Chapter 13: The game
The fairy lights were still on, casting their tiny constellations across the ceiling, when Joe finally stirred. Svet had drifted off, her head a comfortable weight against his shoulder, lulled by the steady rhythm of his heart. She woke to the feeling of him carefully extracting his arm.
“Don’t go,” she mumbled into the worn cotton of his shirt, the words sleep-slurred.
“It’s almost three,” he whispered, his lips brushing her forehead. “And my truck is definitely parked in a tow-zone.”
“A rebel.” She opened her eyes. In the soft glow, he looked rumpled and incredibly real, a giant in her small bed. “So this is it? The walk of shame at three a.m.?”
He smiled, a sleepy, private curve of his mouth. “No shame. Just logistics.” He sat up, the mattress groaning in relief. “Tomorrow’s a game day. Early walk-throughs, meetings.”
The reminder was a splash of cold water. His other world. The one with helicopters and sideline passes and a city’s worth of eyes. “Right. Of course.”
He heard the shift in her voice. He tilted her chin up with a finger. “Come to the game. Please. Alexa will bring you. I’ll get you field passes.”
“Field passes? Joe, I don’t know the first thing about football. I’ll stand there looking confused next to all the athletic wear models.”
“You won’t,” he said simply. “You’ll be with Alexa. And you’ll be there.” He said it like it was the only part that mattered. He kissed her, slow and deep, a promise packed into the quiet dark. “Text me when you’re in the lot tomorrow. I’ll have someone bring the passes.”
Then he was gone, the room suddenly feeling too large and too quiet without him. She listened to his heavy footsteps recede down the hall, a strange, sweet ache settling in her chest.
Sunday dawned bright and obnoxiously cheerful. Svet spent the morning in a state of suspended animation. She tried to study. She stared at her painting. She replayed the previous night on a loop—the quiet talking, the weight of his gaze, the profound peace of just sitting in the same space. It felt fragile, like a soap bubble, beautiful and terrifyingly prone to popping.
At exactly noon, a hurricane named Alexa blew into the dorm room.
“Oh my God, you kissed my brother! In public! And then you had a sleepover that wasn’t a sleepover! Details! All of them! Now!” She flung a garment bag onto the bed. “Also, we have two hours. I brought you options. You cannot wear your usual ironic band tee to an NFL sideline. It’s a violation of some bylaw.”
Svet, who had been about to reach for a faded Pixies shirt, hesitated. “What’s in the bag?”
“A selection of items designed to look casually hot while also saying, ‘I am supportive but not trying to be a WAG.’ It’s a delicate balance.” Alexa unzipped it with a flourish. “We’re going with the dark-wash jeans—for the love of God, wear the ones that fit your ass like they owe it money—and this cream-colored sweater. It’s soft, it’s chic, it says ‘I am a serious art student who also enjoys watching large men commit acts of violence.’”
Svet couldn’t help but laugh. Alexa’s exuberance was a needed anchor. “You’ve given this a lot of thought.”
“My best friend and my brother are doing the thing I explicitly wanted them to do. This is my Super Bowl.” She tossed the sweater at Svet. “Now, details. Was he a gentleman? Did he at least take his shoes off?”
The drive to SoFi Stadium was a lesson in controlled chaos. The sheer scale of it, the rivers of people in jerseys, the palpable buzz in the air, made Svet’s stomach flutter. This was his normal. It was insane.
A stone-faced staffer with a headset met them at a designated gate, handing them two laminated field-access passes on lanyards. “Mr. Alt requested you be escorted to the sideline area pre-kickoff. Follow me, please.”
Walking through the concrete innards of the stadium, then out through the tunnel and onto the field itself, was like entering another dimension. The turf was a surreal, vibrant green. The stadium rose around them in a towering, dizzying bowl, seats still filling with a gathering roar. Players in stretch gear milled around, massive and purposeful. The air smelled of cut grass, hot rubber, and ambition.
“Holy shit,” Svet breathed, her head craning back.
“I know,” Alexa squealed, squeezing her arm. “It never gets old!”
And then she saw him. He was across the field, surrounded by coaches and other players, a mountain of a man in a Chargers practice jersey and sweatpants. He was listening intently, nodding, but his eyes were scanning the sideline. They found hers.
He broke away from the group and started toward them, his gait a relaxed, rolling walk that ate up the distance. Every step seemed to draw glances from the crowd starting to fill the front rows. Svet felt painfully visible.
“Hey,” he said, stopping in front of them. Up close, he was all business, a focused intensity in his brown eyes that was new. But it softened when he looked at her.
“You made it.”
“We did,” Alexa chirped. “Kill ’em today, Joe! No holding penalties!” She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and tactfully drifted a few feet away, suddenly very interested in a placekicker warming up.
Joe’s attention was fully on Svet now. The noise of the stadium seemed to fade into a dull hum. “You okay? This a lot?”
“It’s… big,” she managed. “You look very… professional.”
A corner of his mouth twitched. “It’s the sweatpants. Really brings out the professionalism.” He reached out and adjusted her lanyard, his fingers brushing the collar of the sweater Alexa had chosen. “This is new. It’s nice.”
“Alexa’s doing. I was vetoed.”
“Good call.” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping. “Thank you for coming. It means… a lot.”
“Good luck,” she said, the words feeling inadequate. “Go break some… politely. Within the rules.”
He laughed, a short, warm sound. “I’ll try.” The PA announcer boomed something about clearing the field. Coaches were shouting. The moment was evaporating.
He started to turn back, then stopped. As if deciding something.
He turned fully back to her, closed the small distance between them in one step, and cupped her face in his huge hands. He didn’t hesitate. He bent down and kissed her, right there on the sideline, in front of the coaches, the early-arriving fans, the thousands of empty seats and the dozens of filled ones.
It wasn’t the desperate, claiming kiss from the game room. It wasn’t the sleepy, gentle kiss from her dorm. It was firm, deliberate, and shockingly public. A clear, unambiguous statement.
The world snapped back into focus with a violent rush of sound—whistles, a booming song, the rising wave of crowd noise, and a distinct chorus of “oooh!” from a nearby section.
He pulled back, his eyes searching hers. “See you after,” he said, his thumb stroking her cheek once. Then he was jogging away, merging with the stream of players heading for the tunnel.
Svet stood frozen, her lips still tingling. Alexa materialized beside her, gripping her arm hard. “Oh. My. Actual. God.”
Svet could only stare at the tunnel where he’d disappeared. A camera crew nearby had definitely just swung in their direction. Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs, part terror, part a fierce, glowing pride.
“I think,” Svet said, her voice shaky, “I’m in trouble.”
Alexa looped her arm through Svet’s, steering her toward the sideline seats. “Honey,” she said, grinning wildly. “You’re not in trouble. You’re in the game.”