Page 24

Chapter Twenty-Four

Scott

Snow covers the church and its surrounding grounds.

Brown stone, red brick and stained windows look dull under the storm clouds that circle above. Rain is coming but for now, the only sound is the bells echoing in the air.

Black cars line the road in front of the church and I kick the gravel path as I move quickly toward the front doors. I’m running late.

My shoulder is torn and I’m sitting on the sidelines. If we make it to the Super Bowl, there’s a chance I can get cleared but Coach confessed to me through the week he isn’t confident we will. The draft pick straight out of college that replaced me on the field after I got injured was good, but isn’t NFL ready. The boys held onto a lead we already had to win the game but the gap closed pretty quickly.

I was angry. I was annoyed. I hate being hurt.

But then Billy died.

Being hurt hasn’t mattered so much since I found out the news. Nothing has mattered all that much since then.

Except Ivy.

I look up at the church as I get closer to the front steps. My heart pounds in my chest and my eyes itch. I’m man enough to admit that when Coach called to tell me the news, I cried. Billy was special.

He meant a lot to the Broncos organization.

He meant a lot to Coach.

Most of all, he meant a lot to Ivy .

It kills me that I have to sit on the sidelines right now. Ivy asked for space and I have to give it to her, as much as I fucking hate the idea.

When she walked away from me in the hospital on the day my season ended, it crushed me. I don’t know where we stand right now. I don’t know if I’m someone she wants to see. To talk too.

But fuck do I want to see her, comfort her, be there for her.

There isn’t a reason on this earth that would keep me away from being at this church today. Not the shitty weather, not the fact I haven’t had a full conversation with my girlfriend in weeks—and yes, she’s still my girlfriend regardless of how she walked away from me or tried to break up with me.

I hurry up the stone steps of the church and through the heavy wood doors. People are everywhere, finding their seats. Everyone is dressed in black suits, black dresses. There isn’t a color in sight. Well, except the crisp navy and white jersey draped over the coffin in front of the altar.

Booker is in large, white letters.

A few heads turn my way but I pay them no mind. In the corner of my eye, I notice Coach standing a little out of his seat when he sees me but I don’t stop and I don’t turn to him.

My focus is on the girl sitting in the very first row. Her hair falls in loose curls down her back. I see Katie sitting next to her, body turned into her friends so that she can speak quietly into her ear. Grant, and two other elderly people are sitting on the other side of Katie.

I slow my steps as I come to the end of the aisle.

Even in her grief, she’s beautiful.

“Hey,” I say. I keep my words low, not wanting my voice to carry too far back over the crowd. I’m not here for them. I watch Ivy’s eyes close and her shoulders rise and fall as she takes a shaky breath. But she doesn’t look up or give me her eyes.

“Hi, Scott.” Katie gives me a kind smile. “Thank you for coming. ”

I only nod at her, glancing briefly at the people sitting next to Grant who are staring at me with approval in their gaze. They must be Katie’s parents.

I take the empty seat between Ivy and the edge of the pew. Our thighs press together. She’s wearing a simple dress under a coat and black stockings. On her hands, she wears black leather gloves.

My eyes don’t leave her face as I take her hands in mine and gently remove her gloves. I place them on the seat beside me and tangle my fingers with hers. Eventually, the ice cold of her skin warms up in mine. Her head turns, just a little, and her body sinks into mine. Her cheek rests gently on my shoulder and her fingers tighten around mine.

I don’t let go.

The minister that performs the service is respectful, reflecting on Billy’s life with ease and a little bit of humor. I didn’t get to know him for very long, but I think he would have kind of hated it. Billy was always smiling, always going around telling jokes and laughing. There’s not enough color in the room.

Ivy’s hands are still wrapped up tightly in mine when Coach and a few others carry Billy from the church to a Beatles song. She doesn’t make any indication that she intends to follow them out, so we stay put. Over her head, I give Katie a subtle nod and she takes my hint.

The rest of the guests follow Katie’s example and start exiting the church.

Quiet settles around us. Ivy doesn’t move.

I turn and press my lips into her hair, inhaling the rose scent of her shampoo. The arm that’s wrapped around her shoulders gently guides her to stand and turn to face me. For the first time since sitting down, our hands drop and I instantly pull her against my chest. My arms wrap tightly around her and she sags into my chest.

Ivy presses her whole body into me, shaking a little. I tighten my arms.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” I murmur quietly into her hair. “I’m so, so sorry.”

We stand there in silence. I rest a cheek on her head, arms still around her, keeping her pressed against me.

“It will be okay. I promise,” I whisper into the empty church. Ivy makes no effort to reply and I don’t push her too. After a few more silent moments just holding her, I glance up. Feeling eyes on us, I look around and find Katie standing at the entrance of the church, watching us with a sad smile on her face.

I pull back but don’t take away my touch. I don’t want to let go. I never want to let her go.

“Do you want me to take you home?” I ask, staring down into her face. I expect tears. My girl is a sensitive soul and she cries at commercials if they’re even remotely sad. I stoke a thumb over her cheek, desperately wanting her to give me a sign of what she may want here. No answers, no tears. She simply stares ahead. She’s numb.

When she doesn’t reply, I nod at Katie and she makes her way toward us.

I press another kiss to Ivy’s forehead, lingering as I revel in having her in my arms again.

“Okay. Katie’s going to take you home.” I kiss her again, hoping with my whole heart that she can feel what I’m trying to tell her.

I love you.

I miss you.

I’ll be here when you’re ready.

“I’ll see you soon.” I wait again for any sign from my girlfriend. There is a beat of silence. Then she looks up. She rises on her toes, silently asking for a kiss.

As always, I oblige.

Her lips are soft and just as I remembered them. I love you .

Before I know it, she lets Katie remove her from my embrace and guide her toward the entry of the church. Everyone is waiting to say goodbye to her so I let her go.

I watch her walk away.

I’m getting so sick of watching her walk away.

“Hey, man.” Someone clears their throat beside me. I realize Grant followed Katie and is now standing in front of me, hands in his pockets. “Thank you for taking the night shifts this week at the house. Katie is so worried about Ivy and scared to leave her alone. Naturally, I worry about Katie.” He chuckles a little and rubs the back of his neck. I just stare blankly, waiting for him to get to his point.

“Anyway, pretty sure Katie would’ve moved in by now if you weren’t sleeping at the house with Ivy each night. So, yeah, thanks.”

Ah.

He’s talking about the self-induced torture I’ve been partaking in every night since Billy passed away. Sneaking into the dark house and sleeping on the couch just in case Ivy needs something. Making her breakfast and then leaving before she wakes up.

I haven’t spoken to her. I haven’t touched her. It’s killed me.

But I’ve been there. Just in case.

“Does Ivy know?” My throat feels like sandpaper.

“I don’t think so. Katie says she’s not been talking all that much.”

Katie calls Grant's name, the sound echoing off the high ceilings of the church. Grant nods at his girlfriend before holding his hand out to shake mine.

“Thanks again. Oh and hey, good luck with the game tomorrow night.”

***

“A lot of people turning out for this.” Flynn glances around at the fans filing into the stadium. We stand close to the center of the field as a team. All the boys are dressed in suits. The wider organizational staff have joined us. A few players from Billy’s old team sit on the opposite side of the stage .

“Everyone’s turning up to say goodbye.” The words almost get stuck in my throat. I shove my hands deep into my pockets, trying to not fiddle or reach for my phone. My eyes wander over the crowd on the field, once again looking for her.

“How’s Ivy doing?” Flynn asks. “You still sleeping there every night?”

“Mostly. Sometimes Ivy stays up later or even all night and Katie tells me not to come.” I shrug, the ache in my chest intensifying. I’m pretty certain Ivy knows that I’ve been sleeping on her couch the last week but she also hasn’t spoken to anyone other than Katie.

Everyone’s worried.

I am too, but fuck if I don’t miss her more than anything else right now.

The crowd is almost completely full and they fall into a silence I have never heard in all my time playing in stadiums all over the country.

A video is broadcast across the big screens of Billy’s career. They play a highlight reel of his life. They show his laughing, smiling face. His eyes crinkled when he was younger the same way they did when I knew him. His smile was just as infectious. He had a big personality, it’s obvious. They show him as a player, they show him as a teammate. As a member of the organization.

And they show him as a father.

The videos are home videos. Billy with his son: throwing a football in the backyard when Matty wouldn’t have been more than one or two, Billy running the sideline of a pee-wee football field yelling encouragement, Billy at a high school football game and showing off the Booker jersey with his son’s number.

Something catches in my throat as I watch a young version of Ivy’s father wrap his arms around Billy and smile for the camera. He’s pointing at his Harvard jersey.

Number eighteen.

“Holy fuck,” Flynn swears under his breath. “Did you know he wore your number? ”

I shake my head. “No. I mean, I saw him play once. But I didn’t remember his number.”

“Ivy never mentioned it?”

“Ivy doesn’t talk about her dad.”

My eyes search the crowd around us, desperate to find her. Coach told me she was going to be here, so I switch up my aim and look for him instead.

Toward the end of the video, I see him walking out of the tunnel and to the stage.

His arm is thrown over Ivy’s shoulders.

To my surprise, she is wearing my jersey. The number eighteen is navy on the white jersey. She’s got a pair of blue jeans and knee-high boots, with a white long-sleeve shirt poking out and covering her arms.

My heart soars at the thought of her wearing my number on a day like today but as she gets closer, I notice the small differences. The subtle changes that have been made to the Broncos uniform throughout the years.

She’s not wearing my number.

She’s wearing her dad’s.

Coach presses a kiss into the side of her head, patting her shoulder like any father would before leaving her by the edge of the stairs to the stage. He takes two at a time and heads for the microphone.

“Broncos fans, thank you.” He pauses, waiting for the cheers of the crown to die. “Billy Booker was a legend. A hall of fame player. A father. A grandfather. Most of all to me, he was a friend. I had the pleasure of knowing him for the last half of his life. I was his son’s college football coach and I was close with his family after Matty’s passing.”

My eyes drag back to Ivy. She’s twisting her fingers over and over as she clasps them in front of herself. Coach goes on, talking about the life Billy had. His involvement in the organization, his love for football.

I keep my eyes on Ivy though .

She keeps flinching. It’s as if the words Coach is saying are physically hurting her.

“Billy was a proud grandfather. And today, to pay special tribute, his granddaughter Ivy would like to say a few words.”

My head snaps back to Coach and then quickly back to Ivy. She steels herself with a deep breath, her shoulders rising and falling, before she takes the stairs onto the stage.

Her face is duplicated over and over across the big screens. It’s zoomed in and her features are as clear as day. The cheeks I so love to stroke with my thumb while I hold her at the perfect angle to drop a kiss onto her lips. The hair I absently fiddle with in the mornings as we slowly wake up. The lips that are mine, and mine alone, to kiss.

Something like jealousy rises in my chest and suddenly I don’t love the fact there are a million cameras pointing at her for everyone to see what’s mine.

I’m caught up in my cave man like thinking as she starts to speak. Her voice breaking through and tugging at me as if she herself pulled on the invisible tether that seems to exist between us.

I’m already walking toward the stage when she leans into the microphone.

“Pops was … he was my everything.” Ivy starts, her quiet voice amplified throughout the stadium. “When my … my …”

I take two steps at a time and stride out onto the stage. The crowd starts cheering and yelling and making enough noise that Ivy pauses and glances over her shoulder.

Coach, who is standing a few steps away from Ivy, looks back at me too but I don’t bother with taking in his expression.

Just like when I walked into that church a week ago, I am not here for them.

I am here for her.

Ivy’s eyes widen, the glassy look she gives me breaking my heart right down the middle. I don’t pause. I don’t hesitate. I simply cup my girl’s face in my hands, stroke my thumb across her cheek and dip my head so that my lips can touch hers.

It’s a gentle, quiet peck. Something to simply tell her that even though this thing between us scares her shitless, I am not afraid. I will stand by her side in every way. I will hold her hand, support her, kiss her when she needs it. Even in front of a stadium full of people.

For her.

Only for her.

The crowd erupts around us. The sound of their cheering is dull and muffled. When Ivy is in my arms, the world quietens. It’s been far too many weeks since she’s been in my arms.

“Let me help,” I say quietly to her.

Ivy stares up at me, blinking rapidly and lips trembling. The moment feels monumental for us. Here I am standing on my side of the wall, and her on the other. I am waiting, yet again, for her to decide if letting me in, if letting me help is something that she is willing to do.

In the past, I’ve not succeeded. I’ve been pushed back. I’ve made small progress but the door never appeared for me to walk through and join her.

This time though, in front of thousands of people and the world she hates so goddamn much, I decide to not take no for an answer.

I lean down and press my lips to hers again, speaking quietly just to her. “You don’t have to be alone in this. Let me help. Please, baby.”

My thumb swipes her cheek again and if it weren’t for my hold on her, I would’ve missed the nod she gives.

I remove my hands from her face. A hand slides around her shoulders and I tug her into my side. She reaches up, threading her fingers through mine and curling into me. With Ivy pressed into me, exactly where she belongs, I step up to the mic.

“Billy was a special man.” I begin, not bothering to wait for the crowd to pipe down. “He was more than just a Hall of Famer: he was a force of nature, a father and a grandfather. His larger-than-life personality lit up the room, and his laughter was infectious. On the field, he was a leader and a teammate. He was a pioneer. A role model to my generation and the one that came before me. He was a part of a team that helped shape the game. And when he retired, he helped shape this organization.”

Cheers and clapping echo through the crowd on the field, those who work for the team adding to the crowd.

“Most of all though, he dedicated his life after football to his family. To his late son, Matty Booker, and his wife Sara. He was a devoted husband to his late wife Marie and with her they raised Ivy, their granddaughter.”

Ivy presses her face into my chest, curling so far into me that it is as if she is trying to burrow her way through me.

“I didn’t have the pleasure to know Billy for very long personally but for the time I did, it was obvious that football came a very distant second to his family. He spoke of getting out and living life. Having fun. Laughing. He taught me that even in the hardest of situations, life will surprise you. To move forward with passion and joy. To have patience for the things we really want and to put in the work where it’s needed.”

I run a hand down Ivy’s spine, keeping her close.

“I don’t know about everyone else here. I can only speak for myself but Billy always said to have patience. We would go over my game tapes every Tuesday—”

I feel Ivy lean away from me, peering up through her dark lashes.

“And he would point out all the plays that I moved too quickly, when I didn’t look up and missed an opportunity. He would tell me to have a little bit of patience and the play would open up for me as it should.”

I glance down, meeting Ivy’s eyes. The navy sucks me in and the world quietens again around us.

“I think everyone could have a little more patience, be a little more like Billy. Move through life laughing and cheering on the ones we love. Step back once in a while and be present, not to miss what might be right in front of us. ”

I don’t take my eyes off the girl curling into my body like I am the only thing keeping her standing right now. I lift an arm out to the side.

“To Billy.”

The crowd repeats it back, erupting in more cheers, and screaming, and shouts but I hear none of it. My gaze is solely on my girl. Coach steps up to us, clapping a hand on my shoulder and nodding a head toward the tunnel.

It’s permission to leave an official team event.

“Come on, baby.” I guide Ivy off the stage. “Let’s go home.”