Daylight, page 2
“No, it’s fine. I’m alright,” he shakes his head.
“You’re clearly in pain. Here, lift your shirt off so I can look at them,” I say, standing up to grab the ice packs from the freezer. He sits on the edge of his bed and tries to remove his shirt, but struggles.
“It’s kinda hard to bring my arms above my head,” he groans.
I walk toward him and help him out of his shirt and frown—again—at the sight of the blues and purples that are taking over his chest. “Lay down with these on it,” I say, waiting for him to lay back. Once he does, I gently place the ice packs across his chest. My fingers graze the chain of the cross that he wears around his neck and it sends a shock through my body, but I ignore the sensation just as quickly as I felt it.
I grab the ibuprofen I know he has stashed in his game day bag and grab one of the pills. He swallows it down and sits back, placing the ice packs back on his chest. “Thank God we’re going into a Monday game, I have an extra day for recovery.”
“No kidding,” I nod my head in agreement.
We sit and talk for an hour or two, and I make sure he alternates the ice and heating pad. Around midnight, I decide it’s probably time for me to head out. “Let me check the hallway, some of the guys went out. They come back to the hotel at varying stages of the night, in different states of sobriety,” he groans trying to sit up.
“I can handle just fine. This isn’t my first rodeo. Stay where you are, and get some sleep,” I shake my head. He tries to argue, but I win.
“Okay, okay. When do you fly back to the city?” He asks.
“My flight is at eight,” I sigh, grabbing my purse off the counter.
“Damn, that’s early,” he sighs.
“I’m flying straight into Houston for tomorrow night’s game,” I yawn.
“Jeez, Elle. They’re gonna work you to death,” he shakes his head.
“Well, duh. That’s the plan, after all,” I quip, rolling my eyes.
“Thanks for nursing me back to health.” He says earnestly, nodding toward me.
“Of course, anytime. I’ll text you tomorrow.” I place a soft kiss on his cheek before walking out the door, the lock softly clicking behind me. I take the stairs back up to my floor, crashing as soon as my head hits the pillow.
Chapter Two
Alex’s Point of View
Usually, we don’t stay the night after away games, but there was a mechanical issue with our team plane, forcing us in Miami for the night. Meaning, we’re on a flight back to Chicago at the ass crack of dawn, sore and mangled from the day of playing before. It’s always worse the day after.
It’s a short flight, just under three hours. I’m able to get a nap in, which helps take my mind off of the pain in my chest and the labyrinth that is my mind. Even with the protection of my gear, I still took a pretty bad hit yesterday. The offense had an off day, meaning I hit the ground a lot more than I usually do, so I’m just sore.
The win feels good, though. We secured our spot in the playoffs, mathematically. We’re tied divisionally, a winner will be declared next Monday when we face the Green Bay Glaciers at home to see who wins the North. Personally, I think our chances are good.
We just need to work our shit out this week.
Since we don’t play until next Monday, recovery training is optional today. I’m going to go straight home. I like to recover in my own space when I can, privacy a welcome solitude. Tomorrow is our day off, which will be spent reviewing game tape on my own and not making any sudden movements.
The restriction in my chest seems like something I should be worrying about more than I am but stuck on an airplane, there isn’t a whole lot I can do about it. As long as it goes away by practice on Wednesday, all will be well.
I never seem to get that lucky, though.
There’s a game on tonight. Usually, you couldn’t pay me to stay up for Monday Night Football games after a Sunday from Hell. Two teams who I typically couldn’t care less about playing while there are no other games on to flip through? Yeah, no thank you.
But tonight, I plan on watching Houston play New York. Not because it’s going to be a riveting game, but because a certain reporter who makes my heart go fuckin’ wild is covering the game.
I’ve got it bad for the one person who I can never risk a relationship with. I would ruin her career. It would blow over for me— it always does for the men in the league— but for someone in her position, it would destroy her.
That’s why, no matter how badly I want to some days, I can never act on my feelings.
In college, maybe something could’ve worked. We met when we were freshmen. We had a sports marketing class together our second semester, something both of us could’ve passed in our sleep. She was shy and chose her spot next to me because it was the only other open seat in the back row of the lecture hall. After a few weeks, she would start getting to class earlier but never picked a different seat. We always sat in the same two seats, next to each other in the last row of the auditorium.
There were a lot of people taking sports marketing at The University of Illinois. There was only one section of it offered once a year, so it was a pretty giant class when they did have it available to take. The odds of her picking a seat next to me were slim, one out of a couple hundred.
Things would be so different had she sat a few rows in front of me.
Throughout the next three years of our time at the University of Illinois, we spent a lot of it attached at the hip. Never romantically— she had a long term boyfriend and I wasn’t exactly ready to commit to a relationship at that time. I realize how I royally fucked that up.
There was only one time in the last five years I thought I had worked up the courage to ask her out. It was in our sophomore year of college. Someone said something to me and suddenly everything made sense. It was like something clicked inside of me and I realized that I’d been making a huge mistake by not acting on my feelings. We had dinner plans for that night, and after I had my big epiphany, I planned on giving her a sappy speech about how I’d felt for the last year.
Then, she showed up to dinner with a date.
It wasn’t her fault. She had no way of knowing what I was intending on doing, or how I really felt about her. Later that night, after suffering through a dinner with Elle and her date, I made a promise to myself never to pursue her romantically again.
As if she can tell when I’m thinking about her— which is more often than not— my phone lights up in my hand with her contact. I smile.
Feeling better today?
I will be once we’re back home and I can take an ice bath.
When do you guys leave?
Two hours ago. Lol.
Gross. So early. I’m about to take off. I just got my assignments for the weekend. Going to Buffalo on Sunday where the high is a disgusting 10 degrees, and Comets v. Glaciers, Monday. See you then buddy!
Aww, you’ll get to see us destroy Green Bay in real time. Yay!!
So modest. See you then!
I smile as I shut my phone off, tucking it back underneath my arm. There’s just over half an hour of the flight left and I’m getting antsy, I want off now.
Flying in silence with the team gives me overwhelming anxiety, the cause unknown. It’s fine when there’s chatter and noise to fill the cabin, but when everyone’s dozing on and off, the silence is deafening. Even with distractions like headphones or a stupid game on my phone, my mind still knows I’m surrounded by silence.
My thoughts trap me in my head, sending me down a spiral. It’s like a game, except there is nothing fun about it and no one is winning.
Trying to clear my mind, I think ahead to next week and how I’ll get to see Elle again. It helps take my mind off things, but in a way, makes it worse. Every time I see her, I find myself falling harder. With time and distance between us, only seeing her once every few weeks when I used to see her every day has done something to my head.
Sometimes I just wish my brain had an off switch, a way for me to cut off the annoying thoughts and overthinking I seem to be so good at.
Growing up in the shadows of not one, but two professional athletes, I always had so much pressure put on me. I was practically born with a football in one hand and a basketball in the other. Football is just the one that stuck.
My dad was in the NBA. While he wasn’t a household name, his stats were good throughout his four years until his career ending injury. His brother played six seasons in the NFL. That’s where my knack for football came, apparently.
Between the two of them, there was never a day where I wasn’t dribbling a basketball or throwing a football around. When other kids were playing on the playground at the park, we were always in the grassy areas working on some new skill.
It was obvious that football was more my style when second grade rolled around. I had no patience for basketball, but football I could handle.
I was signed up for every camp, club, and had a personal coach by the time I reached fifth grade. It was my dad’s mission to make me a professional athlete.
On some level, it was something I had always thought I wanted, too. I thought it was fairly normal to have professional athletes in your family, as I had two raising me to be the next Joe Montana. Later, I found out it was absolutely not normal, but as a kid it was all I knew.
Wrapped up in a cloud of my own mind, I barely notice the plane landing. I’m thankful when it does, though. We travel back to our practice facility where our vehicles are, and those who wish to do recovery training stay. I head home, though. I haven’t been inside of my house for two days, and admittedly, I’m a homebody.
The first thing I do upon arrival is take an ice bath. It definitely helps my muscles and the constriction in my chest, as much as it sucks in the moment the benefits outweigh any complaints I have.
Around lunchtime, I defrost a pre-made meal that my nutritionist whipped up for me. She makes the same thing every week in bulk, and then freezes it for me to reheat. Repetition during the season keeps me steady, and if I can control little things like eating the same thing every day, then I consider that a small victory.
It’s weird, having people who do things like that for me. In college, we had a team nutritionist and a dining hall. Hiring someone to come and cook for me is different, and it’s weird. I don’t have the time, nor the patience, to weigh out and measure all of the portions down to the grams, or track the macros or any of that bullshit. It gets overwhelming. If I let someone else do it for me, I don’t have to think about how closely every aspect of my life is monitored, right down to the milligrams of sodium.
Beat from the day of travel and still tired from yesterday, I yawn when I notice it’s only four o’clock in the afternoon. There are still four hours until the game, I debate on taking a nap until then.
Instead of napping, I set up practices with a few different coaches for the week, and text some teammates about getting workouts in. Though, the idea of a nap is appealing to me the more I think about it.
Maybe, if I just close my eyes—
I wake up to the buzz of my phone in my lap. My eyes go wide when I see the time flashing on my screen. 4:08am. I cringe as I think about how badly I just fucked my sleep schedule, but there’s nothing I can do about it now that it’s done.
Ugh. Just got back into New York. You were awfully quiet during the game?
Apparently I fell asleep. Just woke up. Who won?
Houston. Destroyed them.
Figured, thought asking would be polite to New York though. How’d your coverage go?
Pretty okay. I’m gonna be on ESPN at 9 and then I’m off until Thursday. Hallelujah.
Who plays Thursday?
Seattle at San Diego. I’m not covering the game, doing talking heads with the big guys in New York.
I smile at my phone. I’m so proud of how far she’s come in the short time she’s been working in the industry. Doing the analyst report as a talking head is crazy for someone in her position, and my chest is swelling with pride.
Elle, dude! WTF. That’s awesome. Congratulations!
Eek. Thanks buddy. I’m scared shitless.
You’ve got this. I’m so proud of you. I’m gonna try and watch it live, but I don’t know with practice yet.
Aw, thanks Alex. Appreciate it. :)
I’ll make sure I have a nice bottle of champagne on hand after the Glaciers game. Celebrations are in order.
Haha. I’ll hold you to that. I’ve gotta go, but make sure to take it easy today. Keep icing your bruise!
I let my mind wander at what a life with the two of us—together— could like. In another time, in another place, I imagine it would be everything.
For now, in this time and this place, I guess my overactive imagination will have to satisfy my insatiable urge for something more.
Chapter Three
Elle’s Point of View
Exhausted is the only way to put into words how I’m feeling after this weekend, and I still have Monday Night Football to cover tomorrow before my day off. Tonight I’m in Chicago, which feels like home away from home.
My grandparents live in a small town between Chicago and Springfield, so a lot of times when I’m down here I’ll make a point to visit them. I’m staying until Wednesday and visiting with them tomorrow.
I was able to take a personal day to stay an extra day, which is more than okay with me. Since I live in New York, it isn’t very often that I get to see my grandparents. They were a big part of my life growing up. I try to show my appreciation where I can, and making the drive to Pontiac is just scratching the surface of ways to show how I’m grateful for them.
Looking around my hotel room, I do a quick survey of essentials. Phone, bag, keys, wallet. I think I’m good to go.
At five o’clock I head to the stadium from my hotel room. I bring a backpack with overnight stuff, I’ll likely stay the night at Alex’s. I had a pretty big—if exhausting—week. Instead of being at Thursday night’s game in San Diego, I was in New York on a panel with other sports analysts. It was nerve-wracking, and I felt totally out of my element until we started broadcasting. Once the cameras were rolling and the conversation was flowing, it felt completely natural. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love reporting on the field. Doing it from the news desk felt different though, and it felt so right.
But, I’m back on the field tonight, taping an injury report update to be played sometime before the game. The Comets had a few injuries last week, and all but one are returning to play. The Glaciers have a few more, three on the inactive list and one returning to play today.
It’s hard to say who’s going to win. I honestly don’t know; I think it’s a toss-up. Despite the injuries, Green Bay’s defense is on fire. The offense is where Chicago has been struggling the last few games, it’ll be dependent on how they’ve patched up their issues in the last eight days.
After the injury report, I head up to the press lounge where I answer some emails on my iPad until I’m needed on the field again. I’ve been trying to line up a job for the postseason. I’ll likely finish out the college basketball season and do March Madness. I’ve been in talks with CBS Sports, and then write sports entertainment news for whoever will take me. If I were to spend an entire off-season unemployed, I think I’d lose my mind.
I converse with other reporters in the lounge until we all have to busy ourselves with other stuff. This being such a big game, and their last one of the regular season, things are crazy around the stadium and the press coverage is pretty over the top. I find Eddie, he was hanging with some of his buddies in the press suite. We slowly make our way down to the field and position our shot. They’re calling me in for a pregame report, they were super happy with my pregame analysis Thursday and they want to see more from me. Though I think it’d be better suited to do this from a press suite—or just somewhere enclosed, for that matter— they wanted me on the sidelines.
We do pregame analysis, it goes off without a hitch. The players take the field for warm ups, and Alex sends a smile my way before warming up his arm with a wide receiver. I try so hard to keep our professional relationship just that; professional. If we display an overtly friendly relationship the opposing team’s organization gets itself in a tizzy because they think the league is assigning biased reporters to the games.
There was an instance last year where I slipped up and called Alexander by the nickname I coined for him in college—Alex— and the internet had an absolute field day. I got written up for inappropriate behavior, and have just about entirely quit calling him that. There was nothing ulterior behind it, I just called a friend a nickname.
It was made into such a big deal at first because he doesn’t go by Alex, he goes by Alexander, because serious man. I give him shit about it often, but it’s just one of those things to him. To most of the people in his life, coaches and teammates, he’s just Bradford. But, in our freshman year of college, he wondered if he should start going by Alexander instead of Alex because of the professionalism, but I didn’t think it mattered. I told him he could go by whatever he wanted, but I wasn’t going to stop calling him Alex.
When I called him Alex on air, at first people thought I confused him with a different person entirely. Where they pulled that from, I’m not sure. Pulling Alex from Alexander isn’t far-fetched, but I was getting called every single insult in the book, having my intelligence brought into question, you name it. It wasn’t until the next morning that one of the networks flipped the narrative and turned it into a heartwarming story.
I still remember the headline.
Alexander Bradford or Alex Bradford? How About Both! Quarterback Alexander Bradford and Reporter Eleanor O’Connor Share Cute Moment on Field
Sometimes I wonder if I joined the wrong profession, but then I see stories like that passing as news and realize as long as people in this world generate things to talk about, I will always have a job.
