Page 123 of Play the Last Card
“Mom, what is this?” I glance at Scott as he picks up the photo.
“It’s a UCLA versus Boston game. I believe it’s one of the only ones Matty Booker played in. When we saw the video reel from your Pops memorial, I knew his face looked familiar but I wasn’t sure why. So I went looking.”
“That game … you were at that game?” I ask Annabel, looking between her and Jason. Annabel’s brow furrows but she nods.
“We took Scott. He was just starting to show interest in football and we were donors to the university. We got free tickets and thought he would enjoy it. He watched Matty the entire time. Wouldn’t take his eyes off him. So when we were let onto the field after the game I caught him after the media interviews to get a picture of Scott and him.”
“I don’t—I don’t remember that game,” Scott replies quietly, still clutching the photograph in his hands.
“You were just a kid, son.” Jason places a hand on Scott’s shoulder. We’re all silent, just staring at the photo still in Scott’s hand.
“I was there,” I murmur quietly, the memory flooding back in. Scott’s head whips to me.
“What? How?”
“I was only a baby,” I say quietly, more to myself than anyone else as I pull out my phone from the back pocket of my jeans. I scroll through my photo albums, looking for the private one I kept my parents hidden away in for all these years. I click on the album and unlock it.
There it is.
The very last photo I saved.
The one Uncle Jeff sent me the night of the party at the bar where Scott and I talked in the alley.
It’s from the same day. Sitting on my mom’s hip and staring at my dad. It is my new favorite picture of the three of us.
But there is no mistaking it. It’s the same game, the same day.
“Matty is the reason Scott asked to play football. After that game, as soon as he could he begged us to get him into peewee.” Annabel wraps my hand up in her own. “Scott, pass the picture.”
He does and she holds it up to me.
“You see there?” She points to the figures standing just behind Dad’s shoulder.
A woman in a football jersey and jeans, holding a baby on her hip, smiling gently at her husband taking a photo with a young fan.
It’s a little blurry, a little smudged, but she’s there.
My mom. And me.
“Oh my god.” Tears well in my eyes and blink them away, not wanting to get the photo damaged.
Strong, muscled arms circle my waist again and Scott pulls me back into his chest in this kitchen for the second time today. He rests his chin on my shoulder, staring down at the picture.
“Look at that,” he whispers.
I swallow, closing my eyes. My hand is shaking but I don’t let go of the picture. When I open them again, Annabel and Jason are quietly moving away from the kitchen, giving Scott and I a moment of privacy.
“You were there,” he says.
“I can’t believe this.” I turn slightly, looking at where he’s resting on my shoulder. “What are the odds?”
“Oh, I dunno.” He retreats from my shoulder and spins me in his arm. “Maybe, somehow, your dad had a hand in driving me here. To Boston. To you.”
“What? Like fate?” I scoff, unsure if I want to laugh or cry.
“Yeah, baby.” He drops his lips to mine, pressing a gentle kiss to my lips. “Like fate.”
The tether I felt weeks ago when my head was still waging war against the idea of being a part of his world and dragging up my unresolved grief, tightens and draws us ever closer. I look back down at the picture as Scott’s arms lock around my waist.