Page 20 of Catching Our Moment
“Oh, Aaron has lots of thoughts. He’s been following the IR list and all the latest films from the last few games. He has lots and lots of thoughts.”
I guffawed. “About me?”
“You. Your QB, your defensive line… I told him he couldn’t have your cell number because you were on electronic lockdown to avoid press and focus on the game.”
“You lied to your son?” I produced the most pathetic pearl-clutching gasp I could manage. “Shame on you, Kelcie Byron.”
“Trust me. It was in your best interest. After the game, I will buy you a beer or a six-pack, and he can break it all down for you.”
“That sounds like a plan.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Kelce, he’s what, twelve? I’ve been grilled, picked apart, and fried in the press, during interviews, and by public opinion. I’m sure I can handle it.”
“I’ll bring a box of tissues, just in case.”
“Come on…”
“Shaw, he’s Holden Hammer’s grandson. Do you really think he’d mince words about sports?” Holden Hammer was Kelcie’s rough-around-the-edges bear of a father who’d also been my coach and mentor. After several high school state championships, Coach Hammer had been pulled up the ranks in the college system. He’d honed his no-nonsense approach to coaching with me. With my father not in the picture, I had been an unfocused, misdirected lump of man-clay Coach had set out to mold into not just a player but also a decent man—just not a man decent enough for his daughter.
That had been one of Hammer’s unspoken rules—maybe his only one. His daughter was not going to get wrapped up with a football player. And that included me.
“Give him my cell.”
“Shaw—"
“I want to hear what he has to say.”
“Okay. Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she sing-songed.
“So, you all set with the driver and everything tomorrow?”
“Yeah, the gang is coming over, and we’ll leave from here.”
“Great. I’ll meet up with you all after the game. If he's up for it, I’ll send someone up to the box to get you to come down to the locker room.”
“Oh, boy. That may be too tempting for him to resist. He might be jockeying for a coaching job before we leave,” she joked. Then she sighed. “Most likely, he will be done by the second half, but we can see how it goes.”
“Okay, well, I want him to have fun, so whatever it takes.”
“Thanks, Dawson. Seriously. We’ve been looking forward to this.”
“Wow, pulling out the first name. I can’t remember the last time anyone called me Dawson.”
She was quiet, and I kicked myself. She was one of the few people who’d called me Dawson. It didn’t happen often, but her slight Southern drawl made it uniquely hers. Hearing it from her filled me with nostalgia.
“It’s going to feel like old times, having you at my game, cheering me on.”
She was still quiet, and I cursed myself for not FaceTiming instead of just calling on the phone. I wanted to see the expression that accompanied this unusual response.
“I’m glad you—and the rest of the gang—are coming,” I added. “I’m thrilled it will be Aaron’s first game.” I paused because I wanted her to know what reconnecting meant to me. “But seriously, Kelce, I didn’t think I’d ever see you again in the stands, rooting for me. So, thank you.”
“I’ve always been rooting for you,” she said softly then added, with a lift in her voice, “After all, I was your original fan.”
“I guess you were.”
“Anyway, we will see you tomorrow. And you know…” She lowered her voice and whispered into the phone, “Kick some ass.”
