The Cheerleader // Rob Gronkowski

t w e n t y - s e v e n

"Let's go Patriots!" I yelled, shaking the shiny red pom in my left hand at the crowd. There were 25 seconds left the Super Bowl, and we were down by 8 points. "I will not lose this game to the fucking Falcons," I muttered through my teeth, a smile plastered on my glossy red lips.

I turned back around to face my team, "Let's put up a stunt. I need to get my mind off of this game." We set up in our individual stunt groups, and I counted off; we popped the flyers up into a basic stunt, and led the crowd in a chant with signs - "Let's! Go! Patriots!" As we prepared to bump down, the stadium erupted into a mass of screams. I set my flyer safely on the ground, and then whipped around to see what had happened on the field. One of the cornerbacks was flying down the field, carrying the football. A graphic appeared on the massive JumboTron - 'Interception!' He was tackled, and Tom took over at the Atlanta 15-yard line. "Holy sh-" I screamed, before clapping a pom over my mouth to muffle the profanity.

Tiffany squeezed my arm tightly as we both jumped up and down in excitement. At this point, I could have cared less that we were neglecting our duties in cheering to the crowd. I was going watch the end of this game.

First down. 12 seconds left. A running attempt failed.

Second-and-eight. 8 seconds. Dropped pass at the 1 yard line.

"I can't look," I moaned, and buried my head in my arms, waiting for the defeated groan of the crowd. But it didn't come. A deafening scream came from all around me, and I slowly looked up to see 'Touchdown!' emblazoned on the screen.

Time started to move slowly. We had 3 seconds left to make up a 2 point deficit, and we had to make the 2-point conversion. We had to. My stomach turned itself into a knotted disaster, and my knees felt like they would give out. I watched the guys line up for the 2-point attempt as if I was watching from another planet. The ball left Tom's hand excruciatingly slow, and my heart dropped as it fell towards a sea of Falcons players. Everyone collapsed into a pile.

And then, as the men climbed off of each other, a Patriots player lay at the bottom of the pile. He held the football up. We did it.

I honestly couldn't explain what was going through my mind in that moment. All I remember is being attacked by my teammates in the most massive group hug, which was probably a good thing as I don't think my legs would have supported me. And as the hug slowly dispersed, I processed the number on the jersey of our savior. #87. Rob. My Rob. I sprinted out to the field, not caring about the swarms of photographers and players and coaches and spectators. I pushed through and jumped onto him, all 6 feet and 6 inches of him.

He held me for what felt like eternity, and the world around us seemed to stop. I was crying, and I think he was too. "I love you so fucking much," I mumbled into his shoulder pad.

"God I love you," he responded.

Finally, I released him, and he threw on his championship T-shirt, placing his baseball cap on my head. It fell to my eyebrows, clearly too large, but I could have cared less at that moment. We were swarmed by photographers and teammates.

"Hannah," I heard from next to me, and turned to face Rob. He just stood there, looking at me, before slowly taking a knee right there on the confetti-covered turf. "Hannah Rose, this is the happiest moment of my life, but having you at my side just makes it so much better. Would you make me truly the happiest man alive and marry me?" He pulled a diamond ring out from behind his back.

My hands covered my mouth, and it took all my effort to find the ability to speak, "Yes, yes, yes, a thousand times yes!"

Cheers erupted from around us as he stood up and hugged me one more time, "That was scarier than watching that pass come towards me."

I laughed, "You're an idiot."

"I'm your idiot."