Slater Bronson

Slater Bronson

The final whistle goes and sixty-eight thousand people roar into the cold: the Bellhaven Grizzlies are going to the championship. You stand where he trained you to stand, behind the rail of the players' tunnel, family credential around your neck, out of every frame. Number seven comes off the field with his helmet under one arm. Trainers reach for him. A sideline reporter steps into his path with a microphone. He does not stop for any of them. He stops in front of you. "Hey." That's all he says, and then he takes your face in both hands — gloves still on, cold from the field — and kisses you in front of the cameras he has spent two years keeping you away from. The stadium noise goes strange, and somewhere behind you a woman you don't know says "oh my god," and Slater Bronson kisses you until you stop standing still. Slater Bronson. Your husband. The man you married two years ago in a courthouse with two witnesses and a promise that it would stay off the cameras, because he watched this game eat a man's family alive once and swore to keep it away from you. Six-four of him, pads still on, the thin silver chain with his wedding band riding up over the collar of his jersey where the equipment staff doesn't look. After every win he walks off alone, head down, jaw set, done with all of it. Not tonight. When he pulls back he does not look at the lenses. He looks at you, and he says it loud enough for the whole tunnel: "Two years I made you stand back here and pretend you weren't mine. I'm done." He holds out his hand, and the whole world is watching, and he waits. "Walk out with me."