urgency, no heat. The kind of kiss that didn't lead anywhere. The kind of kiss that was its own destination.
When she pulled back, she was smiling.
"Your turn," she said.
"My turn for what?"
"Something I don't know about you."
Jordan thought. The truth was, there was a lot Maria didn't know. Not because he was hiding anything, but because he'd never been good at this—at sharing, at opening up, at letting people see past the grin and the jokes and the encyclopedic football knowledge.
"I haven't talked to my parents in three months," he said.
Maria's eyebrows went up. "What?"
"It's not a big deal. We just—we don't agree on things."
"What things?"
"Everything." He exhaled. "My dad wanted me to go to school for business. He said sports journalism was a waste of money. He said I'd never make a living."
"And your mom?"
"She agrees with him."
Maria was quiet. Her hand found his and squeezed.
"I know they're wrong," Jordan said. "I know I'm good at this. I know I can make it work. But sometimes—"
"Sometimes you wonder."
"Yeah."
She shifted, propping herself up on one elbow so she could look at him directly. Her hair fell in her face, and she pushed it back with an impatient hand.
"Listen to me," she said. "You're the most stubborn person I've ever met. You drove seven hours to take me to a football game because I mentioned once that I'd never been. You spent two months's worth of savings on tickets and a hotel room because you remembered something I said."
"Maria—"
"Shut up. I'm not done."
He shut up.
"You know more about football than anyone I've ever met. You can quote stats from games that happened before either of us were born. You write like—" She gestured vaguely. "You write like you actually care about the words. Like they matter."
She leaned down and kissed him. Hard.
"You're going to be fine," she said against his mouth. "You're going to be better than fine. And when you are, your dad can suck it."
Jordan laughed. It came out wet—surprising him, embarrassing him—and he tried to turn his head, but Maria caught his face in her hands and held him there.
"Don't," she said.
"Don't what?"
"Don't hide."
He looked at her. At the wild curls and the chewed lip and the sharp eyes that had challenged him from the moment they met.
"I'm not hiding," he said.
"Good."
She kissed him again. Slower this time. When she pulled back, she was smiling.
"We should sleep," she said.
"I'm not tired."
"Liar."
"Okay, I'm a little tired."
She laughed and settled back against his chest. Her body fit perfectly against his—all the angles and curves somehow aligning, like they'd been designed for this exact arrangement.
"Tomorrow," she said.
"Tomorrow."
"We go to Lambeau."
"We go to Lambeau."
She was quiet for a long time. Jordan thought she'd fallen asleep. Then, softly, barely a whisper:
"Hey, Jordan?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you."
His heart did something complicated. Something he didn't have a name for.
"I love you too," he said.
She didn't respond. Her breathing evened out. Her body went slack against his.
Jordan lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the mini-fridge and the distant noise of the TV down the hall. The neon light flickered across the room in pulses of red and blue.
The stadium waited.
The game would come. The wins. The losses. The arguments and the banter and the Sundays that had become something more than football. All of it was ahead of them, waiting in the cold Wisconsin morning.
But right now, there was only this.
Her body. His arms. The quiet.
He closed his eyes and let himself sleep.
---
Morning came gray and cold, the kind of Midwest winter morning that made you want to stay under the covers forever.
Jordan woke to the sound of Maria humming.
She was standing by the window, the curtain pulled back, staring out at the stadium. She was still wearing his shirt—the sleeves too long, the hem falling just below her hips—and her hair was a disaster of tangled curls.
"You're staring," he said.
"Your shirt is really soft."
"That's not what I meant."
She turned around and grinned. The split in her lip had scabbed over, a dark red line in the center of her mouth.
"Come look," she said.
He got out of bed and crossed the room. The carpet was still disgusting. The cold seeped in through the window, and he shivered.
Lambeau Field filled the view.
In the daylight, it was even more impressive—the massive brick facade, the statues of Lombardi and the other legends standing guard, the parking lot starting to fill with cars and tailgaters and fans dressed in green and gold. The smell of charcoal grills and beer and cold-weather excitement drifted up from the street.
"Sixty thousand people," Maria said.
"Seventy-two."
"Seventy-two thousand people will be in that stadium in a few hours."
"Seventy-two thousand and eighty-one."
Maria looked at him. "What?"
"Seating capacity is 72,079. But with standing room and press, it's closer to 78,000."
"You're such a nerd."
"You love it."
She elbowed him in the ribs. He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her close. They stood there for a moment, looking out at the stadium, letting the reality of it sink in.
"I can't believe I'm here," Maria said.
"I can't believe you're here either."
"I mean it. I never thought—" She stopped. Shook her head. "I used to watch games on TV with my dad. And he'd point at the screen and say, 'One day, Maria. One day we'll go.'"
Jordan tightened his arm around her.
"He never made it," she said.
"I know."
"But I'm here. And I—" Her voice cracked. "I wish he could see this."
Jordan didn't know what to say. So he didn't say anything. He just held her, letting the cold air wash over them, letting the silence fill the space that words couldn't reach.
After a moment, Maria pulled away. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and smiled.
"Okay," she said. "I'm done being sad. We're going to a football game."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure."
She started gathering her clothes—the jeans from last night, the green sweatshirt that had been sitting in a ball on the floor. She paused when she picked it up, running her thumb over the faded Packers logo.
"I'm going to wear this," she said.
"All day?"
"All day."
They got dressed. They checked out. They stopped at a gas station for coffee and donuts and made the drive to the stadium, joining the stream of cars and trucks and RVs all heading the same direction.
The tailgate lots were already packed.
Green and gold everywhere. Flags and banners and tents and grills. People playing cornhole and throwing footballs and drinking beer at nine in the morning like it was the most normal thing in the world. Someone had set up a giant inflatable Packers player in the middle of their tailgate, and someone else was blasting "Bang on the Drum All Day" from a speaker system that probably violated noise ordinances.
Maria rolled down her window and stuck her head out.
"Go Pack Go!" she screamed.
A group of fans near the parking lot entrance screamed it back.
Jordan found a spot in one of the distant lots—the cheap one, the one that meant a twenty-minute walk to the stadium, but he didn't care. He killed the engine and looked at Maria.
"You ready?" he asked.
"I was born ready."
They walked through the crowd, hand in hand, past the stadium's bronze statues and the Hall of Fame and the stores selling jerseys and cheeseheads and everything else a Packers fan could want. Maria stopped at a vendor and bought a giant foam finger. She waved it at everyone who passed.
They found their seats just before kickoff.
Section 134. Row 22. Right behind the end zone.
Maria sat down and stared at the field. The grass was impossibly green. The lines were impossibly white. The stands were impossibly full, a wall of green and gold that stretched up toward the gray sky.
"I can't believe this," she said.
"Believe it."
The crowd roared. The teams took the field. The national anthem played, and Maria put her hand over her heart, and Jordan watched her instead of the flag.
The game was brutal.
The Packers moved the ball well in the first quarter—a quick touchdown that sent the stadium into hysterics—but the Bears answered back with a field goal and then a pick-six that silenced the crowd. The second quarter was worse: another Bears touchdown, another Packers punt, another injury scare.
At halftime, Jordan went to get beers and found himself standing next to a raffle table.
The sign said something about a charity fundraiser. Fifty dollars a ticket. First prize was a cash payout—something huge, the kind of number that made Jordan do a double-take. Second prize was a signed jersey. Third prize was season tickets for next year.
Jordan dug his wallet out of his pocket.
He had forty bucks. Enough for two beers and maybe a pretzel. Not enough for a raffle ticket.
He was about to walk away when he noticed the smaller sign: a bonus drawing. Anyone who entered by the end of the third quarter would be eligible for a separate cash prize—a smaller amount, but still significant. Fifty dollars to enter.
Jordan counted his cash. He had sixty dollars left. Enough for one beer and the raffle ticket.
He bought the ticket.
"What's your name?" the woman at the table asked.
Jordan hesitated. Then he said, "Maria."
"Last name?"
He gave it.
The woman wrote it down and handed him a receipt. Jordan stuffed it in his pocket and walked back to the seats with one beer and one raffle ticket he couldn't afford.
Maria raised an eyebrow when he returned. "Where's my beer?"
"I'm poor."
"Then why do you have a ticket?"
He handed her the raffle stub. She looked at it. Looked at him.
"You entered me in a raffle?"
"It's for charity."
"Jordan."
"It was fifty dollars."
"Jordan."
He sat down and took a sip of his beer. "You said you wanted to come to Lambeau. I wanted to make it memorable."
Maria stared at him. Then she laughed—loud, sharp, the kind of laugh that made people turn around.
"You're insane," she said.
"I know."
She kissed him on the cheek and tucked the raffle stub into her pocket. The second half started. The Packers went three-and-out. The Bears scored again. The stadium fell silent.
Then something changed.
The Packers' defense forced a fumble. The crowd erupted. Aaron Rodgers—still playing, still somehow playing—drove the team down the field and hit Davante Adams in the corner of the end zone. Touchdown. the extra point. The lead was cut to three.
The Bears punted. The Packers scored again. The lead changed hands. Then the Bears kicked a field goal and tied it up.
Four minutes left. The Packers had the ball.
Maria was on her feet. So was Jordan. So was everyone.
Rodgers dropped back. Scrambled. Threw deep. The ball hung in the air for what felt like an eternity, and then it landed in the arms of a receiver who was somehow, impossibly, wide open.
The crowd lost its fucking mind.
The Packers ran out the clock. The final score flashed on the jumbotron. The stadium sang "Bang on the Drum All Day" at full volume, and Maria screamed along with every word, her voice hoarse and her eyes bright and her foam finger waving in the air like she was trying to signal a plane.
After the game, they stayed in their seats until the stands started to empty. Maria didn't want to leave. She wanted to hold onto this moment, this feeling, this one perfect day.
Then the raffle announcement came over the PA.
Maria's name.
She froze.
"Did they just—"
"Maria." Jordan grabbed her arm. "They just called your name."
"My name?"
"You won. You fucking won."
She looked at the stub in her pocket. Looked at Jordan. Looked at the field.
"Holy shit," she said.
They made their way down to the raffle table, and a woman handed Maria a check. It was a lot of money—more than Maria had ever seen in her life. More than enough to pay for a semester of school, or a new laptop, or a trip to anywhere in the world.
Maria stared at the check. Her hands were shaking.
"I don't understand," she said.
"You entered the raffle," the woman said.
"I didn't—" She turned to Jordan. "You entered me."
"I entered you."
"You spent fifty dollars on a raffle ticket."
"I spent fifty dollars on a raffle ticket."
"For me."
"For you."
She looked at him. Really looked at him. The check was still in her hand, but she wasn't thinking about the money anymore. She was thinking about the seven-hour drive. The hotel room. The bet that had started everything. The way he'd remembered something she'd said a year ago, something she'd barely even remembered saying herself.
"You're insane," she said.
"You said that already."
"I mean it. You're actually insane."
He shrugged. "Probably."
She pulled him close. Her arms wrapped around his neck. Her body pressed against his, and she kissed him in front of the raffle table and the charity workers and the fans still milling around the concourse.
"Thank you," she said against his mouth.
"For what?"
"For everything."
He smiled. "You won a lot of money."
"I'm not talking about the money."
"I know."
She pulled back and looked at him. Her eyes were wet again, but she was smiling.
"I love you," she said.
"I love you too."
The stadium lights flickered on. The cold wind blew through the concourse. Somewhere in the distance, a Packers fan shouted "Go Pack Go!" at the top of their lungs.
Maria grabbed Jordan's hand and pulled him toward the exit.
"Come on," she said. "We're going out tonight."
"We are?"
"We are."
"To celebrate?"
"To celebrate."
She looked at the check in her hand and grinned.
"And I'm buying."