Page 229 of Tangled with the Tight End

“I’m sorry you’ve been hurting.”

“No one gets through life without hurting.”

“True. I still wish you didn’t have to suffer.”

“What doesn’t kill me will make me stronger, right?”

“Eventually. In the meantime, you’re allowed to feel all the feelings and let it be messy.”

“Thanks. Having you walk alongside me these past few weeks has made all the difference.”

We pull in and pay for parking. The lot is already packed with cars and SUVs even though it’s eleven thirty in the morning and the game doesn’t start ‘til two. People are everywhere having tailgate gatherings. Behind trucks, groups stand under pop-up canopies. Others gather around propane heaters and portable fire pits to stay warm.

We pass a family with music blaring and corn hole set out behind three cars in a row. They’re in a section of Packers fans. Green and yellow banners, jerseys, and even a few cheeseheads distinguish this area from the rest of the parking lot where everything is a sea of navy, orange and white.

Kids are bundled in jerseys over their hoodies, gloves and mittens. When we park, the boy in the van next to us hops out. He’s wearing a jersey that says O’Connell on the back. I choke back the urge to cry.

“You okay?” Cass asks.

I just point to the boy. “I don’t know why that got to me.”

She thins her lips as if she has something to say but is restraining herself.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing. Let’s just enjoy the day.”

“Yes,” I agree. “No tears. Let’s have a great day.”

The parking lot smells of grilled burgers, onions, barbecue, and chili. Laughter and shouts mingle with music and the random fan yelling, “Let’s go, Thunder!” which elicits a response from anyone around: “Go, Thunder!”

We join our friends and meander through the parking lot, paying a vendor for hot dogs and taking in all the over-the-top football mania. When it’s just about an hour before game time, we walk toward the stadium where thousands of fans are lining up to get in.

We hand in our tickets, pass through the metal detectors and then we walk toward the entrance for our seats.

“Ground level?” I ask Cass.

“Row fifteen. Thirty-yard line.”

“Staaahhhp.” I shake my head. “What mafia boss got you these tickets? Cass, did you sell a kidney on the black market?”

“My spleen,” she says, looping her arm through mine and tugging me through the concrete entrance leading to the rows of seats. The field opens up. Players are scattered everywhere doing warmups. Rows of folding chairs extend down to the green turf that’s practically close enough to touch.

“This is awesome,” Patrick says.

“Right?” Daisy says.

Emberleigh's mouth pops open and Syd’s eyes go wide.

“We’re so close!” Syd says. “These seats are amazing.”

“Cass sold her spleen,” I say. “They’d better be.”

My friends all laugh.

I don’t know what they’re up to, but right now I’m not complaining.

My seat is only four in from the aisle. Cass sits on my right and Daisy is on my left.