Macey
Game days felt different when I wasn’t working them.
For years, Sundays had meant arriving at the stadium before most of the players, checking schedules, confirming media access, making sure community guests knew where to go, and quietly praying none of the men wearing Tampa Bay uniforms did anything ridiculous enough to become a headline before kickoff. By the time the game actually started, I had usually been awake for hours and had already handled at least three problems nobody in the stands would ever know existed.
Today, I was carrying a bowl of pasta salad into Olivia’s kitchen while Rocky trotted beside me like he had personally been invited to watch football.
It was strange.
Not bad.
Just strange.
The television in the living room was already tuned to the pregame cover
