Page 53 of Play the Last Card

I have pictures of them at prom. I have one framed on my dresser.

But I didn’t have that one.

When the picture came across the screen, it felt like a hand reached into my chest and squeezed my lungs.

There I was. Watching the evening news on a random Monday and seeing a picture ofmy parentsfor the first time along with the rest ofthe world. Tears welled in my eyes. My heart was beating violently in my chest and for some reason, I felt a surge of anger flow like voltage through my veins.

I almost threw my glass of wine at the TV.

It isn’t fair that the rest of the world gets to see a piece of them I never have.

The newsreader interviewed an old teacher of my mom and dads’ and she’d described them as still the most loved up young couple she’d seen in all her years of teaching. She spoke about my mom’s dedication to learning and the ability she had to pull my dad’s focus from the one thing he loved most: football. She’d told a story about them I’d never heard and it made the hole in my chest, the one that had been there since I’d been old enough to understand they were gone, ache for days.

The anger surged again and I turned off the TV, throwing the remote across the room.

The TV remote is still somewhere across the room. I haven’t been bothered to retrieve it.

It’s been a week.

A little dramatic?

Maybe, but I won’t be forced to dwell on those emotions.

And I certainly am not going to be forced to talk about football.

Pops’ hand squeezes mine, bringing my attention back to him. My eyes focus back on him and he sighs, seeing straight through my false calm expression.

“You saw the local piece then,” he says.

“Why do they care so much about them? Why do they have to bring it up?”

“Because like you, your dad grew up here. He went to the high school you did. He went to college here. He made a big name for himself in high school and college football. The local news covered him all the time and some of the people that still work there remember him. They remember me. So when things like this happen to me, they want to comment.”

“They don’t have the right,” I grunt.

Pops laughs lightly, his thumb rubbing across the back of my hand in comfort.

“They do though. Freedom of speech and all that. Besides, I thought the piece was nice. They said some lovely things about your mom and dad, your dad’s career—”

“I hate football for making him famous.”

Silence falls like a blanket of freshly fallen snow around us after my words. The air in the room cools. Pops sucks in a breath, sitting straighter with a small wince.

“Oh, Ivy.” Pops’ hand squeezes impossibly hard and he tries to pull me forward but I don’t budge. “It’s not football’s fault, sweetheart. He loved the game and the game loved him. But more than anything he loved you and your mom with everything he had.”

Pops’ words aren’t helping. I feel too raw, too emotionally exhausted after this week.

I feel numb.

A chill spreads down my spine, flowing through my veins and numbing the fingers that are still clutched tightly in Pops’. My eyes sting and I try desperately to blink away the tears.

I hate crying about this in front of Pops.

“Ivy.” His voice is low and warm and filled with sadness. “Ivy, my girl.”

I look up at him, the tears still stinging behind my eyes. Pops’ eyes reflect the same deep navy as mine just as much as they reflect the pain.

He quietly says, “I failed you.”

---