I smile, pulling his helmet down. “Pretty fucking great. Now go do it again.” With a gentle push, I send Fitz onto the field and into the waiting arms of his teammates, who celebrate as they jog to the sideline.

Boos surround the stadium, which make me shake my head with confusion.

“Oh, oh, come on, ref! They’re newlyweds!”

I grab Lo’s arm. “Wait, what happened?”

“Look.” She points at a small yellow flag just beside the padding of the base of the goalpost. “They gave him a penalty in the bank.”

“That’s not fair!” I huff. “For what?”

Lo smirks at me. “For loving you.” She laughs.

“I guess it wouldn’t be the first time.” I let go of her as the Rebels’ kicking team takes the field, but now, fifteen yards further back.

Lo hands me my beer and I’m bringing it to my lips when I spot Fitz on the sideline. He’s got a headset on, so clearly he’s talking to someone else. But he smiles, letting me see that dimple from a distance, and what he mouths to me, I hear above the cheers of tens of thousands of fans.

Rebels Only.

* * *

FIVE YEARS LATER

AMERICA’S SWEETHEARTS AT HOME IN A NEW ERA

Rebecca Morris

The Boston Journal, Sports & Style

The first time I met Parker Rhodes in a Boston hotel room, I had no idea what was about to hit me. And I had no idea, 5 years later, that the hits would keep on coming. But the reason for this is a testament to Rhodes’s persistence, resistance, and as she jokes darkly, “good coaching from my husband.”

I’ve met with Parker two other times since that day in the hotel. One of those times I accompanied her on a plane from Boston to Washington, DC, where she was heading to testify in front of a congressional committee in support of a bill against institutional child abuse. It was September, prime football season. It also was also the last fall her father would spend in office, losing his re-election months later.

With us, of course, was her husband, Fitz, who missed practice to be with his wife. It’s something you imagine doesn’t fly for starting quarterbacks. But considering it was his former coach who had a hand in Parker’s story, The New England Rebels easily made an exception.

“They were very supportive of that,” Fitz tells me. Even though it’s been a year since he retired, he still palms a football. So little has changed, except his receiver is his two year old, Clara, whom he squats for when tossing the ball.

“Go long,” he tells her.

But Clara toddles off. “No, no.”

It’s hard to tell who little, dark-haired Clara resembles more at the moment, so I ask their opinion.