Chapter 7: Chapter 7
The call came on a Thursday.
Jordan was in the middle of a lecture on sports ethics—a class he'd mostly been ignoring, his notebook filled with half-finished sentences and doodles of Packers helmets—when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it. Then it buzzed again. And again.
He pulled it out under the desk.
Green Bay, Wisconsin.
His heart stopped.
He stared at the screen for so long that the professor called on him, and he had to stammer something about Kant and integrity, his brain firing blanks. The class laughed. He didn't care. He was already somewhere else.
The voicemail was short. Sarah from the Packers media department. They wanted to schedule a follow-up. A final interview.
In person.
At Lambeau.
Jordan walked out of the lecture hall without excusing himself. He stood in the hallway, phone pressed to his ear, and listened to the message three more times. Each time, the words rearranged themselves in his mind—final interview, in person, Lambeau, final interview—until they weren't words anymore, just a feeling. A buzzing, terrifying, electric feeling that had nowhere to go.
He called Maria.
She didn't answer.
He called again. Straight to voicemail.
He texted her. Call me. Important.
She responded ten minutes later. In class. What's wrong?
He didn't know how to answer that.
Nothing's wrong. Just call me when you can.
He spent the rest of the day in a fog. His afternoon seminar. The walk back to the apartment. The three flights of stairs that had never felt so long. When he pushed open the door, the apartment was empty—Maria's shoes weren't by the door, her keys weren't on the hook, her sweatshirt wasn't draped over the back of the futon.
She had a late class on Thursdays.
Jordan sat down on the futon and stared at the Packers flag.
The phone was still in his hand. The voicemail was still in his inbox. The future was still dangling in front of him, close enough to touch, far enough to be terrifying.
He waited.
---
Maria got home at seven.
She came through the door with her bag slung over one shoulder and her hair escaping from a messy bun. She looked tired. She looked beautiful. She looked like the only thing in the world that mattered.
"Hey," she said. "What's going on? Your texts were weird."
Jordan didn't say anything.
He just held up his phone.
She set her bag down and crossed the room. She took the phone from his hand, and he watched her face as she read the voicemail transcription. Watched the way her expression shifted—confusion, then surprise, then something he couldn't name.
"A final interview," she said.
"Yeah."
"At Lambeau."
"Yeah."
She handed the phone back. Her hands were steady. Her voice was steady. Everything about her was steady except her eyes, which were doing something complicated.
"When?"
"Next weekend. They want me to fly out Friday. Interview Saturday. Fly back Sunday."
"Sunday."
"Yeah."
She sat down next to him. Not touching. Close, but not touching.
"Sunday's the game," she said.
"I know."
"The Lions game. At Lambeau."
"I know."
She laughed. It was a short, humorless sound.
"They're flying you out for a final interview on the same weekend as a home game," she said. "That's not a coincidence."
"I know."
"They want to see how you handle it. The atmosphere. The pressure."
"I know."
"Jordan."
He finally looked at her.
"I don't know what to do," he said.
The words came out cracked. Broken. He'd been holding them in for hours, and now they were out, and there was no taking them back.
Maria reached over and took his hand.
"You go," she said.
"Maria—"
"You go to the interview. You go to Lambeau. You show them what you're made of." She squeezed his fingers. "You do this."
"What about us?"
She didn't answer right away.
The radiator ticked. The mini-fridge hummed. The Packers flag hung above the TV, crooked and proud, watching them.
"We'll figure it out," she said eventually.
"How?"
"I don't know yet." She leaned her head against his shoulder. "But we will."
He wanted to believe her.
He wanted to believe that love was enough. That wanting something badly enough could bend the world into shape. That they could have this—both of them, together—without anyone having to give up anything.
But he'd lived long enough to know better.
---
The week passed in a blur.
Jordan went to class. He wrote papers. He pretended to care about the things he was supposed to care about. At night, he lay awake next to Maria and stared at the ceiling and tried to imagine a future that didn't end with one of them leaving.
He couldn't.
Maria was quiet. Not distant—she was still there, still present, still tracing circles on his chest and kissing him goodnight. But there was something underneath. Something careful. Like she was holding her breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
They didn't talk about Green Bay.
They didn't talk about what would happen if he got the job.
They just existed, together, in the small space they'd built, and pretended that time wasn't running out.
---
Friday came too fast.
Jordan packed a duffel bag with shaking hands. Two days of clothes. His laptop. The notebook where he'd written all his interview prep. His Packers tie—the one Maria had bought him for his birthday last year, the one he'd never actually worn.
Maria watched him from the futon.
"You're going to be fine," she said.
"I know."
"Do you?"
He stopped packing and looked at her.
"No," he said.
She stood up and crossed the room. She took his face in her hands and kissed him—slow, deliberate, the kind of kiss that was meant to be remembered.
"You're going to walk into that building," she said against his mouth, "and you're going to be exactly who you are. And they're going to love you."
"You don't know that."
"I know everything." She pulled back and smiled. "I know you better than anyone. I know what you're capable of."
Jordan's throat tightened.
"What if I get it?" he asked.
"Then you get it."
"And what if I don't?"
"Then you don't."
"I mean—" He stopped. Swallowed. "What if I get it, and I take it, and I have to leave?"
Maria's smile flickered. Just for a second. Just long enough for him to see the fracture underneath.
"Then you leave," she said.
"You'd let me go?"
"I'd kill you if you stayed." She laughed, but it was thin. "This is your dream, Jordan. I'm not going to be the one who takes it away from you."
He kissed her again. Harder this time. Desperate.
"You're my dream too," he said.
She didn't answer.
---
The flight to Green Bay was short.
Jordan spent it staring out the window, watching the flat Minnesota farmland give way to the rolling hills of Wisconsin. His heart was pounding. His hands were sweating. He'd read the same page of his notebook four times and retained nothing.
When the plane touched down, he felt like throwing up.
A car service picked him up from the airport—a perk he hadn't expected. The driver was friendly, chatty, a lifelong Packers fan who talked about the team's offensive line like they were family members. Jordan nodded along, said "yeah" and "definitely" in all the right places, and tried not to think about the fact that he was about to walk into the building where legends were made.
The hotel was nice.
Too nice.
He checked in, dropped his bag on the bed, and stood in front of the window.
Green Bay stretched out below him—smaller than he'd imagined, quieter, the kind of city that wore its history like a coat. And there, in the distance, he could see it.
Lambeau Field.
The stadium rose from the flatland like a cathedral. The green and gold of its exterior caught the late afternoon light, and Jordan felt something catch in his chest—the same feeling he'd had as a kid, watching games on TV with his dad, dreaming of being there.
He was there.
He was actually there.
His phone buzzed.
Maria. How was the flight?
Fine, he typed back. The hotel is nice.
Good. You deserve nice.
He stared at the screen for a long time. Then he typed: I miss you.
The reply came almost instantly. I miss you too. Now go kick ass tomorrow.
He smiled.
Then he set the phone down and went back to staring at the stadium.
---
The interview was at ten.
Jordan woke up at six. He showered. He shaved. He put on the Packers tie and looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot. His hands were still shaking. He looked like a man who hadn't slept in days.
He hadn't.
He ate breakfast in the hotel lobby. Eggs. Toast. Coffee that tasted like coffee, not gas station swill. He went over his notes one more time. Then he called a cab and rode to the stadium.
Lambeau Field was even bigger up close.
He walked through the atrium, past the Hall of Fame, past the bronze statue of Vince Lombardi. He couldn't stop staring. Everywhere he looked, there was history. Championships. Legends. The Packers gave their heart and soul to this game. To this team.
And they wanted to talk to him.
The interview was in a conference room on the second floor.
Sarah from HR was there, along with two other staffers he'd met on the phone. They asked him about his writing. His experience. His vision for the team's digital content. He answered every question.
Then they asked him to do a live mock segment.
Jordan stood in front of a camera and talked about the Packers' upcoming matchup against the Lions. He talked about Aaron Jones and the running game. He talked about the defense's improvement over the last four weeks. He talked about the energy at Lambeau and what it meant to play there.
He didn't stumble.
He didn't falter.
When he was done, Sarah smiled.
"That was great," she said.
Jordan nodded. His heart was pounding.
"We'll be in touch by Monday," she said.
---
He spent the rest of Saturday wandering the stadium.
There was a game tomorrow—the Lions game—and the whole city was buzzing. Fans in green and gold filled the streets. Bars were packed. The parking lots around the stadium were starting to fill with tailgaters, RVs and pickup trucks and tents emblazoned with Packers logos.
Jordan walked through it all like a ghost.
He wanted to call Maria. He wanted to tell her everything—the interview, the stadium, the feeling in his chest that he couldn't name. But every time he picked up his phone, he stopped. What would he say? That he loved it here? That he wanted this more than he'd ever wanted anything?
That somewhere, buried under the excitement, there was a small, dark knot of fear that he was about to lose her?
He didn't call.
He walked instead.
He walked past the statues. Past the Hall of Fame. Past the kids playing catch in the parking lot and the old men drinking beer in folding chairs. He walked until his feet hurt and the sun started to set, and then he found himself standing in front of the stadium gates.
The game was tomorrow.
The stadium was empty.
But Jordan could feel it—the energy, the history, the weight of all those Sundays. This was where legends happened. This was where he'd dreamed of being since he was six years old.
He pulled out his phone and took a picture.
Then he sent it to Maria.
Wish you were here.
She responded a few minutes later. Me too.
---
Sunday morning, Jordan watched the game from a suite.
The Packers won. Aaron Jones ran for 127 yards and two touchdowns. The defense forced three turnovers. The crowd at Lambeau was loud enough to shake the walls.
Jordan watched it all from behind glass, sipping a beer he didn't taste, trying to memorize every detail.
His phone buzzed at halftime.
Maria: How's the game?
Incredible, he typed back. Wish you were here.
I know, she said. Me too.
They didn't say anything else.
---
Monday morning, Jordan flew home.
He landed in Minneapolis at noon. Maria was waiting for him at the airport, standing by the baggage claim with her hands in her pockets and her hair pulled back.
She looked tired.
He dropped his bag and hugged her.
"I missed you," he said.
"I missed you too."
They drove home in silence.
The apartment was exactly as he'd left it—boxes still half-unpacked, pennants still hanging crooked, Packers flag still above the TV. It felt smaller than before. Quieter. Like something had shifted while he was gone.
Jordan sat on the futon.
Maria sat next to him.
"So?" she said.
"It went well."
"Good."
"I don't know if I got it. They said they'd call by Tuesday."
She nodded. She was staring at the TV, at the flag, at the empty space where the future used to be.
"Maria—"
"Don't." She held up a hand. "Don't do the thing where you pretend you're not excited. You got a final interview at Lambeau. You watched a game from a suite. This is everything you've ever wanted."
"I know."
"Then let yourself want it."
He turned to look at her. Her eyes were wet. She wasn't crying—not quite—but she was close.
"I want it," he said. "But I want you more."
She laughed. It came out broken.
"You can't have both."
"Watch me."
"Jordan—"
"I mean it." He grabbed her hands. "If I get the job, we'll figure it out. I'll commute. Or you'll transfer. Or we'll—"
"Commute from Minnesota to Wisconsin?" She shook her head. "That's insane."
"I don't care."
"You should care."
"I care about you."
"That's not enough."
"It has to be."
She pulled her hands away and stood up. She walked to the window, her back to him, her arms crossed over her chest.
"I've been thinking," she said.
"About?"
"About what I want." She turned around. Her face was hard to read. "About what I'm willing to do."
"And?"
"And I don't know." She let out a breath. "I don't know if I can do this. If I can watch you leave. If I can be the person who stays behind."
Jordan's chest tightened.
"So what are you saying?"
She didn't answer.
The silence stretched between them, heavy and fragile.
Then the phone rang.
Jordan looked down. Unknown number. Green Bay area code.
His heart stopped.
Maria looked at him. He looked at her.
Then he picked up.
The phone was cold against his ear. The room was so quiet he could hear Maria breathing across from him. A woman's voice on the other end asked if he was Jordan Mitchell. He said yes.
She introduced herself as Sarah from the Packers' front office. Her tone was warm but efficient, the kind of voice that had delivered this news before. Jordan's palm was sweating against the phone.
"We'd like to offer you the position," she said. "Digital content associate. Full-time. Starting in three weeks."
The words hit him like a blindside block. He'd prepared for rejection. He'd rehearsed the gracious disappointment, the stiff upper lip, the everything happens for a reason speech he'd give Maria when she asked how it went.
He hadn't prepared for this.
"Jordan?" Sarah said. "Are you still there?"
"Yes," he said. His voice sounded foreign to his own ears. "Yes, I'm here. Thank you. I—yes."
She laughed. "We'll send the paperwork tonight. Orientation is the fifteenth. Congratulations."
He thanked her again. He didn't remember hanging up. The phone was suddenly in his lap, screen dark, and Maria was staring at him with an expression he couldn't read.
"Well?" she said.
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
"Jordan."
"I got it."
The words landed between them like a grenade. Maria's face went through a series of micro-expressions—shock, then something that looked like pride, then something darker that she tried to hide. She was good at hiding things. He'd learned that about her over the past year. She could bury her feelings so deep even she forgot where she'd put them.
But he always found them eventually.
"Holy shit," she said. "You got it."
"Yeah."
"Full-time?"
"Yeah."
"Starting when?"
"Three weeks."
She nodded slowly. Her hands were folded in her lap. Her knuckles were white.
"Three weeks," she repeated.
"I know."
"That's—" She stopped. Started again. "That's fast."
"I know."
"Stop saying that."
"Sorry."
She stood up. Walked to the kitchen. Opened the cabinet where they kept the mismatched glasses they'd bought at Goodwill. Poured water from the tap. Drank it. Her back was to him the whole time.
Jordan watched her spine. The way her shoulders rose and fell. The way her fingers gripped the glass like she wanted to shatter it.
"So," she said, still not turning around. "That's it, then."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean—you're leaving." She set the glass down. Finally turned. Her eyes were dry, but her jaw was set in a way he'd seen before. Usually right before she called someone an idiot on the football forums. "You're moving to Green Bay."
"I haven't accepted yet."
She laughed. It was short and bitter and not really a laugh at all.
"Don't do that," she said.
"Do what?"
"Pretend like there's a choice here." She crossed her arms. "This is what you've wanted since you were six years old. You're not going to turn it down."
"I might."
"You won't."
"How do you know?"
"Because I know you." She stepped closer. "And I know I wouldn't turn it down either."
The honesty in her voice cracked something in his chest. Because she was right. They were the same, her and him. Neither of them was built for sacrifice. They'd both been raised to chase things, to fight for them, to sink their teeth in and hang on.
"Maria—"
"Don't." She held up a hand. "Just don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't try to make this easier." Her voice wobbled. She steadied it. "Don't tell me it's going to be okay. Don't tell me we'll make it work. Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're sorry." She met his eyes. "You're not sorry. You're excited. And you should be. This is huge. This is everything."
Jordan stood up. The distance between them was four feet of cluttered floor—a stack of unopened mail, a pair of shoes, the edge of the coffee table.
"You're everything," he said.
"I'm not a job in Green Bay."
"No, you're better. You're—"
She held up her hand again.
"Stop," she said. "Please."
He stopped.
The apartment was so quiet he could hear the neighbors through the wall—two guys who played video games at all hours, who never seemed to sleep. Their TV was on now. Some first-person shooter. Gunfire and explosions, muffled by drywall.
"I need to think," Maria said.
"Okay."
"I need to—" She gestured vaguely at the door. "I need to go for a drive. Or a walk. Or something."
"Okay."
"Stop saying okay."
"Okay."
She almost smiled. Almost.
Then she grabbed her keys and her jacket and walked out the door. It clicked shut behind her, and Jordan stood in the middle of the apartment, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes and crooked pennants and a future he'd wanted for as long as he could remember.
He didn't feel excited.
He felt like he was drowning.
-
He waited an hour.
Then two.
He called her phone. Straight to voicemail. He texted. She read the messages—he could see the little checkmarks—but she didn't reply. He paced. He did pushups on the living room floor, working the tension out of his arms until they burned. He thought about calling her again.
Instead, he called his mom.
She answered on the second ring. "Hey, baby. How'd the interview go?"
He told her.
She cried. She actually cried, which was embarrassing and warm and exactly what he needed. She said she was proud of him. She said she knew he could do it. She said his father would have been proud too.
Then she asked about Maria.
"She's fine," he said. "She's out. Taking a walk."
"Mm," his mom said. "And she's happy for you?"
"Yeah."
"Jordan."
He exhaled.
"She will be," he said. "She just needs time."
"Does she?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
His mom was quiet for a moment. Then: "You two will figure it out. You're young. You have options."
Up until three weeks ago, he would've agreed with her.
Now he wasn't so sure.
-
She came back at 9:47.
He knew because he'd been staring at the clock, watching the minutes grind by. The door opened. She stepped inside. Her cheeks were red from the cold, and her eyes had that raw, scrubbed look that meant she'd been crying.
She didn't say anything.
Neither did he.
She took off her jacket. Hung it on the hook. Walked across the room to where he was sitting on the futon. And then she climbed into his lap, straddling him, her knees on either side of his hips.
He looked up at her.
She looked down at him.
"I hate this," she said.
"I know."
"No, you don't." She grabbed the collar of his shirt. "You don't know how much I hate this. You don't know how much I've been standing outside this building for the last hour, trying to figure out what to say to you when I came back in."
"So what did you figure out?"
She kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't the soft, familiar kiss they'd shared a hundred times before. It was hard and desperate and tasted like her tears and the cinnamon gum she'd been chewing in the car.
When she pulled back, her eyes were fierce.
"I figured out that I'm not going to waste the next three weeks being sad," she said. "I'm not going to sit here and watch you pack and think about how much this is going to hurt."
"Maria—"
"No." She pressed a finger to his lips. "We're going to make these three weeks count. You and me. We're going to do every stupid, reckless, wild thing we've ever wanted to do. We're going to eat cold pizza on the floor at 3 a.m. and argue about football and fuck on every surface in this apartment until neither of us can walk straight."
Jordan's throat tightened.
"I like the last one," he said.
She laughed. It was wet and real and a little unhinged.
"I bet you do."
She kissed him again, deeper this time. Her hands slid under his shirt, nails raking down his chest. He groaned into her mouth. His hands found her hips and pulled her closer, grinding her against him through the thin fabric of her leggings.
She broke the kiss and pushed him back against the futon cushion.
"Take off your shirt," she said.
He did.
She pulled hers over her head. No bra. She'd gone out without a bra, roaming the streets of Minneapolis half-naked under her jacket, and the thought made him harder than he already was.
She reached behind her and unclasped it. He didn't wait for the invitation. He pulled her forward and took her nipple into his mouth, licking and sucking until she hissed and arched her back.
"Fuck," she breathed.
He used his teeth. Just a little. She jerked and her hips ground down against his erection, and he thought about how insane this was. She'd been crying twenty minutes ago. Now she was grinding on his lap like her life depended on it.
He loved her.
He loved her so much it hurt.
His hands slid down to her ass and squeezed. She moaned into his neck. Then she was scrambling off his lap, standing in front of the futon, shoving her leggings down her legs. No underwear. Of course.
He unbuttoned his jeans.
She grabbed his wrist. "No," she said. "Let me."
She pushed his hand away and did it herself. She pulled his jeans down. Then his boxers. His cock sprang free, hard and flushed and already leaking at the tip.
She stared at it for a moment. Then she knelt between his legs.
"Maria," he said.
"I'm not going to argue about this," she said.
She took him in her mouth.
Jordan's head fell back against the futon. Her mouth was hot and wet and she knew exactly what she was doing—how to swirl her tongue around the head, how to hollow her cheeks, how to take him deep enough to make him gasp.
She worked him for five minutes. Ten. He lost track of time. The world narrowed to the sight of her lips wrapped around his cock, the sound of her soft moans, the wet, filthy noises that filled the apartment.
"I'm close," he said.
She pulled back. A string of spit connected her lips to his tip.
"Not yet," she said.
She stood up. Straddled his lap again. This time, when she settled against him, he was naked and she was naked and there was nothing between them but heat and sweat and desperation.
She reached down and guided him to her entrance.
"Wait," he said.
She looked at him.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm not on my period," she said. "And I want to feel you."
"I know, but—"
"I'm on the pill." She smiled. "We talked about this. Three weeks ago."
He remembered. The conversation in the kitchen, the two glasses of wine, the way she'd said I want you to come inside me. It hadn't happened yet. Timing. Circumstance. Stupidity.
"Do it," she said.
She sank down on him.
Jordan saw stars.
She was tight and hot and wetter than he'd ever felt her. He grabbed her hips and held on. She didn't move for a moment—just sat there, breathing, adjusting. Her eyes were closed. Her lips were parted.
Then she started to ride him.
It wasn't slow. It wasn't tender. It was hard and fast and raw. She bounced on his lap like she was trying to break something loose inside of him. Like she was trying to prove a point.
He moved with her. Thrusting up. Matching her rhythm. The futon creaked underneath them. The neighbors' TV was still blasting explosions.
"Fuck me," she said. "Fuck me harder."
He obliged.
He grabbed her ass and pulled her down as he drove up, hitting something deep that made her cry out. She grabbed his shoulders and dug her nails in. He kissed her neck. She bit his ear.
The orgasm was building in his balls, tight and urgent, and he knew he wouldn't last much longer.
"Come with me," he said.
She reached down and touched herself, rubbing her clit in small, frantic circles. Her breath hitched. Her inner walls started to flutter around him.
"Now," he said. "Now."
She came with a sharp cry, her whole body locking up, her pussy gripping his cock like a fist.
He came with her.
His hips bucked off the futon. He emptied himself inside her, pumping into her hot, wet cunt until he couldn't see straight. She collapsed onto his chest. Breathing hard. Sweat-slicked. Perfect.
They stayed like that for a long time.
When she finally lifted her head, her eyes were wet again. But she wasn't crying. Not really.
"I meant it," she said. "Three weeks."
Jordan kissed her forehead.
"Three weeks," he said.
-
They spent the rest of the night on the futon.
They ate cold pizza. Jordan found a half-finished bottle of wine in the cabinet and they passed it back and forth. Maria told him about the walk—how she'd ended up at the park near campus and sat on a bench for an hour, watching the lights flicker on the water.
She didn't tell him she'd cried. She didn't have to. He could see it in the way she kept her voice carefully steady, the way she didn't quite meet his eyes.
They argued about football. It was a familiar argument—whether Aaron Rodgers was better than Brett Favre, whether the Packers' defense could carry them to another Super Bowl, whether Matt LaFleur was actually a good coach or just lucky.
Maria took the contrarian position on everything. Just to have something to fight about.
They fought. They laughed. They made out like teenagers on the futon, hands wandering, lips searching, the wine making everything softer and warmer.
At 2 a.m., Maria fell asleep on his shoulder.
Jordan stayed awake.
He watched her breathe. He studied the curve of her jaw, the sweep of her lashes, the way her lips parted just slightly when she was deep in sleep. He memorized the weight of her against his chest. The smell of her hair. The soft sounds she made when she dreamed.
He was leaving.
In three weeks, he would pack his boxes and load his car and drive away. He would move into a new apartment in a new city. He would start a new job with new people and new expectations. He would leave her here, in this apartment, in this life, in this Minnesota that had never felt like home until she'd made it one.
And he'd done it to himself.
He'd chased the dream. He'd reached for the thing he'd always wanted. And now he was standing on the edge of losing something he hadn't known he needed.
Maria stirred.
"Hey," she murmured. "You're still awake."
"Couldn't sleep."
She lifted her head. Looked at him with those warm brown eyes, still heavy with sleep.
"You're thinking about it," she said. "Leaving."
"Yeah."
She traced the lines of his chest. The hair. The scars.
"Don't," she said. "Not tonight."
"What should I think about?"
She smiled. Sleepy. Real.
"Think about how you've got me for three more weeks," she said. "And I plan on making every single one of them count."
She pulled him down for a kiss.
He let himself be pulled.
The boxes could wait.
The league could wait.
The future could wait.
Tonight, he had her. Tonight, that was enough.