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“Can I give her some in a bowl, instead?”
She shook her head. “Not today. She hasn’t been eating much lately, so I want to make sure she’s not filling up on junk.”
“Is she okay?”
“She’s fine.” Abby ruffled his hair. “We have a vet appointment next week to double check, but I think the heat is bothering her more than usual.”
Scott picked Dylan up from school on Monday and Abby brought his small duffel bag home that night when she joined them for dinner. Quiet through the meal, she wasn’t sure how to handle the loss, but Dylan defused the awkward silence, filling it with a running commentary of their weekend’s activities.
“... and then I told him we went out for ice cream after the game because we were being... definite...”
Abby laughed. “Defiant.”
“Yeah, defy-nant.” Dylan shoved another forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth, then continued around the bite, “Don’t worry, Dad. We got your back.”
The corners of Scott’s mouth twitched upwards, and with a heavy breath, he shook the loss from his shoulders. “Well, I appreciate it. And please don’t talk with your mouth full.”
Under the table, he reached for Abby’s hand and squeezed her fingers.
Thursday afternoon, Abby picked Dylan up from school for another long weekend at her place. Scott and the team had headed out that morning for San Francisco and Abby had called him before the flight to wish him luck.
“We’re ready,” he’d told her, adamant.
“Play your best; that’s enough.”
Sunday afternoon Abby and Dylan huddled in front of her small television, wearing their Raptors jerseys.
After a long drive down the field, they had to settle for a field goal. Abby made popcorn and Dylan practiced balancing kernels on the end of Gen’s nose during the commercials. When he’d realized how much food training was an integral part of Gen’s routine, Dylan had embraced the new dynamic and taken it upon himself to “help” her.
If she left the popcorn, he’d take it from her nose, pop it in his mouth, and offer her a small piece of kibble in return. When she didn’t manage to resist the temptation, he followed Abby’s instructions to “cover” the food when it fell to the floor, preventing Gen from positively reinforcing her own disobedience. After a few rounds, she ignored the popcorn every time.
By half-time, the 49ers and Raptors had battled up and down the field but only scored nine points between them: one field goal for the home team and two for the visiting team. Both would have to adjust.
When the 49ers received the ball to open the third quarter, they scored a touchdown in less than two minutes. Under pressure to respond, the Raptor offense took the field, but a quick three-and-out later, the 49’ers were in control again. They pushed down the field and into the red zone. A last-ditch defensive effort, led by a big stop from Jimmy, held them to only three points, but they’d widened the gap to a two-score game.
Scott took the field with his offense, but their struggles led to a third and eight. Scott flicked a pass to Finn, who dove toward the line, and the chains came out.
“Fourth and inches,” Abby said as the television posted the same in a strip along the bottom of the screen.
“They should go for it,” Dylan declared.
“Seems early, still.”
“Yeah, but if they turn it over and San Francisco scores, they’ll have to dig out of a seventeen-point hole.”
Seconds later, Scott went under center. Dylan had been right.
Abby mulled it over as she kept one eye on the television and one on the boy. He never missed his dad’s games, but he definitely didn’t have Scott’s passion for football. Some kids would have already been on a champion selections team by Dylan’s age, following in their father’s footsteps. Abby had always assumed because he didn’t play, he wasn’t interested. She’d been wrong. He’d grown up with this game, grown up on Scott’s lap as he watched tape, grown up on the sidelines with the kids of the other players, many of whom were on those elite teams. He’d listened to countless hours of commentary, decoded innumerable plays, slid Xs and Os around a board since he’d mastered a pinch grip at less than a year old.
“Yes. Go, Dad!” Dylan pumped his fist as Scott dove over the line and got the first down. He turned to Abby. “He’s been watching a lot of tape of Manny Patrick, the Chiefs quarterback.”
Abby nodded. “Looks like it paid off.”
A couple solid runs and some quick passes got them into the red zone, and if they pressed now, they could close the gap with a full quarter still to play.
Dylan, fingers twining in Gen’s ruff, hummed as the offense set. Then, eyes lighting up, he leaned forward. “C’mon, Dad.”
The ball snapped, Scott dropped back and turned right, passing the ball to one of his runners. The cameras and blockers slid left, following the runner, who ran out of bounds after only gaining a yard, but then...