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“I’m just saying hi,” Treyvon says, pushing my shoulder. “Hey, Cass! How are you?”

“I’m good, Trey. Are you in a towel?”

“Yeah. I’m about to shower, but I had to come out and say hi.”

“You really didn’t,” I say.

Cass laughs. It’s a real laugh. I can tell.

“Sorry about the game,” she says.

“Yeah. You win some, you lose some,” Trey says.

She nods.

“Well, I’ll leave you two to it,” Trey says.

He has the nerve to blow a kiss to Cass.

“Get in the shower, Trey,” Cass says, shaking her head and smiling.

He walks away shouting, “Cheer my boy up! He’s all up in his head.”

The bathroom door shuts. I stare into the screen.

Cass stares back. She’s in her bedroom. I’m just now noticing the headboard behind her.

“Are you okay?” she asks, her voice softer than I’ve ever heard it.

“Me?” I ask. “Yeah. I will be.”

“You’re up in your head?”

“Yeah. I get that way. After a game. Even if we win, I’m running routes, thinking about what worked and what didn’t. Evaluating my performance.”

“Even if you win?”

“It’s more fun then. We go out. Celebrate. But yeah. I’m in my head. It’s my job. How else will I stay on your fantasy team?”

She laughs again. “Yeah. Go ahead. Geek out. Obsess. Whatever it takes.”

Her face grows serious. “You played a good game, Delaney.”

“Treyvon is in the shower. You don’t have to butter me up.”

“I’m not. You played a good game. The Panthers defense is sharp. They have insane coverage from the corners. You thought you could get the ball to Treyvon. I thought you could too, but they were on him like white on rice. So, you had no choice but to play a shorter passing game. But that only became evident too late. You held the ball and the lag time left you open for the edge rusher to sack you.”

She pauses. I’m stunned. I shouldn’t be. I know she watches the game with an eagle eye. Getting the play-by-play laid out so specifically from an outsider’s perspective so soon after the game hits differently. My coaches said pretty much the same thing. Hearing it from her settles something.

“You told me I needed to stop waiting for the big plays,” I say.

“Not to stop,” she says, leaning forward in her bed so she’s sitting up.

Her pajamas have lemons on them. White button-up top with a collar with a lemon print.

“I don’t think you should stop waiting for big plays. Sometimes that’s your money move. But not against this kind of defense. Not when you know they just brought on a guy who’s known for the way he can sack. And not when your receivers are going to be covered the way the Panthers are bound to do.”

I’m staring at her, she’s animated—invested—passionate. And, she’s right.