Page 114 of Play the Last Card

The crowd is almost completely full and they fall into a silence I have never heard in all my time playing in stadiums all over the country.

A video is broadcast across the big screens of Billy’s career. They play a highlight reel of his life. They show his laughing, smiling face. His eyes crinkled when he was younger the same way they did when I knew him. His smile was just as infectious. He had a big personality, it’s obvious. They show him as a player, they show him as a teammate. As a member of the organization.

And they show him as a father.

The videos are home videos. Billy with his son: throwing a football in the backyard when Matty wouldn’t have been more than one or two, Billy running the sideline of a pee-wee football field yelling encouragement, Billy at a high school football game and showing off the Booker jersey with his son’s number.

Something catches in my throat as I watch a young version of Ivy’s father wrap his arms around Billy and smile for the camera. He’s pointing at his Harvard jersey.

Number eighteen.

“Holy fuck,” Flynn swears under his breath. “Did you know he wore your number?”

I shake my head. “No. I mean, I saw him play once. But I didn’t remember his number.”

“Ivy never mentioned it?”

“Ivy doesn’t talk about her dad.”

My eyes search the crowd around us, desperate to find her. Coach told me she was going to be here, so I switch up my aim and look for him instead.

Toward the end of the video, I see him walking out of the tunnel and to the stage.

His arm is thrown over Ivy’s shoulders.

To my surprise, she is wearing my jersey. The number eighteen is navy on the white jersey. She’s got a pair of blue jeans and knee-high boots, with a white long-sleeve shirt poking out and covering her arms.

My heart soars at the thought of her wearing my number on a day like today but as she gets closer, I notice the small differences. The subtle changes that have been made to the Broncos uniform throughout the years.

She’s not wearing my number.

She’s wearing her dad’s.

Coach presses a kiss into the side of her head, patting her shoulder like any father would before leaving her by the edge of the stairs to the stage. He takes two at a time and heads for the microphone.

“Broncos fans, thank you.” He pauses, waiting for the cheers of the crown to die. “Billy Booker was a legend. A hall of fame player. A father. A grandfather. Most of all to me, he was a friend. I had the pleasure of knowing him for the last half of his life. I was his son’s college football coach and I was close with his family after Matty’s passing.”

My eyes drag back to Ivy. She’s twisting her fingers over and over as she clasps them in front of herself. Coach goes on, talking about the life Billy had. His involvement in the organization, his love for football.

I keep my eyes on Ivy though.

She keeps flinching. It’s as if the words Coach is saying are physically hurting her.

“Billy was a proud grandfather. And today, to pay special tribute, his granddaughter Ivy would like to say a few words.”

My head snaps back to Coach and then quickly back to Ivy. She steels herself with a deep breath, her shoulders rising and falling, before she takes the stairs onto the stage.

Her face is duplicated over and over across the big screens. It’s zoomed in and her features are as clear as day. The cheeks I so love to stroke with my thumb while I hold her at the perfect angle to drop a kiss onto her lips. The hair I absently fiddle with in the mornings as we slowly wake up. The lips that are mine, and mine alone, to kiss.

Something like jealousy rises in my chest and suddenly I don’t love the fact there are a million cameras pointing at her for everyone to see what’s mine.

I’m caught up in my cave man like thinking as she starts to speak. Her voice breaking through and tugging at me as if she herself pulled on the invisible tether that seems to exist between us.

I’m already walking toward the stage when she leans into the microphone.

“Pops was … he was my everything.” Ivy starts, her quiet voice amplified throughout the stadium. “When my … my …”

I take two steps at a time and stride out onto the stage. The crowd starts cheering and yelling and making enough noise that Ivy pauses and glances over her shoulder.