Page 61 of Last Slice of Pie

I never forgot the smile he gave me that day as James dragged him outside. Promises mean something to me, and since then, I’ve always saved him the last slice of pie. He knew if he opened the refrigerator, there would be a plate on the shelf, wrapped in clear plastic, just for him. No one ever bothered the plate, not even James.

Curling up in the middle of the bed, I hug a pillow to my chest and start to cry. I’ve mostly held it together pretty well over the last week—hell, even the last couple of months—but now here, alone in my bed, in the dark, I couldn’t stop the tears even if I wanted to. My heart is shattered into a thousand pieces, and my mind fuzzes over like a black cloud has moved in.

I cry for memories lost, I cry for memories I will never have, and I cry because at the end of the day, it hurts knowing I wasn’t enough. I thought he saw me, saw past the simple girl who ‘just’ makes pies, but I guess not. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished and who I am. It isn’t easy to do this all on my own like he thinks it is, but I’ve done it, and I’ll continue to do it because that’s who I am.

Who I am.

I think most people struggle at one point or another with who they are, and it’s taken me a really long time to get to where I am. Up until recently, I was doing okay. But, I’ve always felt like there was something missing in me. There has to be, right? Because I think if there wasn’t, it wouldn’t be so easy for people to leave me. They would appreciate me, and although I’m not like others, I’m unique and my own individual, and that would be celebrated and not overlooked.

At the end of the day, I know I’ll be fine. I’m always going to be fine, alone or not. Where there’s a will there’s a way, and given the state of my home, I can’t throw in the towel now. I’ve invested too much into it and into my career, which I love, no matter how simple others think it is. It’s what I have, and it’s something I can truly call my own.

Reaching for my phone, I touch the screen, and a picture of Bryan and me lights it up, lights up the room. There’s an ache deep in the pit of my soul, and I blink so a few more tears can escape. What to do, what to do . . .

A football player’s career can end in a split second. Who knows if he will ever get this opportunity again. And, as much as I hate admitting this, he’s alone just like I am. Yes, he has his team, but James and I are his only family, and James can’t go because he’s somewhere on the other side of the world. I still can, though. Even if I don’t tell him, I’ll know, and I’ll be cheering him on, supporting him like no one else.

What to do, what to do . . .

As the week passes, each day bringing it closer, I continue to worry about the promise, debating in my head and in my heart what to do. After all, pretty is as pretty does. Who I am on the inside, my character, my integrity? These are things that, no matter what, I’m not willing to compromise or change. I struggle with right and wrong, and as my heart tips the scale toward going, I’m not even sure how to get a ticket or if I can afford one. Then Friday morning, while drinking a cup of coffee, fate answers for me.

Camille: I have your tickets for the game. Bryan gave them to Reid before they flew out. Text me when you get to Seattle so we can meet up and I can give them to you.

Without hesitating, I text Meg to pack her bags. We are headed to Seattle.

Apple Pie

THERE ARE THESE moments in life that, no matter how many times we wish we could close our eyes and not see what’s about to happen, we always do, always will, and they alter us forever.

I called the play.

I knew the risks.

I should have called an audible.

When their defense lined up on the left side, I knew—hell, I think all our guys knew—they knew what play I was calling.

I’d like to say it was my confidence in our line and Jack’s ability to always complete the pass that made me stick with our original plan, but if I’m honest with myself, it’s because I felt like I was good enough to get the job done.

If you don’t consider the last couple of games, throughout my career, I’ve rarely been careless, but today I was.

The biggest game, on the biggest stage, with the world watching, I let my arrogance in and lost judgment when it was needed the most.

It’s my job to protect my team, but today I let them down.

Too little, too late.

I don’t know why, but I just knew today was going to be my day. I was going to be untouchable. Every practice, every sore muscle, every drop of sweat that’s ever fallen from my body—it was all going to be for this, sixty minutes of game time that were going to be mine.

Until they weren’t.

Two defenders, one from behind, the other from the side.

A career-ending hit for Jack.

In reality, it happened so fast, but for me it will play out in slow motion for the rest of my life.

I saw them; he didn’t. He was braced for the catch and the hit from the side, but not the one from the back. His foot was planted and ready for the side impact, but instead he was flung forward a full second early due to the hit from the back, and the angle of his leg was off as it took the tackle from the side. His knee bent in a way it shouldn’t, and the sheer pain on his face as he hit the ground . . . it may as well have been me.

What have I done?