Page 69 of Play the Last Card

“I don’t want to talk about it. It’s done.”

“But he’s still—”

“Ice cream or not?” I cut her off.

I can’t think about Scott. I just … can’t.

Scott

The amber liquid burns my throat on its way down.

I stare at my phone.

I have been staring at my phone for four weeks. I know she’s gotten my messages. They all sit on delivered. Whether she actually read them? Who knows.

I don’t understand this.

I knew she would be upset about the lie, but this seems more than that. I would be upset too, but I thought I had shown her who I was, Scott Harvey the man, not Scott Harvey the QB.

She looked like a ghost.

Her face went pale, her eyes glazed over. They sprung with tears like the more the information processed in her mind, the more upset and distressed she became.

I want to understand. I want to talk it through with her.

I just wanther.

My hotel room is quiet. I always like playing in Denver. It is freezing by November but their fans are passionate and they show up to sell-out stadiums. We are a good match for them. The usual buzz that flows through my veins the night before a game is drowned out by the sense of dread that took residence in my chest the moment I left Ivy’s house a month ago.

Two fingers of whiskey at a time. I have turned to alcohol to dull the pain.

Am I an idiot? Yes.

Will I regret drinking the night before a game? For sure.

Do I care when I haven’t been able to sleep for weeks? Fuck, no.

I’m getting desperate.

For weeks, I’ve been walking past the windows of Pats trying to spot her behind the bar. Of course, it is the middle of a school semester. Logically I know that she won’t be working at the bar over a Tuesday lunch shift but I check anyway. I’ve seen Katie a few times.

Only once have I walked in and begged to see Ivy. Katie just smiled sadly at me and shook her head. I’m not sure my pride can take another hit.

I miss her.

I miss taking her on dates, holding her during the movies she talks all the way through, kissing her.

I miss talking to her, hearing about her day and the kids in her class. Her updates on her Pops. Her stories growing up with him.

Fuck.

I throw back the rest of the whiskey in my glass. The headache is already forming but I push it away, pouring another shot into the glass. When I go to take a sip, my phone rings. The camera turns on and I stare back at my own reflection as I contemplate answering my mother’s FaceTime request.

Eventually she wins. I swipe across the screen and answer the call.

“Hi, darling.” Her bright smile fills the screen and I can tell by the bright pattern behind her she is sitting in bed already. “How’s my boy?”

“Hi Mom.” I lean over to the bedside table to put down my glass and adjust the phone in my hand. Her eyes narrow and it makes me sit a little straighter against the headboard. My mother can see right through me. I decide that deflection is my best chance. “How are you? How’s dad?”

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