“But you’re better at holding up the frames with those freaky long arms so I can take a look.”
“Yeah, great.” I nip her earlobe before putting her down. “And you’ll have me holding them up ten different ways before making up your mind.”
“So dramatic.” She walks over to a paint can and puts the top on it. “How’s Jelly doing?”
I had been over at his house for a couple of hours hanging out. Jelly was still getting over the death of his coach but he’s back in playing form. He and Monica are now officially engaged.
After returning from Texas last Thanksgiving, we confessed all to them because we knew they’d keep it secret. They’d been surprisingly understanding; Monica especially, having shrugged and said that’s Hollywood.
As for the rest of the world, we’re having a long engagement. Not that I think many people care much anymore. They’re hung up on my Super Bowl win right now. Mainly because I made history by becoming the first rookie quarterback to ever win. Some days it doesn’t seem real. Other days, it doesn’t really matter. The only game that counts is the one you’re playing. The past is just that.
“Jelly’s good.” I leaf through the movie posters and pause at a familiar one. “The Lord of the Rings?”
“I consider that the Luck family movie.”
I laugh, feeling nostalgic about it now. “True.” Curious, I keep looking through the other ones. But it’s not a movie poster that has my hand stilling. Heart in my throat, I lift my head. “What’s this?”
But I know. I just can’t believe . . .
Pen moves to my side and looks at the framed photo blown up poster size. It’s of me backlit by the stadium lights, hair slick with sweat, arm upraised in victory and holding my helmet as I shout my joy at an equally joyous group of teammates.
“I love that photo.” She leans against my arm with a soft smile.
“I didn’t think you would be so into my games. But I love that you are now.”
Shaking her head as though I’m being ridiculous, she then looks up at me. “Pickle?”
“Yeah?” My attention is divided between her and the photo.
“I’ve watched every game you ever played.”
Though softly spoken, her words slam into me, and I’m left unsteady.
“What?”
Deep brown eyes hold mine calmly. “Every game. Ever.”
“I . . . You . . . Really?”
At that, she walks to the desk and picks up her phone, thumbing the screen as she comes back to me. From over her shoulder, I peer at the phone as she finds a folder entitled “AugustGames.”
“Here.” She hands me the phone.
I’m clumsy with it, unable to get my fingers to work at first. But then I scroll through the images saved. And something inside me breaks open. Years of articles, pictures saved, stats. She has it all. Emotion wells up from deep in my chest.
“I kept these as well.” She’s holding a shoebox filled with papers.
My hands shake as I accept the box. I swear, I’ve got to sit down. But I hold it together and examine the contents. Shock bolts through my chest as I riffle through old ticket stubs from my middle and high school games. A program from homecoming. Little pieces of my career lovingly saved.
My gaze darts to Penelope.
“I told you.” She shrugs with a small smile. “I’ve loved you all my life. Your games have always meant something to me.”
Slowly but deliberately, I set down the phone and the box, then reach for her. I wrap her up tight and hold her as close as possible. For a long moment, I simply breathe her in. I don’t know what to say. I’ve never felt this... loved.
“Pen,” I finally manage. “You’re going to make me cry.”
She gives me a squeeze, then pats my chest. “It’s okay, big guy.”
