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Abby finished reading the letter, took a shuddering breath, then slid the last envelope across the counter toward her. She turned it over in her hands, puzzling, then slit the flap.
Sliding the thick cardboard rectangle out, her fingers spasmed as her brain processed the fancy, holographic stamp adorning one corner. It reflected a rainbow of blues and greens, but her eyes were drawn to the graphic stretching from the barcode at the top all the way to the series of letters and numbers beginning about two-thirds of the way down: the Vince Lombardi trophy, silver and sleek, topping the Roman numerals of this year’s game.
Thirty-Six
“SHE’S FINE, I promise. Go, enjoy the game.”
Abby allowed the lock of hair twisted around her finger to uncurl before picking it up and winding it again. “But you’ll call me...”
“No. Absolutely not,” Cara deadpanned. “I’m an irresponsible friend and, although this is the second time in the last month I’ve stayed with Gen while you went out of town to a fancy football game, I will definitely fail to call you if there is an emergency.”
“Cara...”
“Abby. Quit stalling. I’ll call you if something happens. Right now, your job is to get in there and cheer for Scott and the Raptors loud enough for the entire pediatric unit. Now, get going, before you miss kickoff.”
“Okay, okay. I’m going. Kiss Gen for me.”
Abby hung up, checked her watch, glanced in the rear-view mirror, flipped her hair behind her shoulder, and straightened the black and silver jersey she wore. Smoothing her hands over the latex numerals, her sweaty palms caught and dragged at the material. She twitched the hem, then shook her head.
Cara was right. She could stall all day and miss the biggest game of the year, the biggest game of Scott’s career, or she could catch her courage with both hands.
He wants me here, she reminded herself.
A press of people surrounded her as she approached the stadium entrance, the weak, winter sun filtering through a few, high clouds, enough to bring the temperature into the low fifties, but no higher. Pawing through her bag as she approached the security checkpoint, she pulled out a black knit hat with a grayish-silver pompom and the Raptors name and logo.
She’d bought it a few days after receiving Scott’s letter, when she’d realized she’d need a few more layers if she wanted to stay warm in Charlotte. She hadn’t been sure, up to that point, if she’d go, but it had caught her eye in an ad column to the side of an article she’d been reading about some holistic care options for Gen, and before she’d thought it through, she’d clicked on it.
Wearing it, along with her jersey, dark jeans, and warm boots, she blended in with the crowds around her. Not the girlfriend, not the distraction, not the basket-case or the dog-lady. Another fan, one of many.
Remembering the easy way Dylan had threaded through the crowds and led her straight to their seats at their first game together, Abby lifted her chin the slightest degree higher, borrowing some of his confidence and letting her eyes flash over each numbered tunnel.
As she neared the right section, the hot, steamy scent of salt and starch billowed out from one of the food counters. Her feet turning without her conscious permission, she smiled. She’d been so worried the first time Dylan ran off to get something to eat, but he’d been fine, and he’d returned with enough garlic fries to share. After that, they’d always made time to stop and grab some before kickoff.
Until Lindsay came along and ruined things.
Abby shook her head. Lindsay had lost; what she thought didn’t matter anymore, and maybe next season she and Dylan could continue their tradition...
She stopped herself. She didn’t want to assume. She couldn’t afford to get her hopes up, yet. Still, as the line creeped forward and she reached the counter, she ordered two plates of the garlic fries. She had no one to share them with, but she’d think of Dylan, somewhere in this vast stadium, as she ate them.
Food in hand, she made her way through the crowds to the tunnel with her section number above it. Hawkers brushed elbows with fans as they made their way up and down the stairs, shouting their snacks and drinks and stopping all forward progress as they made a sale. A typical football game, but times about a million with an excitement—a tension—absolutely unlike anything she’d ever experienced before.
With only a few more rows to go, her feet stuttered beneath her. There, below her and a couple of seats in, she recognized a familiar Raptors jersey, glittering script covering the W across the shoulders, and, to the right, a head of brown hair as dear to her as Gen’s fluffy black fur.
And then an empty seat.
“Hey, c’mon, keep moving.”
The person behind her gave her a bump, propelling her forward a few more steps. Even with their row, she froze, wondering if she had time to ease back and away before they noticed her.
She crowded the knees of the person at the end, letting the obnoxious pusher past, then turned, foot hitting the first step. She’d climb back up to the last tunnel and watch from there.
“Abby?” Dylan jumped to his feet, threw his arms out and leapt over the three people between them before she could edge her way against the flow of traffic. “Abby, you came!”
“Oof. Easy, there, Dylan. I’m going to drop something.”
“You brought me fries.” He turned to Kelly, who swiped at her eyes. “Look,shebroughtmefries.”
“C’mon Dylan, let’s go sit down, okay?” Abby nudged him along with her knee, smiling an apology at the people whose space they’d invaded.