The large-screen television was already on, waiting for the game to start, when Willy and his wife, Randi, arrived at the party. Once, this day had meant something — a major event, people milling around the room with genuine excitement, conversations overlapping, laughter and camaraderie in abundance. Someone handed him a glass of good Cabernet without asking, and he took it out of habit.

Tonight, though, Willy’s heart wasn’t in it.

He carried the wine to a chair near the edge of the room, unwilling to work himself up for the gathering of friends. His team, the Buffalo Bills, wasn’t in the game, despite predictions earlier in the year. They had been robbed by an officiating mistake in overtime against the Denver Broncos. Everyone knew it was a mistake. It wasn’t overturned. The Broncos went on to the AFC Championship, and the Bills were left with nothing but the replay.

Worse, the two teams playing meant nothing to him. He didn’t care who won. He had tried to beg off coming to the party, but Randi had her heart set on it. She came for the friendships, the conversations, the comfort of being among people — things that had never ranked very high on Willy’s list.

The smell of buffalo wings and sizzling burgers drifted through the house. Sandwiches, chips, and dips crowded a table nearby. Willy didn’t bother lining up for food. Food meant conversation. Conversation meant jokes about the game, about the Bills, about next year.

Loud laughter erupted somewhere behind him, and it irritated him more than it should have. He knew he shouldn’t be here with this attitude, but he couldn’t shake the weight of disappointment. He lived and breathed — perhaps unnaturally — for his team. The referee’s mistake had been a cruel one for a franchise that had never won a Super Bowl.

As if that weren’t enough, the Bills fired their coach the next day. Another rebuild. Another “fresh start.” Another reason to believe they wouldn’t be here next year either. Time was ticking on their All-Pro quarterback.

Once, parties like this had been all the rage. He remembered knowing everyone’s name, remembering who was married to whom, caring who was winning. Back then, the game provided real entertainment. Now it felt like an excuse, a reason people gave themselves to stand in the same room drinking and laughing too loudly.

Donnie came up to him to sell squares on the board they had created just for the event.

“Five dollars a square,” Donnie said.

Willy handed him a ten-dollar bill. Donnie laughed.

“You cheap bastard,” he said. “Buy a few more.”

Willy gave him a twenty and signed four available squares. He would later discover that Donnie had already sold her twenty dollars’ worth earlier.

The television volume was low, too low for Willy to hear over the chatter and his own hearing loss. Closed captioning scrolled along the bottom of the screen, mercifully on. He read the words, but they barely registered. He fiddled with his hearing aid, adjusting it again and again, unable to find a setting that let the announcers through while shutting everything else out.

Behind him, a group was already talking about the halftime show. One woman said she was dying to see it. Willy had never heard of the performer and wondered how someone he didn’t recognize could headline a broadcast watched around the world. He was certain it would be music he didn’t like, which only deepened his indifference.

Another woman said she was only watching for the commercials. Willy had read that a single minute of advertising would cost fourteen million dollars. No wonder everything cost so damn much if companies could afford that kind of budget.

Randi came over and rested a hand on his shoulder, asking if he wanted something to eat. He shook his head. With a small smile and a resigned shake of her own, she returned to the gaggle of women she’d been talking with.

When kickoff finally arrived, Willy noticed that almost no one was watching the game. They kept drinking, laughing, talking in their small circles. He was the only one paying attention — and he didn’t want to be.

Once again, he scolded himself for the blues he couldn’t seem to shake. Nobody should be this invested in a game. He knew that.

Knowing it, however, didn’t help.

Greg came over and sat beside him. Greg wasn’t particularly happy either; his team, the San Francisco 49ers, had lost in the NFC title game. Unlike Willy, Greg laughed it off. That was partly his personality, but also because the 49ers had already won five Super Bowls. It was easier to shrug off disappointment when your team had a history of success.

Greg never stopped talking. Even if Willy had been in a better mood, he would have found it irritating the way Greg never paused long enough to see if anyone else wanted to speak. Willy excused himself, saying he was going to get something to eat and asking if Greg wanted anything. Greg declined.

Willy took his time dressing a burger, keeping an eye on his chair. When he saw Greg wander off in search of another conversation and more wine, he returned to his seat. Only then did he realize he hadn’t taken a single sip of his own wine.

Gradually, a few guests began to watch the game, drifting in and out halfway through the first quarter. No one stayed long, just enough to see what was happening.

Then something unexpected happened.

At the end of the first quarter, Donnie announced that Willy had won, collecting $125. Willy stood, accepted the money, thanked Donnie, and returned to his chair.

Jerry stopped by to talk about the Bills game. As a Bears fan, Jerry had no stake in it, but he wanted to commiserate. Willy didn’t. He preferred to sulk alone. He excused himself to use the bathroom, and when he returned, Jerry had moved on to a game of darts. Willy sat down alone again, just the way he liked it.

There was no scoring in the second quarter. Willy was thinking about how boring the game was when Donnie called out again.

“Willy, you lucky stiff — you won the second quarter too.”

Willy smiled to himself. He hadn’t even realized that a scoreless quarter meant another win. He collected the money, thanked his friends for donating, and went back to his seat.

When the halftime show began, Willy remembered immediately that he wanted no part of it. The women crowded in to watch the heartthrob performer, so Willy stepped outside. Nearly all the men joined him, except for Justin, who stayed behind. Willy knew Justin would be ribbed mercilessly once the game resumed.

The men joked about Justin watching, agreeing he was only there because his wife told him to be. The conversation eventually drifted back to football and, inevitably, to the fateful call in the Bills game. Willy said little, and the topic died out.

Randi eventually poked her head outside.

“The show’s over,” she said. “You boys missed a good one.”

Willy returned to his chair and noticed his untouched glass of wine. He took a sip and was surprised by how good it was. He drained half the glass in one swallow.

The second half came alive. Quarterbacks were sacked. Interceptions were thrown. The score climbed. The game tightened. When the third quarter ended, Donnie checked the board again.

“Willy,” he said, shaking his head. “You won again.”

Willy collected the money and refilled his wine glass. His mood had lifted — whether from the game, the winnings, or the wine, he wasn’t sure. Probably all three. He even joined a few conversations. Randi caught his eye and grinned. He shrugged back at her.

The fourth quarter was even better. With two minutes left, the game was tied and the Seahawks were driving. A near interception turned into a miraculous catch at the one-yard line. With seconds remaining, the field-goal unit took the field.

The snap was high. The backup quarterback caught it, lunged forward, and was swallowed by bodies. Pushed from both sides, he collapsed across the goal line as time expired. The Seahawks had won.

Everyone cheered except Jerry, who had bet on the Patriots. Donnie checked the board one last time, then looked up.

“Willy,” he said, laughing. “You hogged it. Again.”

He tossed the money onto Willy’s lap. Willy gathered it up, grinning. He was up five hundred dollars on a twenty-dollar bet.

Later, Randi said it was time to go. She insisted on driving; Willy had nearly finished the bottle.

In the car, she buckled her seat-belt and smiled.

“You seemed to really enjoy the party,” she said. “I knew you would.”

“Well,” Willy said, settling back, “it was a good game. And I won some money.”

She laughed softly and pulled away from the curb.

Willy slept all the way home.