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“Kelly and I planned to come. I didn’t want to bail on her.”
“Planned? When?”
She bit her lip. She didn’t want to make this worse, didn’t know how to do that, except to say nothing. But a few players had slowed in the hall, edging around Finn and Kelly, then, scenting drama about to unfold, stopping outright. “I bought the tickets Monday morning.”
He flinched, and his thoughts flickered across his face.Monday morning. And by Monday night, it was over.“I... see.”
The silence stretched again, tense, anxious, but without any entertainment factor, the men in the hall began easing their way onward, toward the team busses that would take them back to the airport.
“You, um, played good. Well. You played well. Your throw right at the beginning of the third? Beautiful.”
He nodded. “Thanks.”
For a moment, his eyes lit up, and Abby reveled in the rightness of it. His love of the game. His joy in sharing it with her.
Then, they shuttered again.
Accepting the inevitable, though it tore her apart to do so, Abby forced a smile to her lips. “Congrats. Super Bowl. That’s... amazing.”
He nodded, then turned as another wave of men went by. “I should go.”
“Yeah. No, I know.”
Another moment passed as they locked eyes, and the weight of the things between them suffocated her, sucking the very air from her lungs. Then, his gaze slid from hers, and, following it, he moved away, down the hall, after his teammates.
“Scott?” Her voice threatened to break.
He paused, glancing over his shoulder.
“Good luck. Wednesday. I hope...” Her throat closed and she couldn’t force another word through.
“Me too.”
Then, he’d disappeared. A moment later, Kelly stepped up beside her, Finn following his quarterback out of Abby’s life.
“Okay, girl. Now we drink. And you tell me what the hell happened. And we figure out how to fix it.”
For a moment, Abby actually considered it. It wouldn’t take much alcohol to dull the keen edge of her pain. But no, she couldn’t do that.
“You drink, I’ll drive.”
“You talk.”
Mute, Abby nodded.
Thirty-Four
THE VICTORY ON Sunday was a million miles—or ninety-nine and a half yards—away as Scott sat in the courtroom on Wednesday morning. Hoping to capture at least the essence of a win, he’d opted to wear his college championship ring, a gaudy thing, larger than his knuckle, but the weight of it on his second finger grounded him. It also gave him something to do with his hands other than wring them in his lap. Twisting the band, he rubbed his thumb over the face, a stylized version of his college mascot, rough with detail against the smooth stone behind.
Dylan sat in the front row, a single paper shaking in his hands, his statement for the judge asking to remain with his father. He’d written it with the guardianad litem, who sat on one side, Lauren on his other.
Scott sat next to Mark, a file of papers before them, but the small table otherwise bare.
A side door opened, and Lindsay swept in, but not alone, as Scott had expected. Dr. Ferndale, the psychologist, accompanied her.
She crossed the aisle, the staccato click of her heels echoing in the chamber, knelt before Dylan, and brushed some hair from his forehead.
“Oh, darling, I’m so sorry I missed our Christmas together.” She paused, as if noticing the guardian beside her son for the first time. “Things will be different next year.”