Page 61 of Final Down

Alissa turns to face her teammates, and they whistle and clap for her return. Meanwhile, I decide to take advantage of my good fortune and listen to my doctor. I pull a folding chair out of the storage closet and hand over my practice plan, as well as my whistle, to my new captain.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Play with heart.

I’ve been thinking about that phrase ever since I signed a coffee receipt for that kid in Arizona. I think that’s why wearing my dad’s old jersey has so much power. It reminds me to keep my perspective right, to have fun playing a game that—oof,beats me why, but—someone is willing to pay me to do. Even if only for a year.

I hit the call button on my truck screen when I’m about two miles out from the stadium, and Peyton picks up on the first ring.

“So, did you decide to wear it?” Her first words instead of,hello.

“I did, even though running it through the wash seemed to make it tighter,” I say, chuckling as I tug the collar of my dad’s jersey away from my neck. I can still move my arms with full range, but I hope the fabric relaxes after I wear it for a bit. It only needs to make it through warmups before I change into full pads and the game-day jersey.

I debated bothering to wear it again, but then Peyton pointed out that I was letting a grown-ass man bully me if I didn’t. Besides, this might be the last game I get to start. Chance is set to play the last preseason game, and if his elbow holds up, I’m sure he’ll be the season starter.

“I was thinking,” Peyton says. I can hear the chatter of her family in the background, her uncle and aunt laughing while her mom shouts at them to quit being immature. I can picture them all piled in the living room, waiting for my game to start, playing poker or Monopoly for money, which they sometimes do.

“Not sure how anyone can think in that room,” I joke.

“Right? Quiet is not a Johnson trait, it seems. Hold on.” Her voice sounds muffled. She must be moving to another room.

I pull up to stop at the light before the main road to the stadium. It’s four hours before game time, but newly-minted Cyclones fans are already tailgating in the expansive parking lot. The community part of this game is pretty cool. All someone needed to do to bring it to Portland was plant a billion-dollar seed.

“There. I can hear you now,” Peyton says.

“There are so many people here already,” I tell her, when suddenly a man walks by wearing a Cyclones jersey with my name on the back.

“Oh, shit!”

I cover my mouth and punch out a laugh.

“Please say you didn’t hit someone,” Peyton says, I think only half kidding.

“Babe, someone just walked by in a Stone jersey. I shit you not. Dude spent a hundred bucks to show up to a preseason game with my jersey. What the actual?—”

“That’s how good you are, Wy. Take it in. Own it,” she says.

I rub my palm over my face as the light turns green and someone honks at me from behind. I shake myself out of mydaze and pull through the intersection, but I crane my neck as I pass my first non-familial fan.

“This is wild,” I whisper.

Peyton’s soft giggle snaps me back to the present.

“Sorry, you were saying something about thinking?”

I wonder how many of those things they made. Or where that guy got it.The surprised thoughts keep coming.

“I love this for you, Wy. I wish I could see it,” she says.

I miss her. But I don’t want her feeling guilty for not being here.

“You’ve seen my name on a jersey before. You aren’t missing much,” I joke.

“That’s what I was thinking about, actually. Or rather, your dad’s jersey,” she says.

“Yeah?”

I run my palm down the fire logo on the front, my thumb finding the small tear my mom repaired for my dad with her sewing machine. The white thread she used doesn’t quite match the jersey.

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