Chapter 1: The Game Begins

My wife and I drove up to her high school reunion in Toledo, pulling into the cracked parking lot outside the old Holiday Inn. Inside, the banquet hall was alive with nervous laughter and half-empty cans of Bud Light rolling under folding chairs. A giant mural of Toledo’s glass factories loomed behind us, and the air reeked of overcooked pasta, cheap perfume, and a hint of Old Spice. It was like everyone was itching to prove they weren’t just a bunch of thirty-somethings in business casual—they wanted to feel reckless again.

Phones were supposed to be off for the game. But when my turn came, my phone buzzed. Without thinking, I answered. My wife’s face twisted in fury. She lunged, snatched my phone, and slammed it onto the hardwood. The crack echoed like a gunshot. Heads snapped around. Someone dropped a red Solo cup. Shannon’s eyes flashed. “Seriously? Who are you trying to impress?”

I stared at the shattered screen, watching it flicker and die. My voice came out hollow: “That was Dad. He said Mom just had a heart attack... sudden, out of nowhere.”

Everything stilled. The only sounds were the rattling old hotel HVAC and a muffled pop song from the DJ booth. For a second, the world felt frozen.

Shannon didn’t move, her jaw clenched tight. Her hands gripped her drink so hard the ice rattled. She let out a strange, brittle laugh, glancing at her friends as if this was some kind of joke. Then her voice snapped, sharp and raw: “You’ve got to be freaking kidding me right now.”

Her fingers trembled, and she kept darting glances at the crowd—torn between disbelief and the urge to shout at me or just storm off.

Panic surged through me. My skin went clammy, and my grip on her arm tightened as I searched the faces around us for any kind of support. But all I got were stares—like we’d become tonight’s entertainment.

A woman sprawled across the sofa cackled, “If you can’t handle the game, just leave! Honestly, we didn’t even want you here. And guess what? Brian Young’s coming soon.”

She looked me up and down, eyes cold, waiting for me to make a fool of myself.

At the mention of Brian, Shannon stiffened. She bit her lip and twisted her wedding band. It was like the temperature dropped ten degrees in the room.

The classmate smirked, “Go home with your husband, seriously. A heart attack? Please, he’s just scared of seeing your first love.”

Her sarcasm cut through the air. Someone else snorted, and I felt the sting of high school pettiness—only now with fancier clothes and sharper tongues.

A guy piped up, “Let me spill a secret—Brian’s here to confess tonight.”

A round of whoops and whistles erupted. Someone’s phone camera caught the moment, probably already on its way to the group chat.

Shannon yanked her arm from my grasp. “I’m not leaving. The party’s just getting started. We haven’t even had dinner. If you want to leave, go by yourself.”

She crossed her arms, chin jutting out—pure defiance. I knew that look. No one could boss her around, not even me.

I was frantic. “What the hell is wrong with you? You realize what a heart attack means, right? People die in minutes! And you want to eat? Are you out of your mind?”

My voice cracked with fear and anger. The crowd hushed, waiting for the next round.

She shot back, “You’re the heartless one! These are my friends—I grew up with them. What am I hiding? I said if you want to leave, then go. Don’t embarrass me.”

Her cheeks flushed, surrounded by her old tribe. I was the outsider, and it stung more than I wanted to admit.

I tried to pull her away, but she slipped from my grasp and rejoined her classmates. A couple women patted her back, glaring at me like I’d ruined everything. The DJ switched to an old pop anthem, desperate to keep things light.

I pleaded, “A heart attack is life or death. Please, come home with me. Now.”

My words came out rough, hanging in the air.

“Dream on!” she yelled back. “You actually expect me to fall for that? What did I do to deserve this? Can’t I just have one normal night out?”

Someone in the back muttered, “Drama king,” and laughter rippled through the room.

I snatched up my broken phone, jamming every button, but the screen stayed black. Each press left a greasy thumbprint, the cracked glass catching the light. I felt helpless.

Her classmates roared with laughter, faces twisted with scorn. A couple clinked bottles, nudging each other. It felt like a sitcom where I was the punchline.

Desperate, I rushed to the pile of bags, rifling through Shannon’s purse for her phone. My hand brushed lipsticks, a Target receipt, her inhaler—everything except what I needed.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she snapped, snatching her bag back and hugging it to her chest like I was a thief.

I shouted, “If you don’t believe me, call Dad! The ambulance is delayed. We need to get home and drive Mom to the ER ourselves!”

My panic was obvious now, but I didn’t care. The room seemed to spin. Someone rolled their eyes.

Shannon coolly handed her phone to a woman behind her, who tucked it into her shirt and stuck her chest out. “Come get it, if you’re so tough.”

She winked at her friends, and the crowd howled again. Mob mentality took over, the smell of spilled beer and cheap perfume thickening as people pressed in, faces blurring together.

A guy sneered, “Shannon marrying you is like a diamond stuck in a mud puddle.”

He let the insult hang. Everyone filled in the blank with their own brand of Midwest humor.

The crowd jeered in unison, “Mud puddle!” Someone even mooed. My face burned.

“Shannon’s a catch and you don’t even appreciate her. You just want to keep her locked up.”

Another woman chimed in, “She could do so much better, and you know it.”

I didn’t know any of these people. I only came because Shannon wanted me to make her look good and foot the bill.

I replayed her pleading—how she said it would mean everything if I came. Now, it felt like the joke was on me.

“Are you really not leaving?” I asked, my voice quieter but slicing through the noise. I needed her answer. I needed something solid.

She rolled her eyes. “If I can’t have fun tonight, even if the President himself had a heart attack, it’s not my problem.”

The group whooped. Someone shouted, “Damn, Shannon!” like she’d just roasted me on live TV.

“Fine, Shannon. Don’t regret it.”

I grabbed my jacket from the chair, hands shaking as I tried to zip it up. My chest hurt. I couldn’t breathe. I headed for the door, heart pounding in my throat.

Just as I reached for the handle, the door swung open with a movie-perfect creak. The room fell silent, everyone waiting for the star to make his entrance.