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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, she brought me fries.”

“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.

“Okay, okay, but wait.” He dove beneath his seat and emerged again, triumphant. He offered her a small plate of fries. Then, his voice dropped. “I... I wasn’t sure if you’d come, but, if you did, I didn’t want to forget...”

“Oh, Dylan.” Abby dropped to her knees before the boy and pulled him into a tight hug.

His body shivered against hers, and a small sniffle warned her to keep holding on. Knowing how much a young boy wouldn’t want to be caught crying, she waited until he moved away before releasing him.

No more tears , she reminded herself, then repeated it again, when Kelly fanned her face.

“You’re going to ruin my makeup.”

Abby’s eyes burned as she laughed. “I promise if I ruin yours, I’ll ruin mine, too, so we’ll match.”

Kelly barked a sound, half-sob, half-laugh, then waved Abby over. “Come here, you. It’s been too long.”

“Abby! Abby look.”

Dylan jumped up and down and gestured at the field.

Squinting, Abby followed his jouncing finger.

On the sideline, now full of players in their signature black jerseys with silver sleeve-stripes, Scott stared straight back up at them, identifiable at this distance only by his number and familiar dark hair.

He held his hand high, fingers signing I love you .

“Is she there?”

Scott shaded his eyes and focused, but the seething crowd kept shifting, blocking his view, changing his perception. “I think so, but... I’m not sure.”

“Would it change the way you played if she wasn’t?”

Scott scowled at his best friend.

“Then pretend she is.”

Nodding, Scott turned and scooped up a practice ball. He never imagined the normalcy of such an action. That, in itself, lent a surreal, dream-like air to the moment. They were in the Super Bowl, and yet, like the start of any other game, he stood on the sidelines lobbing throws into the net.

The coaches called for a final huddle before the National Anthem, then the team captains strode onto the field for the call, Scott among them.

For the first time, Scott allowed the weight of the moment to land as the referee, via a microphone echoing through the stadium above them, described the fancy gold coin he would toss.

“Visiting team will make the call.” The ref jutted his chin toward Scott and the other Raptors.

“Heads,” came a deep voice from beside him, and Scott nodded. They’d decided ahead of time who would call, and what he’d choose.

The ref flipped the coin into the air, and they all gathered close, craning for a glimpse before he announced the result. “Toss is tails. Eagles choose to receive.”

Scott jogged back to the sideline, shaking his head. It doesn’t matter. It’s the coin toss. Don’t get superstitious now.

“Okay, boys,” Coach shouted as he clapped his hands. “Let’s go play the best damn sixty minutes of football of our lives.”

The waiting had always been the worst.

Seeing the defense on the field, trusting their skills, staying warm until he could earn his salary; it used to drive him crazy. Older, now, more seasoned, with an arsenal of tools to manage the nerves, he almost convinced himself this was any other game. Almost, but not quite.

Dropping to the bench, he let his head drift down between his shoulder blades and took several deep breaths.

In, two, three. Out, two, three, four, five... Calm body, calm mind.

He let the noise of the game wash over him, the defensive coordinator’s voice as he sent men onto the field, pulled others off, the roar of the crowd behind him, the hum of the players around him...

“Edwards, let’s go.”

Scott’s head snapped up.

The Eagles were in the red zone, pushing hard.

Scott stood, tossed a ball, shook out his arms, bounced on his toes.

The Eagles scored. First blood.

He snapped his helmet on, turned to his offensive line. His throat closed over the rallying speech he’d planned. Coughing once, he let the silence of their small circle spool out, then said, “Now, it’s our turn.”

They had to answer big. Derek Baldwin and the Eagles’ offense had bled over six minutes off the clock with their drive.

Scott eyed the defensive lineup, ran through the play in his head, called the snap.

He dropped back, and, with a quick flick of his wrist, sent the ball six yards up the middle to Finn.

Jogging to the line, he counted, then handed the ball off, pushing ahead for another three.

Third and one. His eyes flitted over the defense again and something in the pit of his stomach turned over. A sixth sense he’d learned to rely on, to trust. They knew the play. He paused, weighed the risk, then killed the option. His line shifted, automatically lining up for the backup play.

“One, two.” The fullback took the ball and dove forward while Scott twisted away and checked high, trying to fool the Eagles defense. Expecting the throw, they took the bait, and a moment later, the Raptors had the first down.

Finding his rhythm, Scott and the Raptors marched the ball down the field.

A quick pass here, a little run there, third and a few.

He dropped back deep. Waited, feet planted.

The offensive line bought the time he needed and then Scott reeled it back and let go.

The football sailed down the field toward Highcastle, two steps ahead of his defender, and slid into his outstretched arms. Head down, running with every ounce of power, Jordan crossed the touchdown line and leapt into the air.

“Asked and answered,” Scott hollered, racing down the field after his receiver. “Asked. And. Answered!”