“Frozen Field, Unshakable Love: How Simone Biles Is Redefining What It Means to Support an NFL Husband”

The camera flashed, a quick pan across the VIP section. There I was, a smudge of cobalt blue against the gray December chill of Soldier Field. The headline the next day would read: “Simone Biles stuns in custom fur coat supporting husband Jonathan Owens at Bears game.” They saw the outfit. They always see the outfit. A custom piece, his name, “OWWENS,” and his number, “34,” embroidered proudly. They call it a fashion moment. They don’t know it’s my armor.

This narrative isn’t about football. Not really. It’s about the quiet, heart-thumping reality behind the glamorous snapshot. It’s about the part of “support” you never see on the highlight reel.

Let me take you behind the filter. The support starts long before the coat goes on. It’s in the eerie silence of a hotel room on a Saturday night, the kind of quiet that’s heavy with anticipation. He’s at team meetings. The room service tray sits untouched. My phone is face-down. I’ve learned the delicate dance of being present but not demanding, of sending a “thinking of you” text that’s light enough not to add pressure, but loaded enough to say, “I’m your anchor.” There’s a fear that lives in the pit of your stomach on these nights—not a fear of losing, but a fear of the emotional toll a loss takes on the man you love. You learn to absorb the atmospheric pressure of the coming game so he has one less ounce to carry.

Gameday morning is a ritual of quiet energy. The coat, the outfit—it’s not a performance for the crowd. It’s a deliberate, tangible signal to him. When he looks up into those blinding stadium lights and countless anonymous faces, he needs to find one fixed point. A spot of familiar, unwavering color. That cobalt blue is my flare. It screams, “I am here. Only for you.” In a world where he is literally a numbered asset, I wear his name to remind him he’s a person, a beloved man, first.

Then comes the cold. Oh, the cold. The Chicago cold doesn’t care about your custom coat. It needles through the fur, turns your toes to ice, and paints your cheeks scarlet. You sit there for hours. Every brutal hit he takes on that field reverberates in your own bones. You don’t jump and scream at every play; sometimes you just… stop breathing. You master the art of the clenched smile, the steady applause when inside you’re pleading, “Please get up. Please be okay.” The coat becomes a blanket, a shelter against the elements and the emotional storm. You are both utterly surrounded by 60,000 people and completely alone in your own private vigil.

And this is the real, unglamorous truth: supporting him isn’t about being seen. It’s about being a witness. It’s about being the living memory of his journey. When the world celebrates his interception, I remember the grueling rehab of a year ago. When they critique a missed tackle, I’m the one who holds the man, not the player. The photos on social media? They’re not just #gamedayfits. They are visual receipts for our future selves. A document to say, “We were here. We did this. Together.”

When the final whistle blows, my job shifts. Win or lose, I have to read his eyes from 100 yards away. The victory celebration is easy—the pure, unadulterated joy is a wave you ride together. But the losses… the losses are where the silent promise of the coat is truly tested. It’s about saying nothing. It’s about the car ride home where the silence isn’t empty, but full of understanding. It’s about creating a space where he can shed the athlete and just be a human who is disappointed, tired, and vulnerable.

So, yes, they see a fur coat. They see a “WAG” (Wives and Girlfriends). They see a social media post.

But now you know the rest.

You know it’s a uniform. You know the cold is more than physical. You know that wearing his name is the easiest part—carrying his heart, his fears, and his dreams is the real weight. It’s a choice to stand in the freezing rain of uncertainty, the blizzard of public opinion, and the deep chill of anxiety, and still be that fixed point of color in the stands.

It’s not clickbait. It’s my life. And I’d choose it, and him, a thousand times over, no matter how cold it gets.