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ChapterSixteen
Jett
My fucking kid.I’m not sure how to answer him, but I can see the blush covering my woman’s face. We’ve had several heart-to-hearts about our future, so she knows where I’m at, and thankfully, we’re on the same page. However, right now, the priority is Dusty’s recovery which is what she insisted on getting through first when I wanted to move ahead. We’ll be staying at her place since the doors are wider, which will make it easier for him to maneuver in the wheelchair he’s going to be using for a few months.
Instead of answering him, I move closer to Sunday and lean down to brush a kiss across her temple. “You decided to hang with him during your break?” I ask, grinning at the two of them.
“Yeah, it was either that, or cramming it down while I counted out supplies,” she teases. “No, seriously, I figured he would enjoy ‘real’ food compared to what he’s been getting, so I brought him a sandwich. If I had known you’d be here too, I’d have made an extra one for you.”
“I’m good, sweetheart. Just swung by to see what he wants me to pick up to eat later.”
“It doesn’t matter, Dad,” Dusty replies. “You pick, okay?”
“Well, you two, I’ve enjoyed it tremendously, but I need to head back to work,” Sunday announces, picking up the trash and throwing it away.
“I’ll walk you down,” I offer, grinning at her.
“Thanks, Sunday!” Dusty exclaims.
“Anytime, little man.”
* * *
Between the rollercoasterride of Dusty nearly dying, us all feeling the aftereffects of losing Timmers, and getting plays mapped out for the state championship game, I feel worn out, but despite that, I can’t help the smile that I’m sporting as Sunday wheels Dusty around her house while her two kittens ride on his lap.
In typical fashion, he’s chattering a mile a minute while I unpack his stuff in the spare room that Sunday set him up in. Walking out of the room once I’m done, I find them in the kitchen where he’s regaling her with stories about the nurses he had during his stay.
“They’re all good, Dusty,” she chides, sliding a tray of fries in the oven. “Some have been there longer, of course, but they know their stuff, I promise.”
“Yeah, I know, but one of them was really young, and every time I’d ask her a question, she’d run out to the desk and talk to the person behind it, then she’d come back to answer me. I don’t think she knows all the stuff yet, Sunday,” he states, sipping on his glass of chocolate milk.
“Could it be because you asked her stuff that was totally unrelated to your care?” she teases, handing me a beer.
“I don’t know, maybe,” he huffs out. “But grown-ups should know stuff that kids don’t, right?”
She shakes her head and replies, “Dusty, you asked her if she knew how to operate a forklift!”
I snicker, because when he’s bored, like he was the past few days, he tends to think up bizarre scenarios. “What was her response?” I ask, curious now about how she handled my son.
“She said that she actually did because she worked in a warehouse as a teenager and even had her certification! I think that’s pretty cool,” he says, grinning at me.
“Well, I think we need an early night because the game is tomorrow and it’s going to be a long day for all of us,” I retort as Sunday brings plates to the table.
* * *
“Ladies and gentlemen,please direct your attention to the scoreboard,” the announcer requests.
I take a deep breath, knowing what’s about to happen; a tribute to Timmers, which I suspect will have many in the audience weeping. He was a phenomenal kid and I know I’ll miss him. Collectively, the people in the stands swivel their heads up to the board, where pictures of Timmers throughout his playing seasons flash on the screen in succession.
“Several weeks ago, Michael Timmers, number eighty-five on the Possum Run Polecats, was involved in a fatal accident that cost him his life, and critically injured his head coach’s eleven-year-old son. Timmers was an all-state wide receiver, and already had numerous colleges vying for him to commit to their school. In addition to his impressive record on the field, he was an Eagle Scout, held a grade point average of 4.0, and had other colleges wanting to give him a full academic ride. While the Falls Ridge Red Devils and the Possum Run Polecats may be rivals between the lines for four quarters, the loss of this young man is felt within our football community. Both teams are wearing his number on their helmets in remembrance of this fine young man, and the Falls Ridge Alumni Association has set out a donation jar at the concession stand to help his family with anything they need.”
Knowing everyone’s attention is now on me and my team, I call them in and say, “This game, regardless of the outcome, will probably be one of the most important ones you ever play. Let’s honor your friend and teammate, Timmers’ memory, and give it everything we’ve got. Just know that no matter what the final score ends up being, I’m beyond proud of each and every one of you boys. You’ve stood tall, come to practice even though you’re all hurting, and been there for his family. Small towns are sometimes given a bum rap because everyone seems to know everything about what’s going on, but in this case, the tragedy we suffered has brought this team closer and has united us, giving us a purpose. Now, get your minds set on what we’ve gotta do, which is play hard until the last whistle blows.”
“For Timmers!” Junior yells, putting his hand in the middle of our circle.
One by one, each of the boys, as well as all of us coaches, put our hands in to join theirs, then in unison we shout, “For Timmers!”
As I walk over to the fence where Dusty is set up, I see my woman has given him a warm blanket to ward off the chill, along with a goofy hat which has him grinning. “You good to go?”
