Annika didn’t like sports. 

She didn’t like that nearly every bar she frequented catered to those who did. She didn’t like the loud TVs and even louder patrons who found it acceptable to stand up and scream like Cuckoo’s Nest mental patients. She didn’t like the way conversations so often drifted to the score of her hometown’s latest football/basketball/hockey/baseball/(insert latest new sport here) victory or defeat. She didn’t like how it brought out the ugly tribalistic aspects of humanity that were always lurking just under the surface. 

She DID love the shirt though.

It was a sparkly number – covered in cobalt blue sequins with the words GAME DAY spelled out in blocky iridescent-sequined letters across the front. She’d always had a weakness for things that sparkled. Like a magpie. And this shirt was displayed front and center in a large sunny window facing Winston Avenue.  

“I want that,” she said to her boyfriend, Phil, who was appropriately perplexed by her proclamation. Sure, he knew her love of sequins. She made it well-known. But he also knew that that love was outweighed by her deep disdain for sports. 

“Wouldn’t you rather have a sparkly sequin shirt you’d, I don’t know, actually wear?”

“Oh, no,” she flashed him a Machiavellian smile. “No. I’d totally wear that.”

“You’d wear that,” he pointed at it. “The blue one. Right there.”

“Yep.”

“The one that says Game Day on it.”

“Yep.”

“When? When are you going to wear that?”

“Every time we go to the bar and there’s a game on. From now on, I’m going to be part of it,” Annika said, looking over her shoulder at him as she pushed her way into the store. “I’m going to play their game!”

Phil rolled his eyes but didn’t protest any further. This was not his first rodeo. As Annika inquired of the saleswoman the price of the shirt and then proclaimed that she would take it, he was well aware that it wouldn’t be his last. These escapades were just a part of her fabric. He knew that going in. 

“You don’t even want to try it on?” he asked, to which Annika rolled her eyes, pulled out her credit card, and handed it to the woman whose name tag said CHERISE and whose hair was the color of a manila envelope. Cherise deposited the shirt into a clear plastic bag which delighted Annika. “People will be able to see it!” she squealed happily, which caused Phil’s heart to trip over itself. He dragged his hand affectionately down the curve of her spine. 

As they exited the store and walked up Winston Avenue, she clutched the now bagged shirt to her chest like a suckling sequined blue baby. She suddenly stopped and flashed him a smile again. It was the one that said either, ‘I love you, Phil,’ or ‘shit’s about to get real, buddy’. Even after nearly a decade, he still couldn’t tell. He had to admit, it was part of what made her so interesting. 

“I’m ready to suit up,” she suddenly said. 

“Now?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Well, I mean, not right NOW. Not right this minute here on the street,” she held up the bagged shirt up to the sky Lion King-style and widened her eyes as she stared at it in the sunlight. “But we could go to McDonald’s and I could change there,” she said in a dreamy voice without taking her eyes off the shirt.

“You think that’s a good idea?”

“No,” she glanced back at him. “I think it’s a GREAT idea,” she grabbed his hand and guided him toward the Sixth Street Mickey D’s. “Let’s go.”

When she exited the women’s room, he had to admit that the shirt, though ridiculous, looked great on her. The coldness of the blue danced gracefully off her Swedish features – pale milky skin, icy blue eyes, and bright blond hair that bordered on white. (Phil once joked that she would have been Hitler’s wet dream – which she said was not really a joke at all.) Plus, the shirt was cut so that it accentuated her delicate shoulders and well-defined collarbone – both of which endeared her to him. 

“Wow,” he said. “I gotta say, that looks amazing on you.” 

“Thanks, Bunny,” she said, resorting to her pet name for him.

“So where should we go?” he said, taking her hand and feeling strangely possessive of her. “Delaney’s?”

“Nah,” she said. “We know too many people there. They’ll know I’m an imposter.” She adjusted the shirt, pulling it this way and that until it was exactly where she wanted it. “I’m thinking B-Dubs.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep.”

“Buffalo Wild Wings?”

“Yep.”

“I thought you hated it there.”

“I do. I mean, I did. Annika did.” She paused. “But Casey loves it.”

He looked her straight in the eye. “Casey.”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re Casey, I’m assuming.”

She nodded. “Fuckin’-a, man.”

“That’s delightful.” 

“But you can call me Game Day Chick,” she said, lowering the register of her voice. “Now let’s take this show to B-Dubs, babe,” she said with a husky voice, punching him in the arm. 

Phil was hopeful that this latest game of hers wouldn’t end up playing out the way some of the others had; that it would be more like the most recent time when she decided that ‘from now on, I’m going to wear all my clothes backward’ lasted all of three days and with no ill effects – barring the occasional questioning of her sanity. And frankly, Phil felt that Annika liked that aspect.

Whatever the case, their tenure at B-Dubs began pleasantly enough. While Phil sat at the bar, Game Day Chick Casey started making the rounds and picking up new friends. Going against her natural inclination, she made frivolous statements that held nothing of substance or controversy but still seemed to give her pleasure. She exclaimed things like “Get that first down!” and “Intercept, you son of a bitch!” without knowing exactly what she was saying. The patrons showered her with compliments on her shirt. One went so far as to call her a saint – though he was drunk so his credibility was at stake. (This was further compounded by his claims to be from Alpha Centauri.) 

Two hours into their time at B-Dubs, however, things began to shift. Phil ordered his third beer – a stout that tasted too dark and somehow wrong. And he could tell that Annika was growing weary of the Game Day Chick act. She was staring blankly at a guy who was explaining football stats and how he liked to hold his children by the ankles and turn them upside down.

“That’s great,” she said, yawning, then patting him on the back. Just an hour before, she and this very same man had been zealously cheering on the Ohio State football team  – a group of people with whom Annika had no affiliation whatsoever. “It really is. But I’m getting tired, ya know? So I think I’m gonna split.” 

“Tired!? Seriously!?” he stared at her, mouth agape. “The Buckeyes are about to take this!” 

“Yes,” she nodded. “And I’m sure they’re very excited about that.”

“Hell yeah, they’re excited! I mean, come on! This is for the playoffs!”

“Hmmmmm,” she smiled, twirling her blond hair in her fingers. “Yeah. I just don’t care.”

“Whatdya mean, you don’t care? I thought you were totally into this! Where’s your spirit?”

“I’m guessing somewhere in Columbus,” she smiled politely. “Thanks for the education today. It was nice to meet you.”

Annika walked away from the man, leaving him standing there dumbfounded as she made her way over to Phil at the bar who was finishing a drawing. Second to drinking beer, this was his favorite bar pastime. 

She crawled into the chair next to him and sighed.

“How’s it going?”

She picked at the sequins on her sleeve. “That wasn’t as much fun as I thought it would be.”

“No?”

“I thought the sports fans would all suck.”

“But they didn’t?”

“Nope,” she shook her head. “They were okay, actually. Could it be I’m getting boring?”

“Seems unlikely,” he said, though hoping it was at least a little true. 

Annika sat up taller and stretched. “Can you do me a favor, Phil?”

“Anything.”

“From now on,” she began, “when I’m conjuring up bizarre ideas and plans, just go ahead and stop me. Okay?”

He smiled at her, putting the finishing touches on his drawing. He had perfectly captured the smile and the glint in the eye of this woman who loved to play games. He was having a little difficulty capturing the sparkle in the GAME DAY letters though. “Yeah. Okay,” he said, recognizing now just how appropriate her shirt was. “From now on, I’ll do that.”

*(modified excerpts from The Wife by Meg Wolitzer)