#sidelines

Life wasn’t a tragedy, she simply wasn’t… happy. There wasn’t a joie de vivre, a bucket list, an excitement for the future. She was gloomy, sad and weird since she could remember. Then, life did get a little harder. Family tragedies started to pour in along with losing her friends and all the ins of one’s early twenties. Suddenly she found herself at one am at a park alone trying to feel something, something to help that nausea of life not being livable.

Closeness, affection and human connection became a fantasy, tucked away in romance novels and profound movies she wasn’t sure she understood. She’d read the blooming of a relationship until it gave her tingles and made her so giddy it made her upset. That was enough for her. Always sat at the sides, watching her sister party, her friends fall in love, her neighbors’ kid growing up. And her life settled her up to be a spectator, always there for advice and listening. Not much more.

Spending nights on the bathroom floor puking her guts out, crying for no particular reason in the subway, kneeling in front of her dog while he slept and wondering if he’d be fine if she left. Walking into upcoming traffic without particularly caring what happened, taking weed from the friend of a friend she knew was complete bad news, simple colds turned worse intentionally. She couldn’t bring herself to care if she lived or died, about participating in life eagerly, about having plans. She never thought she’d be this old. She got help eventually, of course she did, got on a strict therapy regime with a couple of trails until she found the perfect mood stabilizers. She started looking forward to things, seeing her little nieces grow up, having her team win a big tournament, finding a job that made her happy. She decided she needed a change, so she left behind the life she’d most known, thanked God for her parents pushing her to learn english since she was young and decided to move to Metropolis. The job came fast enough, then came friends and hobbies and suddenly life felt clearer.

When life needed a little sunshine, she got it. Got it in the form of a walk to the dog bakery where Beetle would get a veal muffin she would take a picture of. Got it when a friend called her needing her or wanting to hang out with her. Got it when she nailed a new recipe. Got it when her nails came out just like her inspiration picture from Pinterest. Mostly though, she got it from the tall, awkward man that was walking into her house right now.

Beetle jumped up to bark, being coerced to calm down with a treat as Clark took off his raincoat (a blue and red raincoat, could he be more obvious?) and placed it on top of clothes rack where it could drip safely. He took off his sweater and revealed he had his Superman attire on still, duty still called under threat of thunderstorms.

“Hi, darling. Your cake looks divine.” He motioned to the cake she spent most afternoon crafting, vanilla sponge with a raspberry coulis filling and whipped cream frosting topped with toasted coconut. Her current dream was acing an Italian buttercream, but by the amount of wasted butter and egg white, it seemed like it would stay a dream.

She smiled softly but stayed with her head stuffed perfectly between her pillows. Clark came up to her, smiling at her comfortable expression and kissed her forehead carefully, since he was still wet from the storm outside.

“Gonna shower. Can I steal your nice body wash?” She giggled softly and nodded, she had no other soap in her shower, so he had to use it, it was always nice that he asked though. His suit was neatly placed on the designated dirty clothes chair and he hopped into the shower, not bothering to close the door. She was a very strong girl and did not peak to see him in all his glory. She stood up and wondered if she should wash his suit, just over a year together and she’d never considered it. Does it get tumble washed? Hot or cold? Room temperature? Hand washed? No fabric softener?

She decided it would be better to ask after he got out, walking into her kitchen and looking at herself in the reflection of her shiny black fridge. Oh. So, a mess. Hair a mess, dirty sweater, bleach stained sweats. She shrugged off the sweater and put it in the washing basket, leaving her in her oversized blink-182 shirt she’d had for ages. She combed over her hair with her nails slightly, deciding it was good enough and put on the kettle, getting Beetle’s dinner ready as the dog followed her around excitedly. After having served him his food, she took it upon herself to cut the perfect slice from cake for Clark. She already had the the ugly first slice earlier. He came in as she was admiring her work on the plate she had placed it on.

He looked relaxed and cuddly, having washed out the grime of the day of helping others. He smelled like her cucumber aloe body wash and had also used her shampoo, which she obviously knew but never mentioned.

“It’s so pretty.” She mumbled, looking up at him with a pleased grin he returned. She made him his tea, a herbal mix with a splash of honey and served it next to the cake.

“Okay, let me know how it is. And be honest, no kissing up.” Clark rolled his eyes but nodded, sitting on a stool and pulling the slice in front of him, cutting the perfect piece and bringing it to his mouth, trying to be as coy as possible. She looked at him from the other side of the counter with an excited smile.

“So?”

“I haven’t decided. Another bite.” Clark answered, dead serious as if he was on a cooking show judging. She huffed, walking over to his side and standing next to him. Clark chewed the next bite, using his hand to bring her closer and make her cuddle into his chest.

“I’ll give it a… 9.5.”

“Wait, why the point deduction?” She asked as he kept shoving the food into his mouth, turning around to face him. He clearly liked it enough not to stop eating it. Once he swallowed the gigantic bite he had taken, he cleared his throat.

“It would’ve been a ten if you had hand fed it to me, or I could have eaten it off your body, even better, should’ve placed it in your mouth and I could get in there while we kiss.” Her mouth hung open and her eyebrows were tied together in a mixture of surprise and disgust as he tried to keep his face serious. He finally cracked and laughed, one hand up to her head to bring her closer and kiss her.

“You’re fucked up, Kent.” She mumbled against his lips although she was smiling already too and had found it just as amusing. Clark didn’t answer, kept finding her mouth in long pecks and intertwined lips. They stayed like that for a while, her between his arms hot and comfortable and his hand between her hair, reminding her why the real reason she had to brush her hair when he was here: he tangled it.

“All good, Superman?”

“Yeah, today was okay. Better now that I’m here. That cake’s ridiculous, baby. Definitely one of the best.” He finally complimented the cake, making her smile and leave him alone as he finished the slice and drink from his tea. She walked around her living room, picking up Beetle’s mess of excitement that ended in him throwing around all his toys. She looked at her wild violet plant, the first she got when she moved here.

“Hey, girl. You need some love? I’ll get you some fertilizer tomorrow.” She said, pulling out a couple of dead leaves and crumbling them in her hand before turning to throw them in the compost. Clark was looking at her with delight.

“Talking to the house plants?” She smiled and nodded, walking back towards him and wrapping her arms around his strong torso.

“Yeah, I’m getting old. I kinda like it.” She admitted. Silence in her brain about getting older was a luxury she had no idea she would ever afford. But it was quieter. It was a possibility to get old, not a punishment. Clark hugged her back tightly, all super soft and soapy husk.

“What game do you have on?”

“Uh, Astros… Angels. They’re both kind of ass.” Clark laughed, letting her lead him into her bedroom. They settled into the bed and she rearranged herself; the sun had set already but she kept looking out the window. No walks in the rain, no uncontrollable flus.

“C’mere, it’s cold. Can’t have you getting sick on me.” Clark murmured and he pulled her into his body, chest pressed firmly to cover her cold back, immediately regulating her body temperature. She moaned softly, no words said as Beetle took his spot beside her and she rest her head on the dog’s body. This was it; she needed to be careful. They needed her. She needed them.

He was always so careful with her too, mindful of her getting sick, getting hurt. He touched her soft and was nice to her hips even when he had it all in him to not be nice, talked to her patient and sweet and smiled at her like she held the world upon a string. She kind of did. She danced it around her fingertips in a crowded room where he only saw her, pulled at it when she got into a slump, shared it with him when she let him in. Clark kissed her temple soft, looking out at what she was seeing and sighed too, content and comfortable, with his girl pressed up to him, the world quiet and his mouth still reminiscent of the coconut of the cake.

“Farmer’s market tomorrow, right?” Clark asked, she nodded because she had been looking forward to it. Walk there on a mice spring breeze, let people coo and pet Beetle, watch others gawk at her giant boyfriend. Receive smiles and samples, give the ten dollars she put aside every week for the homeless man at the park, watch little kids give their parents a hard time. All things she looked forward to, how neat is that?

“You finished that book already?” Clark asked, motioning to the cheesy beach read that was on the bedside table.

“Yeah, it was good.” She recalled, turning to face him and wrap her hand between his still damp hair. He smiled down at her, kissing her cheek. One hand settled beneath her ratty worn out t-shirt.

“Better than us?” He teased, making her squint at him. What a childish thing to think anything would ever be better.

The nostalgia of training camp still lingered long after it had ended, a feeling that crept up on you even months later. On days like today—returning home after a brutal Week 13 game—the contrast was striking. As you peeled off the layers of clothing you’d bundled up in to combat the freezing cold, the sensation of each piece coming off felt almost foreign. The warmth of the indoors enveloped you, but it couldn't erase the memories of those sweltering July days in Cincinnati.

Back then, the air had been thick with humidity, the sweat pouring off him as he pushed through grueling drills under the relentless summer sun. Now, in the biting chill of late fall, the simple act of shedding his cold-weather gear reminded him of the intense, suffocating heat of training camp. The difference between the two extremes—the cold, sterile locker room air and the muggy, sun-soaked practices—was as stark as the difference between the start of the season and its grueling stretch toward the finish. It was a reminder of the miles he'd traveled, physically and mentally, since those long, sweat-drenched days in Cincinnati.

The air was thick with humidity, heavy and oppressive, yet charged with an undeniable sense of excitement and anticipation. With the new season rapidly approaching, a surge of optimism ran through the team, lifting spirits that had been dampened the year before. It was Joe’s first training camp of full participation of his time in the leauge, and the atmosphere crackled with the collective hope that he would return to form.

After a devastating wrist injury had sidelined him for most of the previous season, the team had struggled in his absence. His loss had been felt deeply, leaving a hole that couldn’t be filled by any one player. Now, as Joe returned, everyone knew his return was more than just a personal comeback—it was a turning point for the entire team. All eyes were on him, eager to see if he could rekindle the spark that had been missing in the months since his injury. The weight of the past season hung in the air, but so did the promise of redemption.

The slow start to the season seemed to crush him, each loss adding more weight to his shoulders. You’d never seen him like this before—not in all the years you’d been together. It was painful to watch, knowing how deeply it affected him, and it tore you up that there was nothing more you could do to fix it.

You became his safe space—ready with open arms, soft words, and comforting silence when he needed it. You were there for the late-night talks, the moments when frustration bubbled over, and the quiet evenings when he just needed to rest, his head on your shoulder. You dried his tears without a word, wishing that your presence alone could ease the burden he carried. He appreciated it, more than you realized, but you still couldn’t shake the feeling that you wished you could do more—something to take away the weight of his struggle.

"I’m scared," he admitted one night, his voice barely audible as he buried his head into the crook of your neck. The vulnerability in his words hit you like a physical blow, more painful than anything you’d ever experienced. Joe, who had always been the rock in your life—the steady, unshakable force who could calm your fears with just a touch or a word—was now the one who needed comforting. 

For years, he had been your source of strength, the one who reassured you when doubt crept in and who steadied you when the world seemed too chaotic. But now, hearing him so fragile, so uncertain, left you feeling powerless. It was as if the roles had reversed, and you were struggling to find the right words or the right way to ease his mind. You could feel the weight of his fear, the same fear that had once seemed so distant when it belonged to you. All you could do was hold him, hoping your embrace would offer even a fraction of the comfort he had always given you.

You remembered when the two of you first got together in high school, how anxious you had been about returning to school after winter break. You were tangled in all the little worries—the pressure of classes, the fear of judgment, the uncertainty of what the new semester would bring. But Joe, always calm and composed, was there to reassure you. He had a way of making everything feel less daunting, his steady presence enough to quiet your racing thoughts.

It was the little things that always seemed to bother you, the ones that gnawed at your mind even when you tried to push them away. But with Joe, it was different. Nothing ever seemed to shake him. He exuded an unshakable confidence, a quiet strength that made it seem like the world could throw anything at him and he'd take it in stride. You never saw him flinch, never saw him lose his cool or let his emotions show. He was the rock you could always rely on, the one who made you believe that nothing in the world could ever truly break him.

Now, seeing him so vulnerable, so full of fear, felt like the ground had shifted beneath you. It was as if the person who had always held you together was the one who needed holding now, and you didn’t know how to fix it.

What hurt the most was knowing that none of this was his fault—and that, in a way, only made the sting worse. If it weren’t for the team’s record, he’d be a top contender for the MVP award. His individual performance was nothing short of extraordinary, shattering records left and right, yet all of it was being overlooked because of the team’s overall struggles.

It broke your heart to watch, seeing him pour everything into these games, only to have his accomplishments overshadowed by circumstances beyond his control. He deserved so much more—he deserved to be celebrated for his resilience, for defying the odds, for overcoming the kind of setbacks most people couldn’t even fathom. But instead, it felt like his greatness was being ignored, his hard-earned success eclipsed by a number on a scoreboard. He had fought so hard to get back, and you couldn’t help but feel that he wasn’t getting the recognition he so deeply deserved.

It felt like he was watching on the sidelines, seeing all the other players in his position thrived, their success seemingly effortless compared to the blood, sweat, and sacrifices he had made just to get back to where he was. It was maddening to see others reach the heights he knew he was capable of, especially when some of them hadn’t put in half the work he had. There were whispers—plenty of people who believed that he would never be the same after the injury, that his best days were behind him. But Joe had been determined to prove them wrong.

He poured everything he had into the offseason, pushing his body and mind to their absolute limits, reworking his game, re-shaping his entire approach. He gave it all. And now, after everything, it felt like it was for nothing. The question echoed in his mind like a cruel mantra: What’s the point? He had fought through the pain, defied the doubters, and yet, here he was, feeling like he was stuck in limbo. The frustration was unbearable—no matter how hard he worked, no matter how much of himself he poured into this comeback, it still didn’t feel like enough. The success, the validation he so desperately wanted, seemed just out of reach. It was as if the goalposts kept shifting, and with every inch he gained, the finish line moved further away.

So here you were, sitting on the king-sized bed, absentmindedly running your fingers over the bracelet Joe had given you for your last birthday. It was a simple piece, but so full of meaning—alternating patterns of your birthstone and his, a quiet symbol of the connection between you both. The weight of the bracelet in your hands reminded you of the weight in the room, a heavy silence that had settled between you since Joe walked through the door.

Not a single word had been spoken since he came home. There was an unspoken understanding between you two: after a tough loss, it was best to give Joe space, to let him process in his own way until he was ready to come to you. He grieved each loss differently, and you had learned over the years how to read him. Sometimes, he needed you like he needed air—his body language frantic, his touch desperate. Other times, he retreated to his office, burying himself in film, taking notes as a way to work through the disappointment. And sometimes, like tonight, he just wanted to be near you, without talking, without asking for anything—just your quiet presence beside him.

You assumed it was the latter this time, since he had come upstairs and sat down on the bed without a word, while you continued folding laundry. It was a task you had taken up to distract yourself from the ache in your chest, the frustration of the devastating loss to Pittsburgh still gnawing at you. You tried to focus on the mundane, the rhythm of the task, but your thoughts kept drifting back to him—wondering if he was holding it together or if, beneath his calm exterior, he was falling apart. You didn’t press him, though. You knew better. He would come to you when he was ready. All you could do was wait, letting the quiet fill the space between you.

"Babe," Joe croaked, his voice barely more than a whisper, cracking with emotion.

"Hmm?" you replied softly, instinctively leaning in, sensing the shift in his mood.

"Can you come here?" His voice was strained, distant, as he picked at his thumbnail, a nervous habit you knew all too well. 

Without hesitation, you moved to him, drawn by the quiet desperation in his tone. As soon as you reached his side, he gripped the back of your thighs, his hands tightening around you like he was afraid you might slip away at any moment. "Please don't leave me."

The words hit you like a punch to the chest, and you lowered yourself to him, resting a hand on his hair. "I'm not going anywhere," you promised, your voice soft as you gently ran your fingers through his dark strands. "I’m right here."

Joe let out a heavy sigh, his breath warm and unsteady against your belly as he pressed his face into you, the weight of his exhaustion and emotion hanging in the air between you. "Thank you," he mumbled, his words muffled but sincere. "For everything. For just being here."

Your heart clenched as you looked down at him. "For what?" you asked, your hand still moving through his hair, trying to soothe him as much as you could.

Joe hesitated for a moment, his grip tightening on you like he was anchoring himself to something solid. "For being the one thing I can count on. For being here when everything else feels like it's falling apart. It means more than I can say… knowing I have you to come home to at the end of every day."

You swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling into you. It was almost too much to bear—knowing how deeply he relied on you, how much he needed you in ways you hadn’t fully understood until now. 

You were the one thing holding Joe together. The calm in his storm. In the chaos of his world—his career, his relentless drive, the constant pressure—somehow, you had become the anchor. You were the quiet in the noise, the steady hand when everything around him felt uncertain. 

You understood why he was always so calm, cool, and collected, why he seemed unshakable in the face of challenge: it was because, since you’d come into his life, you had given him something to lose. Something real. Something that mattered more than football, more than accolades, more than the constant grind. It was you. And in that knowledge, you realized just how deeply intertwined your lives had become—how, without even meaning to, you had become the reason he fought to hold it all together.

"I wish I could do more for you," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper, as you tried to hold it all together. The weight of it—his pain, his struggle—felt like it was pressing down on your chest, making it harder to breathe.

Joe shook his head slightly, his hand reaching for yours. "You do enough. Just being here, holding me, encouraging me... that's more than enough. You do everything you can for me."

His words were a balm, but they didn't fully erase the ache in your heart. Still, you couldn't help but feel powerless, wishing you could ease the hurt he carried. "I just wish I could take your pain away," you said softly, a sad smile tugging at your lips, though the tears threatened to spill over. You blinked rapidly, trying to keep them at bay, but it was impossible. The sight of him like this—so broken and vulnerable—was more than you could bear.

Joe's gaze softened, and without a word, he reached up and gently brushed your hair out of your face, his touch tender, almost reverent. He could see the turmoil in your eyes, the way you were struggling to hold it together for him. "Shh," he murmured, the quiet sound of his voice a soothing balm to your restless heart. "I'm okay. I promise." 

You gave a small nod, but your heart ached with the feeling of wanting to do more, to fix it somehow, to take away his pain. 

Without another word, Joe shifted closer to you, and before you knew it, his head was resting on your chest, his body curling into you like a lifeline. Your limbs naturally tangled together, your arm draping over him, holding him as if you could protect him from everything he couldn’t control.

And as he drifted into a peaceful sleep, your whisper escaped on a breath, full of quiet resolve. “I’m here, Joe. I’m always here.” You pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, a silent vow of your love and loyalty, as you held him close, letting the weight of his pain become something you would carry for him, even if just for a little while.