I folded it back up and put it in my wallet. It was still there, creased and worn from me checking it too often, like proof. Like it would make my life go back to normal.
The fight started the minute my parents saw the papers. Mom crying, Dad pacing, both of them talking over each other about stability, about how a single football player couldn’t raisea child. About how I didn’t understand what I was agreeing to. That Nat couldn’t really mean that I’d parent Miles.
They weren’t wrong. I didn’t know what I was doing.
However, Nat and I had often teamed up against our parents. Whenever one of them made a comment about Nat’s horrible life choices—she was a bartender and made bank—she’d ignore them. They’d huff every time I talked about football because “it wasn’t a long career for me” and I’dforgetto check in with them for a bit.
They were inconsiderate, and all their flaws had amplified more since Nat died.
But when Miles woke up from a nap that first week and asked if he could still have pancakes the way his mom made them—three little ones stacked like a tower, syrup only in the middle—I learned how to watch him fast.
Now the tower pancakes were my Sunday ritual. I could braid a shoelace, pack a lunch, readDragons Love Tacoswithout glancing at the words. I could also sign a hundred condolence cards I never wanted to read and smile through a thousand versions ofyou’re doing great, man.
I wasn’t doing great. I was holding it together because the alternative would break both of us, and if there was one thing I loved more than football in my life, it was Miles. My life wasn’t about just me anymore.
“Uncle Noah!” Miles tugged my hand again, pointing toward the tunnel that opened onto the field. “Can we run on it?”
“Not today, bud. The team’s about to warm up. But we can watch.”
I flashed my badge to the security guard and walked us down the ramp. The noise got louder, the kind of low buzz that always settled in my bones before a game. Normally, that sound flipped a switch in my head—go mode. Today, it just felt heavy.
Miles stopped at the edge of the turf, eyes wide. “It’s so green.”
“Yeah. They take good care of it.” I smiled despite the tightness in my chest. “Wanna meet some of the guys?”
He nodded hard enough to knock his cap sideways.
A few teammates jogged past, tossing easy greetings. I got the usual questions—how’s the kid, you good, you need anything—but I could see the relief in their eyes when I saidfine.Nobody wanted the long version. The only people who barged their way into my life to help were my teammate Oliver James and our team mental health doc, Sloane Mercer. They helped me watch Miles when life became overwhelming, and I wasn’t sure what I’d do without them.
Miles was shy at first, hiding behind my leg, until our kicker crouched to his height and let him hold a football. Within five minutes he was explaining that he could throw “super far, almost to the moon.” The kicker swore that was probably a team record.
I laughed and checked my watch. The team meeting was in ten minutes. “Hey, we gotta get you to your seat before warmups, champ.”
He groaned but nodded, already clutching the foam finger someone had given him. We walked back toward the stands. I found the family section near the fifty-yard line and knelt to his level.
“You remember the rule?” I asked.
“No running away.”
“Good. Stay right here, and Ivy’ll keep an eye on you until I come back.”
He looked past me, eyes lighting up the same way my sister’s always did. “She’s got snacks!”
“Don’t eat all her snacks,” I warned, standing. I was the onewho had to try to get him in bed later. The more sugar he had, the harder the battle was.
Ivy Emerson, our team trainer, gave me a sympathetic smile. She’d been fantastic too. Hell, she was with me the day I got the call and drove me to the hospital. “Go do your thing, Abbott. He’s fine with me.”
I thanked her and jogged back toward the tunnel, rolling my shoulders to shake off the tightness. Game mode. Focus. Helmet. Pads. The whole routine. Except none of it felt normal anymore. The weight hit me in the chest, and I ignored it, which I’d done for two months.
The locker room noise hit in layers: music thumping, guys chirping, the rip of tape. I moved through the routine on muscle memory. Checked my stance marks. Glove fit. Thumb spica tight but not numb. Two quick sets of pass pro footwork in the aisle. Call sheet in my waistband, protections already running on a loop with Booth’s voice in my head.
I should have felt settled. Clearance in the chart. Legs under me again. Instead, my brain kept toggling to the other playbook. Kindergarten waitlists. Background checks for the nanny agency. Who could cover the Thursday night away game when daycare closed at six. The team’s family room was solid but not for fourteen-hour days. Ivy had texted me the names of two sitters the players’ partners trusted. I had Miles’s inhaler in my backpack, an extra pair of socks, and the emergency contact forms folded into quarters in my wallet next to Nat’s letter.
I jogged up the tunnel with my helmet, and the noise swelled. Habit pulled my eyes to the hashmarks, then the sideline. A flash of matte black caught the light by the promo table. Community relations had a setup going, staff in team gear, new pieces on display.
I almost kept moving until one of them turned.
Em.
