All The Weight He Carries

The glass walls of my third-floor office at Halas Hall do a remarkably poor job of blocking out the sound of impending chaos.

Outside my door, the Chicago Bears public relations bullpen is buzzing like a hive of hornets that someone just took a baseball bat to. Phones are ringing off the hook, keyboards are clacking at a manic, rhythmic pace, and the interns look like they’re one spilled espresso away from a full-scale psychological break. It’s April. Free agency has settled into a dull roar, the draft is a month away, and my department is supposed to be coasting on a nice, quiet maintenance schedule of community outreach spotlights and nostalgic throwback Thursday posts.

Instead, my executive-level phone lights up on my desk, flashing red with an incoming internal Slack notification from our general manager.

Emergency comms meeting. Boardroom B. Ten minutes. Wear armor.

I let out a long, slow breath, letting my fingers drop from the keyboard. I reach up to rub the bridge of my nose, right between my eyes where a familiar, stubborn tension headache has decided to take up permanent residence. My morning started with a double espresso that tasted like battery acid and a two-hour battle with my body’s stubborn refusal to cooperate with my sleep schedule—thanks, as always, to my charming cocktail of PCOD symptoms that make mornings feel less like waking up and more like unearthing myself from a concrete tomb.

I’m twenty-eight years old, I’m the lead PR and social media manager for one of the most storied, pressure-cooker franchises in the NFL, and right now, I feel like I’m about to walk onto a firing range blindfolded.

I grab my tablet, smooth down the front of my charcoal-tailored blazer structured just right to look sharp while giving me enough comfortable ease around the waist, and step out into the hallway.

“Abbie!"

Emily Morgans, my best friend, roommate, and emergency-room nurse who somehow manages to check in on me five times a day despite saving lives on a trauma floor, has already intercepted me near the water cooler. She’s holding her phone up like it’s a smoking gun.

“Please tell me you know why half the local sports radio hosts are currently hyperventilating on Twitter," Emily hisses, her hazel eyes wide behind her wire-rimmed glasses. “Did we just trade for a tight end with a felony record, or is the entire front office planning a synchronized leap into Lake Michigan?"

“I’m on my way to find out right now," I mutter, crossing my arms over my chest. “If it’s another rookie DUI, I swear I’m resigning to go live in the woods and raise goats."

“Goats don’t have PR crises, honey. It’s tempting," Emily shoots back, offering an encouraging, sympathetic squeeze to my arm. “Text me the second you know. And take a deep breath. You’re brilliant. Whatever dumpster fire they’ve wheeled into the boardroom, you’re going to put it out."

I offer a tight, grateful smile and head down the corridor toward Boardroom B.

When I push open the heavy mahogany doors, the room is already thick with the scent of high-end roasted coffee and stale male panic. Our GM, Marcus Vance, is pacing near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the practice fields, while our head coach is rubbing his temples.

“Abigail. Thank God," Marcus says, waving me over to the massive oak conference table. “Have you seen the wire?"

“I’ve been too busy dodging flying staplers in the bullpen," I reply smoothly, my voice dropping into that cool, unshakeable executive register I’ve spent years perfecting. In a room full of aging football executives who still view women in sports through a patronizing 1950s lens, showing an ounce of panic is a fatal error. “Fill me in. Who did we trade for?"

Marcus clears his throat, sharing a quick, cautious look with the head coach. “We just finalized a blockbuster deal with the Miami Dolphins. We traded our first-round pick and a future third for their franchise quarterback."

My internal machinery grinds to a grinding, screeching halt.

A franchise quarterback. You don’t just trade for a franchise quarterback on a random Tuesday morning in April without a massive, league-shattering ripple effect. The Chicago media market is the most ruthless, ravenous beast in professional sports. A new starting quarterback means immediate Super Bowl expectations, wall-to-wall press coverage, and a million rabid fans dissecting every breath he takes.

“Okay," I say steadily, pulling up my notes app on my tablet. “That’s massive. What’s his contract status, and when is his introductory press conference?"

“He’s flying in on a private jet this afternoon," Marcus says, hesitating just a fraction too long. “And... well, Abbie, you’re going to be handling his personal media integration, day-to-day social shadowing, and the welcome campaign."

“Fine. Standard superstar onboarding," I nod, tapping my stylus against the screen. “Who is it? Trevor? Zach? Who are we talking about?"

Marcus grimaces. “It’s Mateo Cruz."

The room seems to drop ten degrees. The sound of the HVAC system overhead suddenly roars like a jet engine in my ears.

Mateo Cruz.

The name hits me like a physical blow to the chest, knocking every ounce of oxygen straight out of my lungs. My grip on my tablet tightens until my knuckles turn chalk-white.

Mateo.

Ten years ago, Mateo Cruz wasn’t a multi-million-dollar NFL superstar. He was the golden-boy starting quarterback at our Chicago-suburb high school. He was the tall, sun-kissed, broad-shouldered golden god who had every cheerleader and sophomore girl swooning in the hallways. He was also the boy I had a pathetic, agonizing, entirely unrequited secret crush on during my junior year while I served as the overworked, invisible student manager for the varsity football team.

More importantly, he was the silent bystander. I can still taste the bitter, suffocating humiliation of that rainy Tuesday after practice. I had been sitting behind the equipment lockers, organizing jersey inventory, when I overheard Mateo’s starting wide receiver and toxic best friend loudly making a series of crude, vicious, fatphobic jokes about my body, my weight, and my appearance. I had frozen, my heart shattering into a million jagged pieces.

And Mateo? Mateo had been leaning against the lockers right beside him. He hadn’t laughed, no. But he hadn’t told his friend to shut up either. He had just stared down at his cleats, swallowed hard, and stayed completely, cowardly silent. His silence had echoed louder than any insult. When he tried to corner me by my locker the next morning with a stammered, pathetic half-apology, I had looked him dead in the eye, slammed my locker door in his face, and vowed to never let a man make me feel that small ever again.

Shortly after, Mateo transferred to a boarding academy for elite athletic prospects, and I spent the next decade burying that hurt under an impenetrable mountain of professional ambition, perfectly tailored blazers, and razor-sharp sarcasm.

And now?

Now, the Chicago Bears just traded a king’s ransom for Mateo Cruz. He is six-foot-six, heavily featured on the cover of Sports Illustrated, worth forty million dollars, and walking straight back into my life. And I am the lead PR director who has to manage his digital image and make him look like a national hero.

“Abbie?" Marcus’s voice cuts through the roaring static in my head. “Abigail, are you with us? You’ve gone completely pale."

I force my jaw to unclamp. I force my posture to straighten, dragging every ounce of professional armor back over my fragile, reeling internal state. I am not the insecure seventeen-year-old girl hiding behind an equipment rack anymore. I am Abigail Miller, VP-track communications executive, and I do not let ghosts derail my career.

“I’m fine, Marcus. Just processing the sheer volume of content generation we’re going to have to churn out before rookie minicamp," I say, my voice steady, ice-cold, and entirely devoid of the earthquake happening inside my chest. “When does his flight land?"

“Mid-afternoon," Coach chimes in, looking relieved that I didn’t burst into flames. “He’ll be at Halas Hall by 3:00 PM for his physical and introductory walkthrough. I want you in the lobby to greet him, Abbie. Get him acclimated before the press scrum."

“Understood," I say, turning on my heel. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a million-dollar brand to prep for."

I walk out of Boardroom B with my head held high, marching straight back to my office. But the moment the heavy glass door clicks shut behind me and the blinds are drawn, my legs finally betray me. I drop heavily into my ergonomic desk chair, burying my face in my hands as a trembling, disbelieving laugh escapes my lips.

Ten years. I survived ten years without ever having to hear his voice or see those infuriatingly warm honey-brown eyes. And now he’s playing for my team.

My phone buzzes on the desk. It’s a text message from Emily.

Emily: Spill. Did we just sign the Antichrist, or just a really expensive quarterback? What’s the emergency?

I pick up my phone, my fingers tapping furiously against the screen as the sarcasm wells up to form my shield.

Me: Worse. We traded for Mateo Cruz.

A bubble appears instantly on the screen as Emily starts typing furiously.

Emily: MATEO CRUZ?! THE Mateo Cruz?! The high school locker room ghost Mateo Cruz?! Abigail, are you joking right now. Is this a cosmic practical joke?!

Me: I wish I was joking. He lands at O’Hare in three hours. He’s coming to Halas Hall. And I am officially required by my employment contract to welcome him with a smile and a branded polo shirt.

Emily: Oh, honey. Oh, sweetie, no. Do you need me to smuggle a sedative out of the ER? I can literally come down there right now and stage a medical emergency. We can fake appendicitis!

Me: As tempting as a hospital stay sounds right now, I can’t run away from a quarterback, Emily. It would look bad on my quarterly review. Besides, I’m not running. I’ve spent ten years building an impenetrable wall. If he thinks he can waltz in here and disrupt my department, he has another thing coming.

Emily: That’s my girl. Unleash absolute hell on him, Abbie. Make him suffer. Make him trip over his own cleats. And for God’s sake, don’t let him see you sweat. You look gorgeous today. Let that gorgeous blazer be his executioner.

I let out a shaky, genuine breath, a small smirk touching the corners of my lips as I read her texts. She’s right. I am a powerhouse in this building. I’ve earned every square inch of my office, my authority, and my reputation. Mateo Cruz might be the golden boy of the NFL, but inside these walls, I run the show.

I lock my phone, toss it onto the desk, and stand up, smoothing my skirt. Three hours until touchdown. Let the games begin.