Cody
Wrong. That’s how this whole thing feels. Just wrong. My suit is itchy. My tie is too tight. My heart hurts too much. Just. Wrong.
I’m sitting on the stage in New York awaiting my Hall of Fame induction. This should be the best day of my life. The culmination of everything I have ever worked for. And it is. But it’s also not. My parents are sitting on the opposite end of the stage from me with proud smiles on their faces and heartache in their eyes. It’s probably the way my face would look right now if I were able to smile. But that ship sailed when my girl wouldn’t talk to me, and my best friend died.
Sam was supposed to be here with me. He’s one of my coaches at the school, but before that we played on the same teams growing up; from peewee to college. There is no one else that knows me better. But last week, a drunk driver cut Sam’s life short with one shitty decision. Not only that, but the lives of his daughters too. The last time I saw Sam, he was telling me to fix what was broken between Angel and I before it was too late. The irony is not lost on me.
The last time I talked to Angel, when it was good, before it went bad, she promised she would be here with me today. But she hates me, so she’s not. I fucked it all up. I saw her at the funeral. She looked bad. Still devastatingly beautiful, but broken hearted, nonetheless. Gorgeous in her funeral dress, her wild blonde hair tastefully swept back and basic black heels. But her eyes. Her eyes were red rimmed and sad. I wanted to go to her. I barely held back knowing she wouldn’t want that. And I had a duty to my friend. There are no words to describe being a pall bearer for your best friend’s daughter. They split us up civilian friends and family escorted the girls, Marines escorted Sam’s flag covered coffin. If I never do it again, it’ll be too soon. I’ll never forget the look on Holt’s face as he presented the flag to Aliza. I rub my chest over the ache when the memory passes across my brain.
I kept thinking Angel would come to me, but she didn’t. So after all was said and done and rifles fired, I hopped on a plane and headed east. I didn’t intend to stay here long; just long enough to fulfill my media obligation, see my number retired, and my plaque added to the facility.
The interviews leading up to today’s ceremony just about killed me. They kept asking about Sam, and how hard it must be for me to be here without him. Then they asked me about the woman I was rumored to be engaged to, and where she was presently. I was honest about the former and vague about the latter which was frustrating for all.
Holt, who is also here with us today, takes to the podium. He’s supposed to introduce some photomontage of my life and career; everything that leads up to this moment. I have no idea what is in it. My family put it together and I’m nervous, but excited to reminisce with them.
“Good afternoon everyone, my name is Holden Stone, but don’t call me that. Everyone calls me Holt. I’ve known Cody my whole life. In fact, Cody, my brother, and I were all born the same week.
“We spent our childhood together, with my twin brother, Will, and our dear friend, Sam, who we lost this week, but I know is looking down on us right now. We went fishing, camping, and played football like boys do. Cody was always ahead of the pack. But it wasn’t just talent, he wanted it. He worked for it. When Cody and Sam got recruited to college, no one was surprised.
“Signing day and draft day were some of the best days of his life.“Last night, I thought about what Sam and Will would want to tell you if they could be here today. And I think they would tell you that they’re most proud of your drive and tenacity. You never gave up. Well, Sam, would feel like you need another pep talk on the subject but we’ll talk about that later. But you did it. No matter how great the task, be it making the pros, making the super bowl, relearning how to walk, coaching the best team our town has had since you played to the state championships. You never gave up. So, without further ado, here is a look at the making of you, Cody.”
Rascal Flatt’s “Stand” plays over the loud speakers at the stadium while pictures of my life flash before me. A baby in a Dallas Cowboys outfit, a little boy running with a football that’s as big as he is, my high school and college ball, that picture of me catching the ball before my career ending hit, then the newspaper clipping covering the accident and the end of my career, pictures of me in rehab in a wheelchair, then walking, coaching the War Eagles from the sidelines with Sam. Pictures of me with my family and friends interwoven. I’m momentarily surprised when a picture of Angel in my arms laughing slips by. The last picture is a picture of my kids celebrating a State Championship win on the field with me this last season. It freezes there until the song ends while my dad steps up to the podium and addresses me directly over the mic.
“Cody, my boy, my son, all grown up. You’re mother told me to get up here and say a bunch of girlie shit about feelings, but that’s not my style. And the only words I have for you is how very proud we are of you. You have never, not once, let us down. And I can’t wait to see what the future has in store for you,” he finishes cryptically before introducing me. “Without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, my son, Cody Reynolds.”
I step up to the podium and give a great big hug to my dad, quietly thanking him for everything he has ever done for me, to encourage me, to inspire me my whole life, but for our ears only. When he resumes his seat, I take a deep breath and stick my fingers in my suit pockets; a nervous habit from way back.
I rock back on my heels, preparing for what I’m about to say, when I look up and see the face of an angel. Well, mine at least, is standing behind the last of the press seats, looking at me with nervous, wide eyes. God, I’ve miss those blue eyes. And suddenly, for the first time in days, I feel a smile on my face.
“I screwed up, baby,” I say into the mic. Angel’s face goes beat red. “You deserved the truth, no matter how hard. I wanted to protect you and I failed. Tell me you forgive me.”
She just nods. The wave of press looks to her and then back to me.
“Okay, now tell me you love me.”
The press laughs and looks to her again. And again she nods.
“Okay, last question, tell me you’ll marry me,” I ask her and then hold my breath.
The press swings back to her in full tennis match fashion. And again, she nods.
“Seriously?” I ask. Getting excited.
“Yeah, baby,” she beams at me.
“Come here, baby,” I tell her, holding out my hand and she does not disappoint when she does not hesitate to make her way to me. When she reaches me, she wraps her arms around my middle and buries her face in my chest.
“I love you, baby,” I tell her. “I’m going to make you so happy.” She looks up at me, and smiles, but something flashes in her eyes. And then she hurls all over me like she’s the first President Bush and I’m a Japanese dignitary, then promptly passes out in my arms. Yep, that’s totally ending up on YouTube later.
“We’re going to need a medic,” I call out.
The ride to the Emergency Room was not as short as it would have been in Tall Pines, but short for New York. It is not lost on me, as I sit in the bay with Angel next to the hospital bed she’s laying in while we wait for her lab results, that this is the hospital where I first saw her after my accident; convinced she was an angel -- and she is -- but now she’s mine. This time our combined family and friends who were in town for the ceremony, sit in the waiting room, worried for Angel.
“Hey Marie,” she says when an older nurse comes through the curtain. “What’s up?” She asks and then the doctor that saw her when we came in is behind her.
“I wanted to be here for the goods,” she says cryptically.
“Fred?” Angel asks the older doctor, who smiles kindly at her.
