I felt like a pest following Burrow to the cafeteria even if I did stay a few steps behind, his teammates rallying with him to talk game and whatever boyish chatter they had to share. I grew up an only child, so I yearned for that sibling-like camaraderie they embodied effortlessly. I only had that sort of connection with my cousins, who all had siblings of their own; as much as they loved me like that, I had always wondered what it would be like to be so closely bonded with someone I was so similar to. Watching the group of boys — put loosely, as they were all grown men, far larger than me — roughhouse together on the way to the mess hall was, admittedly, amusing.
Briefly glancing around, I noticed there were no other photographers or any PR in general nearby in the corridor as we walked. I suddenly thought of myself as less of a pest and more as a fly on the wall here, witnessing the very moments that a photographer was meant to capture. I readied another photo, and through my lens, the boys' shoulders resembled a collection of mountains, padded and tough. The empty space above their heads resembled the sky. And so I pressed the button, a small smile growing on my lips as I did so.
At lunch, we all filed in line, and I headed for the soup and salad bar, wanting something light and warm to fill me up after being out in the cold. This part I was curious about, too; what did these guys eat? I vividly remembered a classmate of mine back in high school spending every first period downing a jar of peanut butter with a spoon for protein. He was on his way to play baseball in college. When I first met him, he was a twig. Needless to say, the peanut butter worked.
I got a cup of white chicken chili and a BLT, cut in half, before heading to a table away from the window. Burrow had asked me to join everyone else for lunch but I didn't take it literally; I didn't mind sitting alone. The team lined up for the daily special, which was some sort of baked chicken breast and vegetable side, with some of the bigger offensive linemen opting for three or four chicken breasts, politely conversing with the tiny lunch ladies. I couldn't help but snicker to myself at the contrast. Just minutes ago I was watching these guys absolutely pummel each other; it occurred to me then that the majority of them must have been old momma's boys.
"Sitting alone?"
I looked up from the viewfinder on my camera, in which I had been sifting and marking some of the better photos from what I had taken so far. I hadn't touched my food yet.
It was none other than Burrow, standing over me with an expectant look. I purposely chose one of the smaller tables so that I could have some solitude and so that I could stay out of the team's way. Flying under the radar didn't work, though. I chuckled. "Yeah, I'm just trying to get a head start on picking out these photos, you know."
He joined me. My heart immediately began to race against my chest, and when I realized that he would be sitting across from me, I pulled my stuff away from the table to give him space for his tray. "Are you always working?" He asked, a rather teasing smile on his face.
I took slight offense to it, but in his same playful demeanor. I snapped a quick photo of him looking down at me, holding his tray of food. I could see the cheesy caption in my head now.
"I don't know if you've met Elena, but she is... kind of a hard ass." It wasn't the sort of thing I would say to someone in the PR department, but Burrow was leagues beyond that and I felt a sort of trust in him. "I've had days off," I said matter-of-factly.
"I know. You just celebrated your birthday," he told me, busy cutting up his chicken. I gulped, having forgotten that — and it suddenly made sense why being near him today has made me so nervous. It just slipped my mind, being more occupied with work and Elena's strict expectations. He glanced up at me and smiled.
"You have fun?"
The way he was going about the whole thing was as if he didn't know he was the one who sent me the birthday cake. For all he knew, though, I wasn't overthinking it as hard as I actually was; in his mind, I probably had lots to do in my personal and social life outside of work that the cake was likely an afterthought. But if he knew about my dad, then he might have known something about the lonely way I tended to live my life, and that made my stomach burn in embarrassment.
"I did, yeah," I feigned a half-smile, taking a bite of my soup. "My dad came up from Louisiana and I took him to, uh, Funky Anchovy."
Why wasn't he asking me if I got his cake? Why wasn't he asking me about the text I never responded to?
"Oh yeah, I love their cheese pizza."
"Burrow, I—"
We made direct eye contact. I took a sip of my juice. "I just wanna thank you, you know, for, um... the cake. You really didn't have to do that. I had no clue how you even knew it was my birthday, much less where I was taking my dad out to lunch."
He licked his lips and flashed me a smile, shrugging his shoulders. "Let's just say a little cowboy told me."
I furrowed my brows, slowly setting my cup down before realizing what he meant, and breaking out in pained laughter. With my head in my hands, I set my elbows on the table. Burrow had alluded to my dad, whose team mascot were the McNeese Cowboys. He was connected to it after all. But how? "You're kidding me."
He laughed along with me, except more jubilant and less in torture. "I got his letters when we won the AFC game and I just couldn't say no. Your dad is persistent and enthusiastic and it would just be like disappointing a kid on Christmas."
I should've known that my dad had something to do with it from the moment he asked me about Burrow before we even left for lunch. He grew up writing fan mail to all the greats back when he was my age, even younger — I shouldn't have doubted that he broke that habit just because he grew up and got into the industry. My face was beet red, my brain going crazy from all the different possibilities of what could have been written in that letter.
"I'm so sorry," I profusely apologized, averting Burrow's gaze. "What did he say? Oh, God, don't tell me."
He reached over and pulled one of my hands away from my face, prompting me to lay both of my arms down. I winced at him.
"It honestly wasn't that bad," Burrow told me. "A lot sweeter and more level-headed than you would think. Coach O has told me how much of a dork he is, but I really didn't mind. He came at it with respect and admiration, you know; he's a coach. It was touching."
The way he ended his sentence foretold there was more to the letter than he was letting on. By the look on my face, he made the correct prediction. I wanted to hear more.
"And then he was telling me it was your birthday, and that you were single, and that he was wondering if there was anyone I knew that would be willing to take you out on a date. He left me his phone number. ...Not quite sure why he wouldn't give me yours, but."
I took in these words like I'd just gotten hit by a freight train, though I made sure my features didn't replicate that strike to my body. My dad did... what?!
I wasn't filled with rage, just pure embarrassment that he would do such a thing! My dad loved to meddle, loved to pull me into things I didn't want anything to do with; if Burrow wasn't here, I would be calling my dad's number right now and rattling the cafeteria with my voice.
Burrow, again, must have seen my face and rushed to diffuse the situation. "Avery," he said, touching my arm, "Avery, it's totally cool. I didn't show anyone. You shouldn't be embarrassed. Coach T is a rockstar."
I appreciated him trying to console me. I had to chill. His touch on my arm was gentle and helped me recalibrate. I sighed in relief. "I probably won't be able to show my face here again. I swear to God I don't need a boyfriend or anything," I chuckled. "My dad is — he has been such a big fan of you, ever since you first got on the scene at LSU. Back in Louisiana... football runs in his blood. Thank you for responding to him." I almost told Burrow he didn't have to pity him, but something told me Burrow wasn't doing that at all to my dad. The look in his eyes was genuine.
"Don't mention it," he said. "And that goes for the cake, too. I'm sorry I couldn't be there, Shot Caller."
I blushed. I guess he called me that on more than one occurrence after all. There were things about Burrow that I had either just let go completely over my head or totally ignored, and his observant quality was one of them, ironically.
"Don't be crazy — like I said, I had no idea you even knew. It meant a lot to my dad, probably, knowing everything now. He's sent letters to a lot of the Greats and they don't always get back to him," I shrugged.
"Can't get to every letter," he told me. And I anticipated that. "But this one was for you. It was the least I could do for the person who made that stupid picture of me go viral."
He was self-aware, too.
We ate the rest of our meals in casual conversation, and this more human side to Burrow made me feel excited to take pictures of him again. We talked dads, and parents in general, though for some reason I had skirted past the fact that my mom was dead. I talked about her and her love of painting like she was still alive; looking back at it, I wasn't sure why I did this. Maybe I wanted to keep my mom's memory alive.
"Be honest with me," I prefaced. "In those final moments before McPherson kicked. Did you think you were gonna go to the Super Bowl?"
Confidently, and succinctly, he answered, "Yes." And popped the remainder of a half-eaten baby carrot in his mouth. I admired his confidence.
I wouldn't say I was ever starstruck by Burrow, but I did have this formulated image of him being self-obsessed like any other athlete in my head that I knew one day while working for the Bengals would either be just an illusion or the truth. As I thought back to my birthday, and the way my dad was so happy to have seen the cake come to the table, it felt more like the former.