Page 9 of Catching Our Moment

Shaw

The night before the game, I called to check in and see if everything was set for the next day.

I’d talked with Kelcie about what to expect at the stadium and arranged for a driver to pick them and the rest of our crew up.

Aaron and I had started texting regularly as he familiarized himself with my team's roster, and I was more than happy to bring him over from the dark side.

“Did you get my package?” I’d called Kelcie to check on the matching Shaw jerseys and t-shirts I’d sent.

“Is that the price of the ticket?” she teased. “We’re all supposed to be your box of groupies? Don’t you have enough of those?”

“Yeah. Yeah. But did they fit? I wanted to know what Aaron thought?—"

“Oh, Aaron has lots of thoughts. He’s been following the IR list and all the latest films from the last few games. He has lots and lots of thoughts.”

I guffawed. “About me?”

“You. Your QB, your defensive line… I told him he couldn’t have your cell number because you were on electronic lockdown to avoid press and focus on the game.”

“You lied to your son?” I produced the most pathetic pearl-clutching gasp I could manage. “Shame on you, Kelcie Byron.”

“Trust me. It was in your best interest. After the game, I will buy you a beer or a six-pack, and he can break it all down for you.”

“That sounds like a plan.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Kelce, he’s what, twelve? I’ve been grilled, picked apart, and fried in the press, during interviews, and by public opinion. I’m sure I can handle it.”

“I’ll bring a box of tissues, just in case.”

“Come on…”

“Shaw, he’s Holden Hammer’s grandson. Do you really think he’d mince words about sports?

” Holden Hammer was Kelcie’s rough-around-the-edges bear of a father who’d also been my coach and mentor.

After several high school state championships, Coach Hammer had been pulled up the ranks in the college system.

He’d honed his no-nonsense approach to coaching with me.

With my father not in the picture, I had been an unfocused, misdirected lump of man-clay Coach had set out to mold into not just a player but also a decent man—just not a man decent enough for his daughter.

That had been one of Hammer’s unspoken rules—maybe his only one. His daughter was not going to get wrapped up with a football player. And that included me.

“Give him my cell.”

“Shaw—"

“I want to hear what he has to say.”

“Okay. Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she sing-songed.

“So, you all set with the driver and everything tomorrow?”

“Yeah, the gang is coming over, and we’ll leave from here.”

“Great. I’ll meet up with you all after the game. If he's up for it, I’ll send someone up to the box to get you to come down to the locker room.”

“Oh, boy. That may be too tempting for him to resist. He might be jockeying for a coaching job before we leave,” she joked. Then she sighed. “Most likely, he will be done by the second half, but we can see how it goes.”

“Okay, well, I want him to have fun, so whatever it takes.”

“Thanks, Dawson. Seriously. We’ve been looking forward to this.”

“Wow, pulling out the first name. I can’t remember the last time anyone called me Dawson.”

She was quiet, and I kicked myself. She was one of the few people who’d called me Dawson. It didn’t happen often, but her slight Southern drawl made it uniquely hers. Hearing it from her filled me with nostalgia.

“It’s going to feel like old times, having you at my game, cheering me on.”

She was still quiet, and I cursed myself for not FaceTiming instead of just calling on the phone. I wanted to see the expression that accompanied this unusual response.

“I’m glad you—and the rest of the gang—are coming,” I added. “I’m thrilled it will be Aaron’s first game.” I paused because I wanted her to know what reconnecting meant to me. “But seriously, Kelce, I didn’t think I’d ever see you again in the stands, rooting for me. So, thank you.”

“I’ve always been rooting for you,” she said softly then added, with a lift in her voice, “After all, I was your original fan.”

“I guess you were.”

“Anyway, we will see you tomorrow. And you know…” She lowered her voice and whispered into the phone, “Kick some ass.”

“Absolutely.” I stared at the phone in my hand, failing to control the excitement growing inside me. Because while I knew I’d eventually make it to the Super Bowl, I wasn’t so sure that I’d ever get Kelcie at one of my games.

* * *

“Shaw, my man, what’s up with you and that goofy-ass smile on your face?

Was that Riley? Did she tell you how much she l-o-v-e-s you?

” Davy Johnson, the team’s veteran running back and my pain-in-the-ass friend, was making kissy noises and puckering up in my face—not many men were brave enough to do that—as I walked into the trainer’s area in the locker room on game day.

“Cut it out, man,” I said half-heartedly, my mind on my guests in the skybox, settling in for the game.

Honestly, even with my girlfriend, Riley, or anyone else, I never got nervous or excited before a game. But today… “I just got off the phone with Kelcie, setting things up for her and her son. Good call on the skybox.”

Davy nodded once, knowingly. “Glad it worked out. We used to have to do it when my nephew came to watch. Even then, getting through the crowds was rough, and some days, he just wasn’t up for it.”

I nodded. I was feeling entirely out of my depth. I wasn’t even a father, so how would I have any experience with helping a child on the spectrum deal with challenging environments?

“You are more skittish than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs,” Davy said when we both were laid out on the trainer’s table, getting our ankles taped before the game.

I cracked my knuckles and shook out my hands. Mo, my favorite trainer, stared at me with impatience in her eyes and a scolding tone. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not my fault you’re running late.”

I grimaced. “I know. Sorry.”

“Is everyone settled?” Davy asked, leaning back on the table.

I shifted so the trainer could tape my foot.

“I got Aaron and Kelcie matching jerseys—well, I got the whole crew jerseys. When I called to check on them, Aaron was watching game footage in the box, waiting for the game to start, and eating French fries.” I cracked my knuckles again.

“Kelcie didn’t think it was a good idea for me to see them before the game. ”

“Too much stimulation for the kid?”

“No. She was afraid he’d mess with my mojo. She said he would pick apart my game and get in my head.” I shrugged.

Davy stared at me, bemused. “What? He’s just a kid.”

I shook my head. “I know, but that’s what she said. And trust me, if he’s anything like her or her dad, his filter will be nonexistent when they are talking football. Kelcie’s nickname in high school was Sergeant for a reason. She made guys cry before they made it off the field.”

“Dang. And you had a thing for this girl?”

I shrugged, and the routine response came easily. “We were just friends,” I said, studying the trainer's work on my foot.

“You never?—”

“Nope. Nothing.”

“You ever think about it?”

I stood up, refusing to discuss this with him. “We were kids. It was a lifetime ago.”

“Yeah, you thought about it,” Davy said, and I heard the smile in his tone as I walked away to get dressed for warm-ups.

As I made my way to the field to stretch for the pre-game, I looked up. There wasn’t anyone in the seats, and the sliding door to the interior of the box was closed. Kelce told me they would sit inside and allow Aaron to acclimate. I wished I had seen the matching jerseys…

It’d been so long since she’d worn a jersey of mine.

It had been a long-held tradition that she was the only girl who ever got to wear my high school and college jersey until my number had been licensed and sold to the public.

Then, I lost all control of who could buy it.

But I never gave another woman a jersey of mine to wear. Only Kelcie.

I’d lost girlfriends over that. I could give them my sweatshirt, jacket, whatever, but the minute they started to demand the jersey…well, it was an issue.

When we first started dating, Riley wore my jersey to the first game.

But once she was invited to sit with the WAGS (wives and girlfriends), that stopped.

She said she wanted to look her best for me, not like just another fan.

I think it had more to do with the fact that the camera occasionally cut to the WAGs' suite when one of us made an amazing play, and Riley always wanted to stand out.

As I stretched out my calves, my mind wandered back to that skybox and the day we’d first met during the first high school football practice.

Kelcie ran the warm-ups and did stretches with the guys like a boss. Half the size of most of the boys on the team, she demanded their undivided attention and their submission.

I walked on the field with Tyler as the new kid in town. Tall and thin enough to be blown over in a summer storm, I had enough trouble walking with my disproportionately large feet, let alone running drills, without tripping.

I shifted into lunges as I smiled at the memory of her yelling at me when I wasn’t doing a stretch correctly, singling me out, and the heat on my face hadn’t been from the summer sun.

I snuck another peek up to the box.

Did she ever watch the games when she was with James? Did he really make it an issue? Screw him. I wish I could put her on the Jumbotron in my jersey and send a photo to him.

I stopped stretching and stared at the Jumbotron above me, thinking about the possibilities. I bet Wyatt—our enigmatic techie friend—could manage it.

A groan escaped me as I lowered myself to the ground to stretch my legs, back, and hamstrings.

Jeez, since when did I start groaning like an old man? I attempted to turn it into a growl. It was weak.

Please, God, don’t let the rookies hear me.

“Need some Bengay over there, Shaw?” Our first-round draft had the balls to poke at me.

“Did they make sure your diaper was secure for when the Baltimore defense makes you shit yourself, Thomas?” I shot back, not even looking up at him.

This led to other jabs and taunts among the players, and I phased out of it. When I stood, I stared up at the skybox again then swung my arms out to stretch my shoulders.

“Hey, did Riley make the trip up here with you?” Lance, a young safety, had a not-so-discreet crush on my girlfriend. Most of the male population was envious of my life and the drop-dead gorgeous girlfriend who’d moved in with me.

“Where is Riley?”

“Hey, Shaw, is Riley with you?”

The questions came at me all the time. I was a serial monogamous, one-woman man. If there was a commitment, I upheld it. I never bought a ring or came close, but I’d met some good women who’d tried to persuade me.

“Yeah, she came up for the game.” I pointed my finger at him, half-joking. “So don’t make an ass of yourself.”

After completing stretches and running to warm up, we disappeared into the locker room for final instructions and to mentally prepare. Some guys needed to get in the zone—meditate, use positive imagery, listen to loud pounding music, joke around, or do whatever it took to focus us.

As for me, I switched on my music, adjusted my headphones, leaned back in the chair by my locker, and closed my eyes.

I pictured the plays, reaching for the ball, running the ball, blocking the opponents, engaging my body, and pushing them back.

I imagined the power in my legs and the weight in their blocks and called on my body—getting old with use and abuse—to do right by me today.

A tap on my shoulder pulled me out of it, and I slid the earphones down to my shoulders. "It's time. Let’s go.”

Time to earn my paycheck.