Page 54 of Play the Last Card

“What? How could you say that?”

“I have. You have this idea that football is the reason your dad passed away but the drunk driver on the snow-covered, dangerous roads did that. Football is the reason he still lives.” I begin to shake my head, trying to pull my hands from his so I can wipe my cheeks. He doesn’t let me, holding tighter as he continues. “Your dad gets to live on, not just through you but through football as well.”

As each of the salty tears drop down my chin, streaking a path down my neck and making my skin sticky, I feel the cracks in my heart slash open a little deeper.

He was my dad.

He was supposed to be mine.

But instead, football had him longer and it tore me apart every time the local news decided to remind me of that.

“Ivy … please, you have to move past this. You’re holding onto a grudge with no merit. I used to think it was just a teenage phase, that you’d eventually move on and start watching the game with me again. I wanted to tell you about your dad on that field and share that world he loved so much with you.”

My vision blurs, my eyes sting, my heart hurts.

“You know, there are so many things I want to tell you about him before I die. I haven’t because I know how hard this has been but your dad? He was one of the best. You can remember and cherish him as your dadandyou can love the game he loved as a player. The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” Pops tells me.

I feel like there isn’t any air in the room to suck in a deep breath and can’t steady myself properly.

I am done talking about this.

“I don’t want to lose you, Pops. You’re all I have.”

“Ivy.” Pops’ shoulders drop. There’s a slight scold in his tone at my attempt to change the subject. His eyes search my face and his hand clutches mine as if he is worried I’ll bolt if he lets go. At this point, I can’t say that I won’t. “Football can be a whole other connection to your dad. You just have to let it.”

My lungs drain what little air is left. A weight settles on my chest, my body feels so heavy. I give into my heavy eyes and shut them. I struggle to inhale but with a moment, it comes easier. Pops lets me sit in silence. I can hear the rasp in his breathing as he waits and I focus on the slow, rhythmic pattern until I feel the heaviness ease a little.

“I really don’t want to talk about this anymore,” I beg in a whisper.

A thumb brushes over my hand, a gentle pull and Pops’ hands surround my own, cradling them to his chest.

“Okay, my girl.”

When he brushes a gentle finger across my cheek, swiping the tears away, I feel like a young girl again crying in my bedroom and asking how it is fair that all the other girls’ dads turned up to the Father’s Day event but mine can’t. Crying because someone in middle school made fun of me for not having parents. Crying because every year at the annual pep rally to kick off the high school football season, they would honor my dad like he was theirs.

Inside I’m still that same little girl who discovered the home videos of my parents and stashed them under my bed, hiding them away from the world in an effort to keep my parents all to myself.

“Go home,” Pops says after a few minutes of silence. “Get some sleep and I will see you tomorrow.”

I don’t have the energy to fight him on it. So I nod. Picking up my bag and Scott’s sweatshirt that I’ve been living in, I make my way to the car.

I place my hands on the steering wheel, watching the slow movement of the other vehicles around me pulling in and out of parking spaces. My phone chimes from where it is sitting in the center console.

Scott:How is your pops?

Are you okay?

Ivy:He’s okay. I’m heading home now.

I wait for his reply, watching the three little dots appear and disappear. When it doesn’t come, I push the engine start button on the car. It hums to life beneath me and I drive home.

***

The black Mercedes SUV is waiting on the side of the road when I pull into the driveway. The windows are a near illegal tint and I can’t tell if the man that owns the car is still sitting inside. I watch it out of my rearview mirror for a moment before collecting my bag from the passenger seat.

I don’t see him sitting on the front steps of the house until I’m almost standing directly above him.

He wears the same gray sweats that he’d worn a week ago but the hoodie is different: a navy-blue Broncos logo stitched on the front. Seeing it brings the dull ache in my chest to life.

---