Page 72 of Play the Last Card

The adoption process had gotten them down, tired. They had still been committed to adopting but every time they signed a new form, sat in another interview, Mom had told me it felt so transactional to her.

Then Dad slipped doing something he’d done a million times. Like someone calling the shots had nudged his hand and led them to the hospital at that moment. Mom’s heart had broken, staring at the boy until she couldn’t take it anymore. She moved to the side of the hospital bed, pushing her way through the crowd of nurses, picked me up and held me tightly to her chest.

Only then, in the comfort of her arms, did my five-year-old self stop crying.

My parents saved my life. I love them dearly, and I know there is nothing I will ever be able to do to make it up to them.

Except, maybe in Mom’s mind, giving them grandchildren.

I shake my head. “You know I have no interest in meeting that woman. Why would you ask that?”

“Because you’re in Boston now. She might still be there. You might get some sort of closure if you reach out. She is your birth—”

“I’m gonna head to bed. Think about the trip, okay? No RV.”

Mom frowns and opens her mouth, looking like she might try to argue. Instead she simply nods.

“Fine. We’ll talk about it. Maybe we can come see some of your home games in the next few weeks in Boston.”

I force a smile, my hand itching to take another sip of the whiskey. “That’d be great.”

“Scott?” I hum in response; the whiskey finally kicking in and sleep starts to take its hold. “I’m sure if you talk to Ivy it will work out. Do it in person, none of this texting crap you kids do these days. If you want her, you will fix it. I know you will. I love you.”

“Love you too, Mom.”

Chapter Fifteen

Scott

I didn’t sleep awink on the overnight flight back to Boston.

We lost.

I played with a headache and felt like shit, my mind reeling with thoughts of Ivy, and Boston, and my birth mother. The briefest of mention of her and I was completely thrown off. I don’t blame my mom. I could tell when the question had all but fallen out of her mouth the other night that she was worried and wanting to ask for a while. I avoided their calls after the whole situation with Ivy and I had no doubt that it had sparked Mom’s anxiety. That’s on me.

Ivy.

Fuck, I miss her.

I can’t get her out of my head and it is messing with my focus. My throws are getting sloppy. I’m disconnected from the receivers, missing their route changes and their cues. The loss was entirely on me and everyone knows it. I am never one to scroll through social media, especially after a game, but in an effort to distract myself from my own thoughts on the way home I do exactly that. The comments from the fans are brutal.

Scott Harvey needs to get his head out of his own ass and learn the plays.

We want a ring; Harvey isn’t the man to get us there.

Scott Harvey just played the shittest game of football in the history of the sport … trade him, please!

Football fans are savage but there is nothing they can say that could make me feel worse.

I’m the first to beat myself up after a loss.

“You okay over there?” I look up from my phone, slowing my pace as Flynn catches up with me on the way to the parking lot. His gaze flickers between me and my phone. “You shouldn’t read that shit. It fucks with your focus.”

“My focus is already fucked.” I lock my phone screen and shove it in my pocket.

“You told Ivy, huh?” Flynn sighs, clapping a hand to my shoulder as we approach my Mercedes.

“Yep.”