Page 10 of Home Game

I smirk and nod, agreeing to a deal I likely will never be in a position to fulfill. I’ve learned a lot about public safety pensions over the last six months, mostly about how hard it is to prove a correlation between job duties and a lung cancer diagnosis. Those details matter when it comes to spousal benefits. We’ve managed all right, though, thanks to the guys in this house. The fundraisers covered the medical deductibles, and the extra funds made it easier to eat the loss on my dad’s truck, which we sold, and the move to Coolidge from the Valley. Cost of living was on par with playing time when it came to reasons for us to make this move. It was down to three rural towns, and Coolidge was the first one where Mom landed a job offer. She started last week with the municipal water department. I wonder if everyone will be as welcoming when they find out that their town water bill is processed by Theresa Stone?

“Hey! Baby Stone! What are we buying, and how much do you need?” Alan, the guy who was promoted to Engineer in my dad’s place, pushes the foot rest in on his lounge chair, propelling him to stand. I can tell he feels guilty for taking my dad’s position. He’s always the first to donate to my football fundraisers, and he made the biggest contribution to our online fund before the move. He doesn’t have the means to be so generous. He has three young boys at home. But I know it puts his mind at ease to do it.

“Let’s see,” I say, pulling out my phone and checking the latest spreadsheet of numbers Coach texted the team. “We basically earned enough to cover snacks for one road trip with that car wash, so I need to sell . . .” I pull the stack of restaurant gift cards from my back pocket and snap the rubber band against them. “All of them.”

I’m actually not exaggerating. I have sixty of them, and at forty bucks apiece that would just about cover our road trip needs for the season.

“I don’t think I can swing that, but put me down for ten. I’ll give them out as gifts for the holidays,” Alan says, fishing out two hundreds and a lot of twenties from his wallet. He prepared for this, and I feel guilty taking so much from him.

“You sure? I was expecting to sell maybe five today,” I say, wincing as I clutch the stack of cards in my palm. I’m hesitant to go through with this.

“Screw that! Give me my cards, and you assholes better act surprised when you get these in your stockings for Christmas!” Alan jokes. The rest of the guys join in with his laughter, and my shoulders ease back down to their natural position.

“Shit, man. Guess I’m gonna need to buy one to give to Alan, then,” Shane pipes in from the kitchen. He has a towel slung over one shoulder and a splash of marinara on the center of his shirt. He’s lucky he’s at this station. Some of the other captains take dress code rules extremely seriously. Jeff has always given the guy who volunteers to cook for the day some slack. That guy used to be my dad.

“Thanks, Shane,” I say, slipping a card from the stack to hand to him.

He pockets it and nods toward the sleep quarters.

“My wallet’s on the bunk in three. Grab the cash.”

I nod as I finish my business with Alan, counting out his cards and marking the numbers on the small paper Coach gave us to keep track. I didn’t expect the guys to give this much. I’m a little overwhelmed by it.

I head down the corridor at the back of the station to the sleep quarters for the crew. It’s the first time I’ve walked this hallway since I came with my uncle and gathered my dad’s things from his locker. Dad didn’t keep much here—thebasic necessities like shampoo and toothpaste, along with a few pictures of me and Mom. But his locker was covered top to bottom in news clippings about me. Our trip to state. My record-setting sophomore season. The national rank list that projected me at sixteen overall this season.

“He was so proud of you, you know that?” Jeff’s soft voice breaks the careful balance I’ve been maintaining, and the tear I’ve been fighting to keep inside finally slips down my cheek. I dash it away with the back of my hand and breathe out a quick laugh.

“Yeah. Wish he could have seen this year,” I choke out, coughing in a sad male attempt to mask how I really feel. I know I don’t have to, and these guys are like family. But it’s one of those things my dad was better at that than me—vulnerability. I missed the opportunity to learn from him.

Jeff steps around me and dips into Shane’s room to grab the cash I was sent for. He folds the two twenties but holds up a finger before handing them to me.

“How many left?” he asks.

My head falls to one side, and I suck in my top lip.

“Don’t pull that shit with me. We both know I’m gonna get my way, so cough it up. How many left?”

My chest tightens, my dad’s voice echoing in my head.Be gracious, and let good people be good.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and squeeze my eyes shut as I work through the math in my head. It feels like pity. And on some level, it is.Jeff is like family.

“I have nineteen on me. Another stack of thirty at home.” I hold my breath, not sure if I want him to balk at the amount or call it good.

Jeff pulls a fat roll of cash from his pocket, a stash he clearly had ready and planned to send me home with no matter what.He doesn’t have any kids, and he and his wife have their house paid off.

“Jeff, I don’t think I can?—”

He plops the wad in my palm, then closes my fingers around it.

“You can and you will. Keep that second stack at home and use them to take your mom out for dinner from time to time, okay?” He winks at me and keeps my hand enclosed in both of his.

“Yes, sir,” I relent.

The mix of relief and shame is making me drunk. And I’m sure my expression looks sick enough to discourage Jeff from giving me a hug. He opts for a heavy hand on my shoulder.

I stick around the firehouse for about an hour, long enough to stuff my face with one of Shane’s stuffed bell peppers. I’m supposed to meet Whiskey at this BBQ place called The Pit, about halfway between the city and home, but I’d rather not indulge in whatever it is he expects us to get away with. He has a fake ID, and I guess they’re pretty loose about rules out there. I’m not looking to give the state a reason to revoke my transfer variance, or force me to sit out the first five games, either.

When I reach the service station near the freeway entrance, I shoot Whiskey a quick text and let him know I’m not going to make it. We don’t know each other super well yet, just from summer practices and some seven-on-seven games. I hope he’s not the kind of guy who’s going to badger me into coming. When he simply sends back a thumbs up, I let out the full breath I’ve been holding, and the tension in my chest eases.

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