Dearest De-

Sorry our last encounter had to end so abruptly. You know by now that my bluster is merely a front. (“Forty percent or we f—king walk.” God, I sound just like a butch version of David Geffen!) We must maintain appearances for the sake of our respective constituencies. It killed me inside to leave in a huff, but I had no choice–people in the room were becoming suspicious. Turns out it was Wellington Mara’s leg that I was rubbing my foot against underneath the table. Please don’t be jealous ;).

Oh, De, since we left each other’s side, our song has been on repeat in my head:

All day long, wearing a mask of false bravado
Trying to keep up the smile that hides a tear
But as the sun goes down
I get that empty feeling again
How I wish to God that you were here

Oh, those words are seared on my very soul. De, together there’s nothing we can’t accomplish. Remember that night in San Diego six months ago? I called you my Space Cowboy and we settled the labor impasse over three bottles of Riunite and a rotisserie chicken. But we agreed to continue with this charade of a looming strike in order to conceal a love that doth not speak its name.

Sooner or later we are going to have to tell the world that there’s a new collective bargaining agreement–and once we do, we will lose our excuse for always being seen in public. I don’t know if the accolades of saving the NFL will be worth it if we can’t be together.

I have to see you tonight, Sweet De. Don’t decertify my love. I’ll never lock you out of my heart…

Love,

Rog