Page 84 of Final Down

“That jersey isvery muchlike my red dress.” I let the coy smirk linger on my lips.

Wyatt blows out a hard breath that shifts the hair lying across his forehead, then shakes his head.

“Woman. Not the time to get me started,” he teases, dropping his hands into the pockets of his athletic shorts as he walks backward slowly.

“Remember the terms of our bet,” I remind him.

He holds up four fingers, wiggling them, then kisses his palm and tosses me a kiss. I catch it and leave my closed fist in the air as he heads down the concourse toward the team elevator.

Wyatt has been ready for another baby for a while. Heck, I think he was ready to go about five days after Warner was born. I needed a little more time to recover and get used to this new insane sleep schedule that comes with parenthood. But I’m ready to grow our family now, and when Wyatt suggested a little bet—he throws for four touchdowns today, we try to make a baby tonight—I couldn’t resist. The trying is the fun part, after all.

Fatherhood suits him. I knew it would. There are so many of his father’s lessons woven through his fabric, so much of his mother’s strength and goodness. It would have been impossible for him not to rise to the occasion of parenthood. But he’s gone beyond.

As perfect as the storm was that Bryce brought to our doorstep, I was still wary of being at home with a baby while Wyatt hit the road for another pro football season. Even playing at home meant he was away every other weekend. And I don’t know that I’ll ever fully stop worrying about him taking a wrong hit. That’s something I know to expect, at least. I grew up with that fear always lingering over our house.

But this team has taken such good care of him. The ownership wants to look at his five-year option as soon as playoffs are done. My husband exceeded expectations, which I always knew he would. He simply needed the right team and the right ownership behind him.

Jerry was the unexpected gift, though. Turns out he’s a brilliant coach. My father isn’t surprised. He says Jerry was always the guy who could see the big picture on the field, even from the sidelines. The players really respect him, too. For Wyatt, he’s like one more father figure.

I make my way to our family’s suite a few hundred feet from the player elevator. Wyatt’s mom and mine have been on Warner duty for me so I could watch Wyatt’s interviews. I’m sure they’re both anxious for me to return. They love being grandparents, but our son started walking a few weeks ago, and I feel like he’s ready to run. Chasing him can be exhausting.

I step into the suite in time to rescue my mom from having to sit under the buffet table with Warner. He’s gotten into forts and camping lately, something he picked up from Whiskey and Tasha’s girls over the holidays.

“I think someone is ready to take a nap,” I say, swooping Warner from the floor as he crawls out from under the other side of the table.

My mom gets up from her knees and mouths, “Thank you,” before joining Wyatt’s mom at the pub table for a well-earned beer.

My son is a little fussy, but once I get him settled into the seat next to me at the front of our box, his eyes get heavy, and by the time the kick-off is ten minutes out, he’s fast asleep. My sister, who is deep into her teenage angst years, is asleep next to him. Her ear buds haven’t left her ears since she got here; they’ve become her shield from the adults. She was out late last night, though, for a sleepover party—one where boys were present—so I’m not surprised she conked out. I’m also not shocked she’s avoiding our questions about the party. The key part of the night, again, is that boys were present. And lately, Ellie has been getting and payinga lotof attention to boys.

I sit back in my seat and take in the debate Jeff and my father are having over whether Wyatt should play today. The team will face the same game against the same opponent, New York, win or lose today. But Wyatt is on the verge of a few interesting numbers for Arizona, and if he hits those four touchdowns that we put on the table for our bet, he’ll win more than me in the reddress. He’ll also tie a record for single-season touchdowns set eighteen years ago on this very field.

Now, if he throws five? Well, he still gets me and the red dress. But we’ll get home a little later, because there will be a lot more media folks waiting around to talk to him post-game.

“Hey, check this out, Peyt. Whisk managed to score a touchdown,” my dad says, handing his phone over my shoulder with a video queued up. I press play and zoom in with my fingers on the tiny screen, and sure enough—he not only scooped up a fumble, that big man ran for thirty yards and made it to the end zone.

“Tasha is going to turn this into a Christmas card,” I joke, sort of, as I hand my dad his phone.

“Hell, I might,” he tosses in.

I can’t wait to share that news with Wyatt. He misses playing with Whiskey, but Portland gave him a good deal to stay. Those two might find their way onto the same team again down the road, though, at least one more time before they hang it up for good.

But do any of them every really hang it up for good?

We fly through the opening program for the game, the national anthem performed by a local trumpet player who is a bit of a lucky charm for our hometown teams. We won’t have a single playoff game at home, so this is our last chance to squeeze him in.

Wyatt’s tossing the ball on the sideline, warming up his arm while the in-house talent introduces the winners of a youth sportsmanship contest at the center of the field. I glance to my right, where my son is out for the count in a makeshift napping spot fashioned out of puffer jackets and a stadium seat. I like to think he’ll win an award like that someday—one for being the stand-up kid who doesn’t care so much if he wins or loses, but cares about his team.

He's still got Johnson blood, so . . . he’ll care a little. If he wins.

A lot.

Hell, we’ll all care; who am I kidding?

But he’ll be a good sport about it—the winning.

“Here we go!” Jeff says, stirring me from my thoughts as he holds up a beer to toast. My dad clinks glasses with him, and I grab my water bottle from the cupholder so I can participate.

“That counts, right?” I laugh out.

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