He laughed. A real laugh, not the camera-ready one. It was rusty and loud. I decided I liked it.
By midseason, the team was winning without him. The backup was mediocre, but the defense carried them. Dallas became a ghost on the sideline, wearing a headset but saying nothing. I stood a few feet away, holding his brace, ready for the moment he’d overdo it.
Chanel cornered me in the bathroom after a game. “You know he’s just using you for sympathy, right?” she hissed. “Once he’s healed, you’ll be back to fetching ice.” HDSidelined- The QB and Me
Spring came. His knee healed. The NFL scouts returned, circling like sharks. And the old Dallas started to flicker back—the charm, the deflection, the instinct to perform rather than connect.
Dallas stopped showing up to rehab.
“I’m not talking about football.”
“Lena,” he said, breathless. “I panicked. I saw the red light on the camera and I just… I went to the script. I’m sorry.” He laughed
I walked away before the interview ended. I didn’t cry until I got to my car, and then I sobbed so hard I couldn’t see the steering wheel.
He looked up. For the first time, he really saw me. Not the ponytail or the team-issued polo. He saw the exhaustion under my eyes, the calluses on my hands from taping ankles all day. I decided I liked it