“I miss you too, little bear. Every day. And that’s why I always call you from training camp, and away games, and every night when I’m on the road,” I say.
She sighs, a little forlorn. “And Ialwayscan’t wait for your calls.”
Time to cheer her up. Remind her that we have a regular routine. That I’m around a helluva lot. Half and half—that’s how the time split works with her mom. “Did you know I’ve been calling you from every single training camp since you were born? Even when you wereonlyeight months old?”
Her expression turns intensely serious. “I remember that.”
I bark out a laugh as we turn the corner. “You donotremember that. No one remembers stuff from when they were one. Or two, or three, or four, or five, for that matter.”
“Well, I’m six,” she says, like I don’t know her age. Like I need the reminder of how seismically my life changed that November day more than six years ago. When she was born, this little bundle of joy and chatter and brightness upended my days and nights, and I learned in an instant what it means to love someone so much it hurts. It hurts so good to love like this.
“I am well aware that you’re six and sassy. But still, you don’t remember me FaceTiming you from the Paleolithic era.”
She crinkles her nose. “What’s pale licks?”
“A long time ago. When dinosaurs roamed Earth.”
“Daddy!” she shouts in a fit of laughter. “I’m not that old, and you’re not either.”
“Oh, I’m pretty old. In football years, I’m definitely a dinosaur. But not a T. rex, because they can’t do anything with their teeny arms,” I say, flapping my left arm like it’s as useful as a big dino’s, while holding the pie high in my right hand like it’s a football.
Abby’s eyes widen to pizza size. “Be careful!”
I thrust the box even farther away with my outstretched arm. “Did you or did you not see my one-handed, game-winning catch in the Super Bowl this year? My second Super Bowl win, Miss I Remember Everything.”
But she’s lasered in on the pie, and only the pie. Back to sugar worry. “I justreallydon’t want you to drop the pie.”
“And Ireallydidn’t want to drop Armstrong’s thirty-three-yardpass,” I say, taking her back to that beautiful day in February. “So I didn’t.” I put her out of her misery, hauling the pie box back to my chest. “Better?”
A long sigh of relief is her answer. “I’ve been waiting all day for that cherry pie. But it feels like I’ve been waiting a year.”
“I know what you mean, but it’ll be okay. Promise,” I say. Because kid time is eternity.
We weave past a goateed guy pushing a sleeping toddler in a jogging stroller.
The guy stops. “Taylor? Harlan Taylor?”
“That’s me,” I say, hoping he’s a fan, not a hater. We have our share of both in this city. Any team does, and you never know who you’re going to run into.
But the dad breaks into a wide grin, pressing his hands together in a prayer. “Thank you for that catch. But please re-sign this year. If we lose you to another team, I will die.”
He’s exaggerating, of course. But he sure does sound like he’d be devastated if I went elsewhere in free agency. But it’s not up to me. I have no idea if the Renegades will re-up with an ex-running-back-turned-receiver who’s nearing the end of his playing days. I’m thirty-six, already on the long end of a long career.
“I’ll do my best to make sure you live,” I tell the fan as I offer my free palm to high-five. He smacks back, then continues on his way.
Abby and I do the same.
“It’s weird that you’re famous,” she says, reaching for my hand and swinging ours together again.
I scoff. “I’m not famous.”
“Please, Daddy. Don’t be silly. You’re sooooo famous. All the kids at school say so.”
“I’m onlykindof famous. And only locally. And only with sports fans.”
“That’s still famous, then,” she insists, and I can tell I won’t win this battle with her, so I relent.
“Fine. You win.”
