Page 52 of Play the Last Card
“Ivy.”
I fuss with the bed corner again, mumbling under my breath as I sweep a hand beneath the crisp sheet. They changed the sheets on Pops’ bed whilst we were having a short walk around the hospital floor yet they still couldn’t get the corners right.
I furiously swipe my hand along the crease, tucking the sheet between the heavy metal frame and the mattress.
“Ivy.”
I’m ignoring Pops and his insistence on talking about last weeks’ news cycle. I’m sick of seeing my face on ESPN. I’m sick of seeing Pops’ face on ESPN. Mostly though, I’m sick of seeing my dad’s.
The news had broken that Pops had gone into emergency surgery thanks to an old timer that was staying in the same ward. He’d been a big fan back in the day. He and Pops are roomed next door to each other and had apparently become friends. The old guy had seen Pops and called his daughter about the legendary Billy Booker going into surgery, she’d told her husband, who happened to be a reporter at one of the local papers.
It snowballed from there.
Soon enough, ESPN were knocking on the door and asking for comments from ‘the family’ left, right and center.
The ‘family’ being me. Just me.
“Ivy, stop it,” Pops says again, leaning forward in the bed to brush my hands away from the already perfect sheet corner. I glare at him before smoothing out his blankets anyway and moving toward the couch wherea basket of fresh laundry is sitting. I pick up a t-shirt, holding it up to fold it when Pops’ voice rings through the room again, loud and harsh.
“Put the shirt down, Ivy Grace. Now.”
I flinch. It is the same voice he always used when I’d gotten into trouble at school albeit, it wasn’t all that often that I’d had to hear it.
“You should fold these so you don’t get them mixed up with the dirty ones.” I try to keep my voice light, calm. He wants to rehash the past and I am not in the mood for it.
“Come sit here,” he says again, not as loud but still as scary as ever.
I sigh, dropping the shirt into the basket. I move over to the bed, sitting beside him as he settles back into the pillows. He leans over to the bedside for the remote, flicking on the television toESPN.
Great.
“I want to talk about this week. You’ve been on edge and we both know why.”
“I haven’t been—” The look he gives me has me swallowing hard and my shoulders slumping. I change directions. “I don’t want to talk about football. Not now. Not ever.”
“I know you don’t sweetheart but I think we should.” Pops gives me a small smile. “This week has been intense. Have you been watching the stories on the news much?”
“It’s been hard not to.” I cringe glancing towards the screen.
It’s Friday and the highlights they are playing look to be from last night’s game. For once, my dad’s face isn’t glaring back at me.
It started after the news broke of just rehashing Pops’ career. They dug up game highlights and old tapes. They talked about his impact as a quarterback in the sport and then in Boston. The local news picked up the story and, on what seemed to have been a very slow news day, they had decided to feature a two-night special just on the football legacy that was my family.
I love watching the local news. I like recognizing the places I’ve been to on the TV and I like keeping up to date with what’s going on in thecity that I live in. I often sit in front of the six o’clock news with a glass of wine and a pile of work, making my way through it while the newsreader does feel good stories on local activists or small business owners.
However, they ruined my nightly ritual last Monday when the opening story had a cover picture of my family; Pops, Nan, me, and my parents.
Where had they even got the photo?
It looked to be one that had been taken in my dad’s sophomore year in college. I was a baby in my mother’s arms. I suspect someone had sent it in from the university.
It definitely wasn’t one of mine, not from the box I keep tucked safely under my bed.
The newsreader had deep dived into Pops’ career with the Broncos, talked about his family life and raising his son. About raising me. They even touched on the lesser-known fact that Pops had a small ownership in the team, something I didn’t even think was public knowledge but the station had done their research well it seemed.
Then after they’d played a five-minute-long highlight reel of Pops’ games—similar to the one ESPN had played the night after Pops’ surgery—they moved onto my dad.
Pictures of him in his high school football uniform had been splashed across my TV. Him holding a state trophy, him scoring a touchdown, him posing for the team picture surrounded by the team. A picture of him and my mom at the senior prom. They had been laughing on stage, the crowns of their prom king and queen awards sitting lopsided on their heads.