It’s also…a way for him to be there.
To be seen.
To be present without sitting in a cold gym with bleachers that will cause him pain and wear him out even more.
“Okay,” I say quietly.
Pops’s smile softens, satisfaction fading into something gentler. “Good.”
Then he points at the letters like he’s diagramming a play. “And don’t cover it up with a sweatshirt or some shit like that.”
I squint. “You want me to walk in there wearing that like I’ve lost a bet?”
Pops’s mouth twitches. “You did lose a bet.”
“Who did I bet?” I demand.
“Me,” Pops says, deadpan. “And I win. Every time.”
I huff a laugh that actually makes it to my chest. “You’re gonna get me arrested.”
Pops shrugs like it’s fine. “For being supportive? What a crime.”
I shake my head, still staring at the shirt. “You do realize I belong to the rival college, right? This is humiliating. ”
Pops lifts a brow. “So is missing a wide-open slant route, but I’ve watched you do that too.”
I cannot believe he just went there. “That was one time,” I sputter.
“That wasmultipletimes,” he corrects.
“You’re mean,” I mutter.
Pops smiles, tired and pleased. “I’m a coach.”
I swallow hard, because behind the joke is the truth: hewasalways loud and shameless and proud about his kids.
It’s how he loved.
“Be in my seat,” Pops says quietly.
My throat tightens. “Yeah.”
“And when she looks for me,” he adds, softer, “let her know I’m watching.”
I nod once because I can’t trust my voice. “I will.”
Pops pats my shoulder, then steps back like he didn’t just hand me something heavy enough to crush me.
“Go,” he says. “Before she comes back and decides this is child abuse.”
I glance down at the shirt again.
Then back at him.
“Go,” he repeats, softer.
So I do.
