Taking A Risk by Karen Monroe

Epilogue

Analise

“Okay.Get ready. You’re walking the stroll in five minutes,” a production assistant with ESPN calls out, motioning Will and I forward. Through the slit in the curtain, I can see the scrum of reporters and photographers waiting outside. My hand squeezes Will’s nervously and I lean close to whisper, “Are you sure I look okay?”

He smiles down at me. “Baby, you look fantastic.”

Glancing down at my elegant, long-sleeved cocktail dress, I frown. “I hope so. I can’t take any of this back.”

William insisted on paying for my clothing for the NFL draft, but I still feel bad for spending so much money on something I will probably never wear again. The dress alone cost over three thousand dollars. The shoes were another grand. I blamed Griff’s girlfriend, Cassi, for pressuring me.

We’d met by accident one day at Will’s house. At first, I thought she was a blonde bimbo, but it turned out Cassidy Holbrook was a friendly person. She wasn’t conceited at all. Though she looked like a L’Oreal super model, she didn’t act like one.

Cassi and Griff had already done their “stroll” down the red carpet. I had a feeling the guys were placed in order of their importance. Will and I weren’t at the back of the line, more like the middle, but we still have a bit of a wait before it’s our turn. I remind myself of the name of the designer I’m wearing in case some intrepid reporter asks.

Stella McCartney is easy, but I can’t pronounce the name of my shoes. I hoped no one wants to know.

My gaze roams over Will’s perfectly tailored black suit. My index finger rubs against the soft material near his cufflinks. It feels like silk; though, I’m still surprised his outfit cost more than my dress and shoes combined. Cassidy had convinced me it was another grand conspiracy by the patriarchy, but I didn’t know enough about fashion to join in the fight.

Just now, the harried production assistant appears again like a ghost. She’s wearing all black and one of those headsets with a microphone attached.

The person talking in her ears must be yelling. I can hear them as soon as she steps beside me.

“Yes sir. I’ll find out.” Her worried gaze lands on us as she nods. “Yes, sir. Okay. I’ll make sure their ready. The network wants to do a quick interview with the two of you. It’ll only be a couple of questions.”

“With me too?” I squawk.

The concern must show on my face because she pats my arm in reassurance. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”

I’m not so sure about that. “I’ll do my best.”

William bumps his hip against mine, almost causing me to fall in my four-inch stilettos. He has a lovable—and disturbing—tendency of trying to give me “dab”, like I’m one of his teammates. It’s cute, but dangerous if he catches me off guard. I’ve learned high fives and fist bumps shouldn’t be included in our relationship. And, after he almost knocked me to the floor, I’m adding hip flailing outside of the bedroom to the list.

Thankfully, his brawny arms are like a steel brace around me. I know if I’m inside them I’ll never fall.

He leans close, murmuring in my ear. “I can’t wait for tonight. I’m going to fuck your pussy so good.”

My insides tingle. I think he’s trying to distract me, but two can play this game.

“Why wait for tonight? I was thinking we could sneak off somewhere so I can suck your cock.” Tilting my head, I peer at him seductively. “I’m not wearing any underwear, and my dress is really short. You could just lift it up and fuck me from behind,” I whisper.

His eyes flare and a low growl leaves his throat. “Not fair. You’re deliberately trying to give me a hard on.”

“All’s fair in love and war, babe.”

That’s kind of our little motto now.

Will opens his mouth, but before he can say anything the assistant waves at us, signaling us forward. She pushes aside the heavy curtain and immediately I’m blinded by bright lights and flashing cameras. I think I understand why some celebs wear sunglasses on the red carpet. They’re not trying to be cool. They’re trying not to go blind.

I’m recalling all the pointers Cassi gave me about how to keep my smile in place and the best poses for the cameras. She’s a theater major and knows all sorts of “PR tricks” as she calls them.

She had warned me about the cameras, but nothing could really prepare you for the real thing.

Will doesn’t let go of my hand. I’m glad. I wouldn’t have been able to face this without him by my side. His quiet confidence gives me courage to step out with my head held high.

Today is the day we find out where our lives together will begin. For the past month, I’d been religiously following Mel Kiper’s mock draft. According to him, William is likely to end up playing in Arizona. He projected him to go in the mid-first round, which means he’d be going to a more successful team than the earlier draft picks. My metaphorical fingers are crossed because I hope he’s not drafted anywhere cold.

The cameras flashes are overwhelming. Add to that the questions being shouted by the hoard. I concentrate on breathing through my teeth to prevent my cheek muscles from cramping.

Will stops us in our tracks, and it takes a couple of seconds before I glimpse a handsome African American man standing in front of us with a microphone in his hand. I don’t know how I could have missed him since he’s wearing a bright purple suit.

Behind him, slightly off to the left, is a camera set up on a tripod. The person operating is obscured behind the large lens. I can’t even tell if it’s a man or a woman.

Mr. Purple Suit shakes Will’s hand. I notice he has one of those flesh-colored earpieces in his ear.

“This is going to be live on the network, so no curse words or gestures. We good, Charlie?”

A disembody voice calls out behind the camera. “Uhm… have them move a bit to the right.”

I remember to keep smiling as we’re moved right then forward. Mr. Purple suit doesn’t even look at me as he positions us. He’s only focused on Will. I hope that means I won’t be getting interviewed. Maybe if I just stand still like a mannequin, he’ll forget about me.

We’re instructed to stare at the camera as a red light flashes. Purple suit turns serious as he taps his earpiece, then he turns around with his back ramrod straight. Within the next second the light goes solid red, and he waves an arm like he’s greeting someone in front of him.

“Hey guys, I’m here with William Gilmore. Y’all been talking about him on Twitter all day and he’s here with me now at the Philadelphia Museum of Art for NFL Draft Day.” He faces William with an enormous grin. His white teeth and large diamond earring are almost as blinding as the flashing cameras.

“William, first off congratulations on the championship victory. That was a heck of a game.”

“Thanks, but you know it was a team effort. I can’t take all the credit.”

“That must be the standard Tiger line tonight. Griffin Mackenzie just said the same thing.

William laughs, clearly at ease. “I told him to say it. He probably didn’t tell you that.”

“Uh oh… I think I’m sensing a little rivalry. Any trepidation about playing against some of your former teammates in the NFL?”

“Absolutely not. I can’t wait to play against those guys. Having played with them on the same team, I know they’re great competitors.”

“I have to say, my man. You’re one cool customer. Who’s your lovely companion?”

Will pulls me close, his large hand at the small of my back. “This is my girlfriend, Analise.”

The microphone is suddenly thrust in my face. My frozen smile almost cracks.

“Analise. Lovely name. How are you doing?”

I got this. Counting to two in my head, I answer slowly, “I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”

“You look lovely. My wife, who’s watching at home, would be very disappointed if I don’t ask who you’re wearing.”

So far, so good.Keep smiling. “Stella McCartney.”

“I see you’re also rocking the red Louboutin’s. Stylish. Very stylish.”

Hmph… still can’t pronounce that name. I’m not even sure if anyone is saying it correctly. I’ve heard it pronounced differently by like ten different people.

“Thank you,” I say, keeping my smile firmly in place.

“Okay, they’re telling me to wrap it up, but I got one more question, Miss Lady. I know if I ask this guy, he won’t give me a straight answer. So… I’ll ask you because you’re his girl. Is he nervous? Look at him and tell me, is he nervous?”

I glance up at Will. He wiggles his eyebrows playfully, and my frozen smile cracks into a genuine one. “No. He’s not nervous at all.”

“Well, if it’s okay with you, I’m going to be nervous for you, bro! Good luck in the draft.”

“Thank you,” Will replies.

A towheaded young guy about my age suddenly appears to shepherd us down the carpet way.

Mr. Purple Suit’s back is turned toward the camera, and I hear him say, “I gotta tell you. I’m impressed with that young man. William Gilmore is definitely going in the first round, but is it going to be early or late? I don’t know. There’s a lot of talented D-line in the draft this year. We’ll have to wait and see. Sending it back to Bristol, I’m Leon Sanderson.”

Huh… so that’s his name. I file the information away for future reference, though I’m pretty sure I won’t forget. I’m awed by any man with enough confidence and fashion sense to pull off a suit like that.

Mercifully, we reach the end of the scrum run—aka the red carpet—and enter another tented area. The handler who appeared earlier is back with a clipboard in his hands.

“This way,” he says, leading us down a long white corridor.

My expensive stilettos clack against the wooden floorboards, reminding me of the advice my mother gave after she bought me my first pair of heels.

Break them in first, and heel to toe, sweetie. That’s all you need to know about wearing high heels.

Yet, I learned something new I would pass on to my daughter one day.

Fancy department stores selling thousand-dollar shoes employ cobblers on site.

I didn’t need to spend hours breaking them in. The shoe guy arrived after the purchase was complete. He’d examined the shoes and asked me to walk around in them. After that he examined my feet, paying extra attention to the toes, heels, and in-soles. Then he made marks inside the red pumps with a white-tipped marker. That was it.

He asked when I needed the shoes, and since I didn’t need them right away, he promised to have them ready in a week. They could ship them, or I could come back to the store to pick them up. I was skeptical, afraid it might be an elaborate scam. I wasn’t aware of the protocol associated with buying thousand-dollar shoes.

Technically, though, William had bought them with monies he received as an incentive for signing with his agent. The figure he’d been lent made me gasp. All of it had to be repaid, with interest, after he received his first signing bonus in the NFL. He explained some of the other ins and outs, but all I know for sure was the higher he was drafted. The more money he would make. Considering between the two of us we’re wearing what some might pay for a brand-new car, I’m hoping and praying Kiper is right.

The assistant guides us through a large room that looks like some kind of staging area. There’s a pathway through the middle, and noticeably the noise from the crowd is much more apparent in this area. I figure we must be near the stage.

We enter through the door at the end of the pathway and into a larger room filled with chairs and several round tables. I spot Cassi and Griff. They’re sitting in the corner holding court. His thick arm is braced on the back of her chair and their laughing, looking very much in love.

Our attendant leads us to an empty table further away from them. Like the area we were in before we walked the red carpet, this too seems to be designated according to some sort of hierarchy.

“You can relax here until it starts. There’s a buffet and drinks if you’re hungry,” he says, gesturing toward the back of the room where a large buffet is set.

Will and I are seated at a table with four other people—three guys and one girl. There’s a brief introduction, which is helped by the fact Will knows three of the people at the table already.

Two are fellow potential draftees, one is a girlfriend, and the other is somebody’s father. I’d stopped trying to remember anyone’s name at this point.

Apparently, William attended some sort of football camp with them during high school. The time was passed with anecdotes about prior games and coaches. I sip on a glass of water and try to make conversation with the other female, hoping we could discuss something aside from football, but she’s more interested in taking pictures and selfies.

There’s a large digital clock on the wall counting down to the start of the draft. We still have thirty minutes to go.

When in Rome…

Pulling out my cellphone from my black Dior clutch, I decide to document my experience with a few pics and selfies. Then I send Shelby, Nate, and Tildee a group text with photos. My phone vibrates, and instantly I’m caught up in responding.

They’d already watched the live interview on television.

Shelby: You looked soooo good on the red carpet!

Nate: Yep!

Tildee: So glad you went with those shoes.

Me: Thanks

Nate: Have you seen anyone famous?

Tildee: Is Tom Brady there?

Shelby: Take pictures of the food.

Me: No. Idk. I will try.

I carry on the three-way text conversation until Will leans over and kisses me on the cheek.

“What was that for?”

He smiles. “No reason. I’m just glad you’re here.”

I return the favor, kissing him back and imprinting my red lipstick on his cheek. “Ditto.”

“How’s the fam?”

Laughing, I grab a tissue and wipe away the mark. “Crazy. Tildee is begging for Tom Brady’s autograph.”

“Tell her he’s probably on a yacht in the South Pacific.”

Me: Will says TB is on a yacht

Tildee: Bummer

I laugh, then put my phone away inside my clutch. No doubt they’ll keep texting, but the clock shows five minutes, and I’ve noticed a lot of cameras being set up.

It’s time for the frozen smile again.

Self-conscious. I pull out my Mac compact, and touch up my chin and forehead with powder, then I apply more lipstick.

William leans close. “You look beautiful. Stop worrying.”

Like a fucking book… I’d kiss him again, but I don’t want to mark up his face with lipstick again.

When the clock strikes zero, two huge flat screens lower from the ceiling.

The audience outside must be going nuts. Whereas before the noise had been like a loud hum, it now resembled a swirling rapid.

The screens on the televisions switch on to the draft broadcast. It’s split between a talking head and an empty stage. Several people around start clapping, which starts everyone else to clapping. The talking head on the screen disappears. Now, only the stage is shown, then the NFL commissioner walks out.

The adulation from the crowd outside instantly turns to jeers. Wow! I guess the guy isn’t too popular. He talks into the microphone on the podium, but you can’t barely hear him over the whistles and catcalls. I kind of feel bad for the guy.

Once he walks offstage, the antagonism from the crowd settles down. The next person to come out is greeted with much more warmth. He looks familiar, but I can’t really recall where I’ve seen him before. Judging from the crowd's response, he must be some sort of bigshot.

“That’s Griff’s dad,” Will whispers in my ear.

“Serious?”

Will nods. “Yep.”

I focus on the nearest TV so I can hear his words.

“The commissioner asked me to come out and introduce the number one pick for this year’s NFL draft. They gave me three minutes to talk, and I had this speech prepared about how it feels to be a number one pick. But right before I walked out on stage, I threw it away. My playing days are long gone. Today, as an old man and father, I’m just proud, honored, and thrilled to introduce this year’s number one pick.” He fumbles with a large white envelope and pulls out a large card. Then he smiles and looks directly at the camera. “With the first pick in this year’s NFL draft, San Francisco selects… my son, quarterback, Griffin Mackenzie.”

I turn to where Griff and Cassi are sitting. He stands from his seat. Cassi rises beside him. They kiss and hug, then he hugs another woman I think might be his mom. He accepts congratulations and hands slaps from a few other people at the table before being ushered away by the same towheaded handler who led me and Will to our seats. Another person leads Cassi and a few others in another direction.

I’m happy for Griff. I’ve only met him once, but he seems like a decent enough fellow. A bit conceited, but from what Will has told me, that’s Griff’s usual MO.

The next picks fly by. There are only 32 spots in each round. I’m trusting on Kiper’s prediction William will go in the middle of the first round, but by the time the 16^th pick is announced, I’m so anxious both my feet are tapping.

Will, as usual, is cool as a cucumber. His large arm is braced around my chair as he makes small talk with the other guys at the table. They don’t agree with a few of the selections, so there’s a bit of a discussion. He’s not even really paying attention.

The commissioner walks out on the stage again. As usual, he’s booed.

“With the eighteenth pick in this year’s NFL draft, Arizona selects, defensive tackle, William Gilmore.”

Holy shit!

Ohmygawd!

William stands up. And if it wasn’t for his hand on my waist, I would have stayed seated.

A camera crew walks up about a foot from where we’re standing. I’m overwhelmed with joy. Tears are running down my face, destroying my professionally done makeup, but I can’t help it. I’m just so happy.

The handler gestures at Will to follow, but before he turns away, he faces me. “I love you,” he mouths.

“I love you too, William Gilmore.”

He smiles, then struts off tall and proud.

I realize then that he’s walking into a whole new world. But he’s not going there alone. Me and him are in this together.