He walks right over to Jim.
“Sorry about that, man. I was trying to show Saint something and the ball slipped.”
Translation: I meant to hit you and I dare you to say something about it.
Jim glares at Coop while holding the frozen Fiji water to his head.
“No problem, Barnes (he says without the Mr.). I know it wasn’t done on purpose.”
Translation: You did that totally on purpose, jackass.
“Jane … Owens are you two okay?” he asks us both.
“Totally fine, Mr. Barnes,” Jane answers. “The ball didn’t hit anyone but poor Mr. McKinney here.”
Coop picks up the football that he threw.
“Guess I’ll give this away. Owens, can you give me a Sharpie?”
I roll my eyes while I hand him a marker. Coop signs the ball, and hands it to one of the kids sitting closest to us.
“Here you go, kid.”
“Thank you, Mr. Coop!”
Practice continues on without Coop, and I can tell that he’s torn between getting back to it or staying to say something else. He looks up at me and then back down. Then to Jim and then back to me. By this point a group of fans have gotten their nerve up to ask him for an autograph and so the drill begins.
I hand Jane a stack of photos and a Sharpie and tell her what to do. “You try it today, Jane.”
She now stands in my usual spot and like the quick learner she is, she hands Coop what he needs as he works through the line. It’s just a small thing, but I enjoyed assisting with this part of the day. It brings so much joy to so many people just to have the opportunity to talk to a famous football player and get his autograph.
Now I’m sitting back and watching Jane take my place. Maybe it’s silly, but I feel kind of melancholy about it. Slowly but surely, he doesn’t need me anymore. Maybe he never did.
“Are you all right?” Jim asks.
“I should be asking you that. You’re the one who was attacked by a football.”
Jim chuckles. “I’ve been attacked by worse. Just out of curiosity, did you tell him what we talked about?”
I nod my head yes.
I realize that I gave Jim assurances that I would be discreet with the information he shared, and not go running off at the mouth, but Coop knows me too well. He could tell something was off. I had to spill the beans.
“I did.”
Coop scribbles an autograph on a photo and turns to watch us talking. His eyebrows scrunch together.
“Owens, can I talk to you privately for a moment?”
“Are you finished signing?”
He quickly hands the photo to a young woman.
“Thank you for supporting us today.” And then he turns his attention back to me.
“I’m done.”
I walk with him to the side of the field. Our arms swinging side by side, almost touching, but not quite.
