It’s late morning on game day. The locker room is a controlled storm—grunts, clinks of pads, the hiss of cleats being tied tight. Sean’s already dressed, seated on the bench, elbows on his knees, trying to center himself. He’s staring at the floor when he hears the voice.
Brody (from the hallway):
“...I don’t wanna say I look good in green, but if there’s a mirror nearby I will absolutely say it to myself.”
Sean looks up—just in time to see him.
Brody enters. Fully suited up. Jersey #86.
Sean doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
His chest fills too fast—like something sacred and unreal is unfolding in real time.
Brody (seeing the look):
“What? You look like you just saw a puppy win the lottery.”
Sean opens his mouth. Closes it. He blinks hard.
Sean (quietly):
“You… look like a football player.”
Brody flexes one arm dramatically.
Brody: