The Hail Mary

by Ginger Scott

  “I always want to hear you. Every single thing you have to say. But I need you to hear me too. I promise to talk if you do.”

  When I look up, hopeful eyes and sorry lips wait for me to say okay. And so I do. I say okay to venting on paper when I can’t vent in person. I say okay to what mentally leaves me kicking and screaming. I say okay to risking my favorite person to a game because if I don’t, he won’t be the same anyway.

  Trig scared him, but he was afraid before that. I saw this same boy look at me with a terrified expression when he broke his arm in a car crash and when he had to watch from the sidelines. I can’t be the one who takes this game away from him for good.

  But one day, time will. It’s inevitable.

  I think I might write that down for him to read when he needs to.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Nolan

  I started writing things on slips of paper when Reed went to practice Saturday morning, and I couldn’t stop. I filled that box with my worst thoughts, just to get them out. I ripped through an entire hotel notepad, and I started using receipts from my purse and random scraps from magazines next.

  By early afternoon, the crumpled pieces of paper were nearing the top. And I felt terrible. Without adding one more, I poured the papers into the trash, then dumped water on them and topped them with the leftovers from my room-service lunch.

  I had to go downstairs to get a new pad of paper, and this time, the writing has not come easy. My phone saves me from drowning mentally. It’s Peyton, and I hope she’s managed to start acting less like a hermit.

  “Hi.” I’m smiling just answering her call.

  “I need advice.”

  She doesn’t ease me into this, and I swallow hard at her statement. The last time she asked me for advice, it was for what color pony she should pick out with her birthday money. I have a feeling this advice is different.

  “Okay,” I say, trying to mask my nervous hesitation.

  “Bryce came by today…a few times, actually.” I recognize the weakening resolve in her voice. I’ve been there.

  “Did you see him?” I need to know how far gone she is. First loves are really more like spells. Hell, if mine wasn’t a doozy.

  “No. I made Grandma Rose answer the door.”

  “Good. I mean, if you think that’s good,” I say.

  She doesn’t answer right away, and I think that means she isn’t sure if it’s good. I think it also means she wants to see him. That’s what it would have meant for me, if I were in her shoes and Reed were in Bryce’s. Those shoes feel mighty familiar.

  “He brought me a present,” she says.

  “Is it a pony?” I laugh, but when I realize she isn’t, I apologize. “I’m sorry. I’ll be serious.”

  “It was a photocopy of this letter his mom wrote to him—more of a list, really.”

  I’m intrigued.

  “What kind of list?” I ask.

  “It was all of these things she hoped for him. Things she wanted him to be. She gave it to him for his twelfth birthday, I guess,” Peyton says.

  “Wow.” My eyes go to my once-again empty box.

  “He made notes on the copy he gave me, drawing arrows to all of the places he wrote that he failed. His mom wrote that she wanted him to be a gentleman, and he circled it and wrote that he was so sorry he disrespected me. When she asked him to be strong on the list, he circled that and said he had been weak. Mom, I don’t know what to do…”

  I can hear the tears she’s trying to mask. A pair form in my eyes to match my daughter’s.

  “What do you want to do?” I close my eyes tight and think about this question, how I sound. I’m echoing my own mom and the advice she gave me so many times—she still does.

  “I don’t know; that’s why I called!” Her words are laced with heavy, teenaged sighs.

  I laugh silently to myself and shake my head, wiping away the beginning tears. My, how life comes full circle. And it’s amazing how much wiser a person really is when they’re older.

  “You know. You’re just afraid you’ll get it wrong,” I say, shrugging. This conversation is as much for me as it is for Peyton.

  “He was an asshole, Mom.” I nod as she speaks.

  “Yeah. He was.” I agree, and that frustrates her even more, her huffing sound buzzing the phone line. I chuckle at it, and that only makes her groan.

  “You’re not helping!”

  I press my palm against my mouth to stifle my laugh. I can’t believe I’m here, in this conversation, in so many ways.

  “Okay, okay,” I start, closing my eyes and calming my urge to smirk. It isn’t fair to Peyton. This is serious to her. It’s serious to all girls when we’re in it. It was serious to me, and look at where I am now…look who I married.

  “What I mean is this—I think you want to hear him out. I think you’d like to see if you can talk to him and believe his apology. I think you like him a lot and aren’t ready to stop liking him, even though you’re mad. And I think you should be mad if that’s what you really want to be, for as long as you want. I also think it’s fine if you want to kick him to the curb.”

  “Oh my god, we don’t say things like that anymore,” she heaves out.

  “Like what? Kick to the curb?”

  “Ugh,” she breathes again.

  I chuckle silently and wait for a few seconds for seriousness to reclaim its rightful place for this conversation.

  “You’re not hearing the right part of what I said…” I wait for her to catch up to me. We sit listening to each other breathe for almost thirty seconds.

  “I know what you’re saying,” she concedes. I don’t want her just taking my suggestion though. This still has to be her own conclusion; it has to be hers, not someone else’s—mine or some group of girls who think they know what’s right for her.

  “Maybe I’m full of shit, Peyton. But if that is how you feel, what’s stopping you?”

  It’s silent between us for several more seconds, and eventually Peyton starts to hum in thought, stammering and nervous about what to say.

  “It’s just me. Remember our rules—you can say anything to me,” I remind her. So far, that’s always been the case, but this is the first time that rule is truly being tested. God, do I hope it holds up.

  “Other people saw him…with her. She has a lot of friends, too. And what will people think of me…if I just act like it didn’t happen? They’ll think I’m weak.” Her breath hitches at the admission, but my mouth tightens into a proud grin. What she just said out loud was so hard. She’s miles ahead of the woman I was. Hell, she’s miles ahead of me now.

  “So?”

  I look at my reflection in the hotel mirror while I wait for my daughter to respond.

  “So…people will think that I’m wrong. That I shouldn’t trust him, or whatever…”

  “Should you?” I keep asking the obvious—the questions she’s asking herself.

  “I don’t know!” she growls.

  “How can you know?” I wait again, knowing this realization will take her a little longer. After a few seconds, she breathes out into the phone.

  “By talking to him,” she says.

  And now, for the big question.

  “So, what do you want to do? Forget about what other people think you should do. Are you safe with him?”

  “Always,” she answers quickly.

  “Do you think he would hurt you? Physically? Emotionally? On purpose?”

  “No!”

  Those were always the big things my mom asked when we talked about Reed in high school. That was always her line in supporting whatever decision I made, and that line holds true for me as well. If she decides to forgive him, I can still make him pay a little with those little digs here and there—and by unleashing Reed on his ass.

  “I really liked the letter his mom gave him. I was thinking of maybe making my own list…for him. Is that stupid?” I smirk and think about her idea, how we all could use a list like that.
<
br />   “I think it’s good idea,” I say, flipping the lid on my box open and drilling my focus into the woodgrain.

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  Something about her saying that hits the center of my chest. It’s not that she hasn’t said it before, it’s just that, yeah…it’s been a while.

  “Anytime, Peyt. Always,” I say, feeling a little more centered when we hang up.

  I twist the pad of paper in my direction and hold the pen an inch above the surface, pausing for a second before writing.

  YOU ARE AN AMAZING FATHER.

  I put the paper in the box and add to it with a few more.

  NOBODY THROWS A HAIL MARY LIKE REED JOHNSON.

  YOUR FRIENDSHIP GIVES PEOPLE JOY.

  YOU MAKE YOUR DAD SO PROUD, EVERY SINGLE DAY.

  And finally…

  YOU ARE THE LOVE OF MY LIFE.

  There. That’s enough for now. Quality over quantity, I think. I close the lid and grab my box. It’s no longer filled with venting rants but with things I think Reed needs to know—things I think he sometimes forgets. By the time I’m done with this box, he’ll be able to take a handful out and see just how much is still inside. He’ll see everything he still is, even if he can’t always be it all.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Reed

  I’ve chatted with Chaplain Cruz a few times, but always in passing—his way in, my way out, or the opposite. He’s always here for someone else. He’s the guy they send in to deal with the death of a loved one. I was gone so long when my mom passed away, by the time I got back, I didn’t really need his services.

  I kinda don’t think I need them now.

  “Hey, Reed. Nice to see you throwing the ball. Looking good, man!” He holds out his hand across a small wooden table covered in health magazines. I take his palm and shake before we both sink in to the deep leather chairs that face one another.

  “Thanks. Body hurts a little more than it used to, but somehow the guys are catching my crap,” I say with a laugh. He joins me, but shakes his head.

  “I’m pretty sure that arm of yours is a long way from crap.” His smile settles in as his hands fold over his chest, his belly covered with the OKC sweatshirt that most of the staff wears. He has a championship ring on his hand; I nod to it.

  “You must have been the man behind the man for that one, huh?” I flit my eyes up to his then back down to the ring. He splays his fingers out between us then pulls the heavy metal jewelry from his ring finger and tosses it to me. I catch it like an egg.

  “That was with New York. Only one I got, but man did those guys keep me busy. Something about New Yorkers, I guess,” he says, chuckling while I spin the ring between my fingers. I’ve held them before—envied them plenty. I nod and pass it back to him, jealous of one more man now.

  “Pretty nice,” I say.

  “The wife hates it,” he spits out, a guttural laugh echoing down the empty hallway of the stadium corridor.

  My brow wrinkles. How could anyone hate a championship ring?

  “I mean, it’s ugly as sin. You have to admit that,” he says, dropping it back over his knuckle. “And it’s bigger than hers, which let me tell you, she brings up every anniversary, birthday, Christmas, Valentine’s Day…”

  “Ah, yeah. I get it,” I say, smiling and instantly appreciating my wife’s preference for T-shirts over jewelry.

  It gets quiet when our laughter dies down, and we both take turns sighing, readjusting our crossed legs and positions in the chairs. I’m not sure how this works. I’m not even entirely sure why Coach thought I needed to be here. Eventually, I just bring my gaze up to the Chaplain’s waiting eyes and shrug with a tight-lipped smile.

  He nods with a smirk.

  “Football players aren’t so great at talking about feelings,” he says.

  I nod and roll my eyes in agreement.

  “To be honest, I’m not really sure why I’m here. I mean, I’m fine…” I glance to my side, thinking about the progress I made with Nolan, the way we talked and the honesty I shared with her. I’m lightyears ahead of my normal.

  “Why don’t we just talk about how things are going?” His voice is easy, and I admire his way. I’m also a little suspicious because people don’t just talk to Chaplain Cruz.

  “A’right,” I say, tilting my head slightly and eyeing him.

  “You have a daughter, yeah? What’s her name?”

  “Peyton,” I answer.

  He lifts his chin and smiles.

  “That’s right. I met her and your wife a couple years ago.”

  “All-Star Game, and it was four years.” Four long years since I was worthy of throwing a ball with the best. That’s going to change.

  “How are they both?”

  His question feels natural, so I relax a little more.

  “They’re good. I mean, Peyton’s a teenager, and she is a lot like I was. She thinks she’s good and meanwhile…”

  “Your wife’s going crazy,” he fills in for me with a knowing laugh.

  “Something like that, yeah,” I say.

  “Four daughters. My wife is the only reason they’re all good adults today with jobs and lives of their own.”

  I must show my shock on my face.

  “What…chaplains can’t procreate?” His lips twist in a challenging expression. I hold up two open palms.

  “I stand corrected,” I say.

  He leans forward enough to take out his wallet, flipping it open and pulling out a stack of five or six faded and bent photographs—the kind people don’t keep in their wallets anymore. I take them from him and flip through each one, every girl in the photo about college-aged and near matches to their father. The last two photos are of babies, so I hold them up and quirk a brow.

  “Grandkids. Those are Jacqueline’s. She’s this one,” he leans forward and taps his finger on the first photo I saw. “She’s our oldest, and she was a handful. Probably a lot like your Peyton is.”

  I smile and look back at the photos, politely sliding through them again before handing them back.

  “That’s a pretty family, man,” I say, taking my phone out and opening my photo app to show him my favorite photo of Peyton. She’s flying through the air doing the splits.

  “Well ain’t that something. She’s good, huh?” He hands my phone back to me.

  “She competes at it. I swear cheer is more competitive than football.”

  “Ain’t that the truth. Jacqueline did it all the way through college…” He pauses a little in the middle of our connection, and his eyes dip just a hair before coming up to mine again. His head tilts, and a softness takes over his face.

  “You see Trig’s girls much?”

  And there it is. Why I’m here.

  I blink, breathing in through my nose slowly, every relaxed muscle in my body flexing at once.

  “Not a lot, no. I mean…at the service, but…” My mouth starts to water, so I look to the side and stretch my jaw.

  I rub my palm along my cheek then over my eyes.

  “Look, I know that Coach is worried or whatever, but I’m okay. I really am.”

  “Good,” he answers quickly, standing and brushing his hands together. “That was easy then, wasn’t it?”

  I give him a wry look and drag my feet in, waiting for the trick to be revealed before I stand.

  “Yeah,” I say slowly, meeting his eyes. He’s offering me nothing but a smile, and then he reaches out his hand. I take it tentatively as I rise.

  “I’m glad your ladies are doing well. I hear Nolan’s in town. If I can, I’ll stop by the seats and say hi,” he says.

  I nod.

  “She’d like that.”

  He reaches forward and pats a heavy hand on my shoulder and looks down to my chest.

  “Good,” he says, patting one more time and stepping around the small table. He gets to the door before something kicks in my stomach.

  “That’s it?”

  He holds a hand up on the door jam and turn
s.

  “That’s it. I’m just here to talk, and if you’re done talking, then I’ll get on and talk to the next guy. Kinda my job, which is strange…talking for a job?”

  I chew at my cheek in thought.

  “Yeah…strange.”

  He seems so satisfied, yet everything inside me is growing tighter, as if a vice is screwing my guts and diaphragm and stomach into a braid.

  “I mean…” I catch him before he turns the corner. “I miss him…”

  He lifts a brow, so I give into the hook.

  “Trig. I miss him,” I say, as he takes a few more steps closer to me. I’m not sharing anything I haven’t shared with everyone. Hell, I shared this with Coach last night.

  “We all do,” he says, dumping his hands into his jacket pockets and shifting his feet. I’m glad he isn’t settling back in. I don’t need to sit. We don’t need to sit.

  “I guess I just wish maybe I could’ve had one more season with him, ya know? It would have been cool to go out together—I mean, I bet Coach wishes I had his hands to hit in the zone, right?” I laugh, but the chaplain only smiles. It puts me on edge, letting in a strange feeling that sort of bubbles up my chest and suddenly makes it hard to talk.

  “I don’t know why he quit…he still had it, you know?” My voice grows hoarse, and the sound of myself surprises me. I clear my throat, feeling the strangling sensation of wanting to cry. I tuck my tongue in my far-back molars and bite down, trying to stave off the lip quivering while I shift my feet.

  “I just feel like if maybe he was still playing…”

  My body jerks with an uncontrollable sob, and I fold my arms around my body. Shit. I don’t want to do this, I don’t want to do this, I don’t want to do this…

  “Maybe he would have blown out both knees, and then he never would have walked right again…or been able to travel like he did there at the end, or drive a car.” Chaplain fills in the fantasy for me with his own logic, and I shake my head because no—no.

  “He wasn’t ready. This game left him behind, and we all just…we forgot him,” I say, giving over as Chaplain Cruz puts his hand on my wrist and swings his other arm over my shoulder. He’s my height, but outweighs me by maybe sixty pounds, which makes it easy to fall into his comfort. I tuck my head into his shoulder and shake, feeling vulnerable and embarrassed to cry.