And my spidey sense is telling me that whatever this is? It’s not going to be local news. No, this is going to be national coverage.

As he walks, he begins to lose the cocky tilt of his head. I don’t see the spark of hunger in his eyes that says this is for show.

No.

There’s hesitation in his movement. Fear and nerves written all across his face as he gets closer and closer to the cameraman blasting his image for everyone to see.

Then his feet stop moving and he stares straight into the camera. If my nerves weren’t eating me alive, I’d probably be enjoying the close-up of his full lips and dark brown eyes like everyone else. But instead, my eyes are locked on the screen and I watch as he pulls a piece of black tape out of his glove and very carefully places it over the League’s emblem embroidered on his jersey.

“Oh my god,” I whisper in the midst of similar sentiments floating around me.

“I don’t get it.” Marie’s voice sounds like a shout in the suddenly quiet stadium. She’s completely oblivious as she lifts her beer to her lips and takes a final sip. “Is that some kind of quarterback thing?”

The only time Marie has ever watched football was when her ex-boyfriend played on our college team. He wanted her to support him. She broke up with him after the second game because no man was worth that kind of torture—her words, not mine. She came today after letting me know that in no way, shape, or form was I to yell at her when she started playing Candy Crush in the first quarter. I was honestly just so proud that she knew football was comprised of quarters and not periods or innings that I couldn’t argue with her. So when she says she’s confused, she means it.

Usually I can clear things up, but not this time.

“Not that I know of.”

I think she keeps talking, but I can’t hear her anymore. All I can do is track Quinton’s movement on the field like everyone else. I think of any positive way to spin him blatantly disrespecting the League paying him millions of dollars. I have to be misunderstanding his intentions.

Time ticks by and both teams go to their benches. Most of the fans seem to have let whatever the hell he was doing roll off their backs and I relax a little. I grab my phone out of my purse, wanting to make sure nobody from the Mustangs has sent a panicked email as the first beats of the national anthem start to play.

Then it happens.

I’m waiting for my email to refresh when I hear the cascade of whispers and boos beginning to build.