Big Shot | ✓

bonus 01 | draft night

I had always figured that at some point in my career there was a possibility I would be at the NFL draft. Even as someone who did media for college football, you followed those college players up until the very moment their name gets called, and they make the transition from college to professional.

I just didn't think my first time at the draft would be sitting beside the widely assumed number one overall pick for 2024, whose knee was bobbing up and down restlessly under our table as if he didn't know that fact himself.

"Hey," I rested my hand gently on his knee, and it stopped. "I know you're nervous, but I feel compelled to remind you that there's pretty much a camera on you at all times."

"Somehow that makes me feel worse," he grumbled, propping his chin in his hand as he balanced his elbow on the deep red tablecloth draped over our table. 

The first day of the draft was the NFL's version of the Met Gala. It was a nationally televised, highly publicized event, and there was a hyper-fixation on what everyone was wearing, who they brought with them, what kind of watch they had on, what they smelled like, etc etc etc. A hyper-fixation I was far too aware of, but now almost desperate to take it in stride.

Maybe that was why I ended up wearing a gleaming silver halter gown, and a pair of sky-high rhinestone-studded Louboutin heels that Reid had gifted me. Instead of hiding from misogynistic media outlets, I was practically begging them to come and find me now - and make sure they knew I was far more stylish than they were. 

Reid, being Reid, wanted to keep his attire classy and simple, but JJ and I had strong-armed him into being a little flirty with higher fashion (and decidedly not something from the clearance section at Macy's). The end result was a deep navy suit (because all shades of blue look best on him), and instead of double-breasted buttons, there was a shining silver zipper off-center, along with a silver pocket square to tie into my dress.

We couldn't get him to wear rhinestone-studded Louboutins that matched mine, but alas, baby steps. He looked as effortlessly ethereal as he always did, and I kept my hand resting on his knee, lacing my fingers between his.

In the football world, projecting all 32 first round draft picks and what order they would be drafted in (and by extension which team they'd go to) was equal parts art and science. It was a series of calculated guesses based on player skill level as well as the needs of each team. For example, if the Jets - who owned the first overall pick - didn't need a quarterback, Reid might not be taken first overall. But they desperately did, so it wasn't that outlandish to assume the best quarterback in the draft would be drafted by the Jets.

That's my fucking boyfriend, thank you very much.

Based on those calculated guesses, a good handful of those projected first round players and their families were invited to the draft at Radio City Music Hall and had their own tables to sit at, so they could wear their stylish suits as they walked across the stage after their name was called, hug the NFL commissioner as was customary, hold the jersey of their new team up for photos, then celebrate with their family afterwards. For a lot of guys, this one night changed their life forever. 

Fans were allowed to attend and sit up in the stands, and they grouped them off by team - so all the crazed New York Jets fans in their emerald green jerseys and their face paint, anxiously waiting for the crowning of their new monarch. It was that much worse because we were in New York.

JJ didn't sit with us, but it was easy to spot him across the crowd of fellow draft picks and their families in his baby pink suit and big Prada sunglasses, his mom and his younger brother at his table beside him.