“One jersey, three brothers,” I say. “Tough math.”
“I get it Mondays and Thursdays!” the youngest one blurts.
I crouch to their level. “You guys play?”
Three vigorous nods.
“Remember, listen to your coaches. And your parents. And eat your vegetables.” I lower my voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “Though I’ll be honest, nobody ever got to the NFL by eating peas. And that’s scientifically proven.” I pretend to vomit and shake my head in disgust. “Nasty little green balls.”
Their laughter is worth the extra minutes in the tunnel. I signal Micah, who tosses over three footballs. After Orry, Boone, and I sign them, the smallest brother hugs his ball against his chest like it might float away.
“Dad,” the youngest whispers loudly, tugging at his father’s sleeve. “Ask him.”
The father looks embarrassed. “It’s nothing, really.”
“What’s up?” I ask, still crouched at kid-level.
“My son wanted to know if—” The father hesitates. “Well, if you’d mind doing the thing. You know, the…” He mimes a throwing motion.
I grin. “You want to see how far I can throw it?”
The kids erupt in cheers, and I stand, stretching my arm. It’s tired from four quarters of work, but this isn’t about showing off. It’s about three brothers who’ll remember this moment long after they’ve forgotten the score.
“How about this,” I say, pointing to the far end of the emptying field. “You guys run as far as you can, and I’ll see if I can get the ball to you.”
They take off like rockets, sprinting across the turf, each trying to outpace the others. The oldest looks back over his shoulder every few steps, afraid I might throw it before he’s ready. I wait until they’re good and far—probably sixty yards out—before I launch a perfect throw that lands right into the arms of the oldest kid. Of course, that means his brothers are going to tackle him, which makes his parents laugh.
“Thanks for doing that,” the dad says quietly. “They’ve been talking about meeting you for weeks.”
“It’s no trouble,” I tell him. “I was these guys once.”
And I was. Three brothers sharing everything, fighting over whose turn it was to wear the good jersey. The memory hits me like a linebacker, warm and painful at the same time.
“This is the best day of my entire life,” the oldest boy says,eyes wide with reverence as he and his brothers jog back to me and their dad.
“Until tomorrow,” I tell him, ruffling his hair. “Always gotta be looking ahead. Nice catch, by the way.”
As I walk down the tunnel, the controlled chaos of post-game surrounds me. There’s the usual mix of back slaps, equipment managers collecting gear, and media waiting for soundbites. I roll my shoulders, feeling the familiar ache settling in. Sunday away games always feel longer, the travel stretching everything out like taffy.
My phone buzzes in my locker. I’m expecting more heckling from my brothers, but instead, I see Sutton’s name. Something flips in my chest. Not nerves exactly, but awareness. Sharp and immediate and even a little bit warm.
Sutton
Nice game. Those pants still look ridiculous though.
I laugh out loud, earning a curious look from Bennett who’s peeling tape from his wrists nearby.
“What’s so funny?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say, but I can’t wipe the smile off my face as I type back.
Me
So you were actually watching? I’m flattered.
Her reply comes faster than I expect.
Sutton
