Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
I’m so full of love, but the lies drain me.
COLTON
After the game, stay there
I’m giving him the game ball
Itexted Reese before the game, but she never answered.
I keep glancing back from the bench, looking over my shoulder, searching the small crowd in the club area on the edge of the field.
Men don suits. Women wear dresses. It’s an exclusive crowd that pays for this level of close access to us.
Like a bar, they lean on the silver metal half-wall with their snacks and beverages, cheering as we take on Philadelphia.
We’re down 23-20 in the fourth quarter, and the tension is high.
But all I care about is seeing one small tawny head. Forrest would barely be tall enough by now to see over the railing. So maybe Reese would hold him on her hip. Then, I’d easily spot them. But I don’t see her either.
Maybe she said no.
Maybe Reese was too afraid when our publicist, Scott, approached her and Forrest in their season ticket seats, congratulating them on winning club seats for the game.
Maybe she broke her promise.
Maybe she’ll leave me sitting here, waiting for our offense to take the field, to fight it out with Philadelphia’s crushing defensive line while I fight the crushing break of my heart.
This feels like my last chance. This feels like I’m losing him. The older Forrest gets, the more questions he’ll ask. So will his dad.
Does Forrest look like me? Or like Beau?
Tough to say.
He was born with a tuft of brown hair. I took in every detail while I held him when he was three months old. Reese let me come by when Jake was at work, and I cried. Forrest was so tiny in my arms, and I fucking cried at how beautiful our little boy was. Holding him healed what Reese did to me.
Then, she let me see him again when he was thirteen months old. I had to miss his first birthday. Reese said it was too risky. So I met them at a park. Forrest had just learned to walk. All his brown hair had fallen out, replaced by wisps of blond like mine. And I cried again when he held his arms out, laughing, toddling my way with a big smile.
But Reese is blonde, too. The truth is, Forrest looks a lot like her.
Three, maybe four times a year, Reese lets me see him.
And I wanted to hate her for all the time I’ve missed with him.
But when she found out about my mom’s illness, Reese came through. She brought Forrest to see her when I wasn’t there. They explained their relationship as family friends, and they were. Reese was so good to my mom in her last year. She let her see her grandson every chance she got.
That’s what my mom died believing—that Forrest is her grandson.
“Hey,” Beau plops beside me on the bench, “let’s do a Lucy.”
I snap my glance his way. He’s chewing on the tip of his mouthguard. He does that when he’s up to something.
“A Lucy?” I ask. “You sure?”
It’s a trick play. It’s our code word for a left-handed throw.
“Yeah. I’ve been throwing to Goodwin and Martinez this whole quarter,” he says. “So act gassed out. Act like you’re tanked, and I’ll throw to them again for the first down. Then I’m throwing left to you for the second. They won’t see it coming.”
Beau can do it. In a clutch, he can throw left-handed, but it’s risky. With his right, his aim is razor-sharp. But with his left? It’s a gamble when we need a sure win.
But I nod, checking the clock. It looks like we’ll have two minutes left in the game to score.
I feel the pressure. The worry. The disappointment. The possible loss. It’s clawing inside my skin.
“Hey.” He juts his chin. “You alright? You’ve been fucking quiet all day.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, glancing up at the club box on the visitors’ side—the one on the fifty-yard line. I can’t see her from here, but Blair’s in there. I can feel her watching us.
So, it’s instinct. I glance back over my shoulder, worried Blair’s spotted Reese behind us.
Are Reese and Forrest here? Could Blair see them from there?
“Who are you looking for?” Beau glances over his shoulder, craning his neck, too.
Oh shit. “No one!” I answer quickly.
“You sure?” Beau laughs. “Careful, if you get too close to our fans when we win, you’ll get pelted with Touchdown panties.”
I lighten my tone. “No, you get pelted with panties.” I try distracting him.
If Beau spots Reese in the crowd, it’s over. If he sees her with Forrest, we’re done.
Usually, Beau doesn’t go to the midfield, where the richest seats are, after a game. He goes to the end zone, where he gives a game ball to a kid waiting there.
That’s what I’m counting on.
“Alright!” Coach approaches us with his laminated play sheet in hand. “It’s magic time.”
Beau nods, hopping up and slapping his hand. “We got this,” he promises.
“You goddamn better,” Coach says, watching while I slowly rise like lead is in my veins. “Hawke!” He barks, “Light a goddamn fuse. It’s time to hustle.”
“He’s acting,” Beau says.
No, I’m not. I can sprint, but I can’t run. I can’t escape this ache in my heart.
We take the field, still three points down. Our defense did the job. Philadelphia didn’t score, but now we have to.
It’s all on the line. The roar in the stadium sounds like a jet plane.
I glance again after we huddle, after Beau calls the play to the offensive line.
The crowd in the club area shifts. They gather near us at the forty-one-yard line.
I don’t see him.
I squat into position. I put my nose down, my eyes up. Beau takes the snap, and we’re off, but I’m not. I make it look like I have nothing left in me because sometimes… it’s how I feel.
I’m so full of love, but the lies drain me.
Beau throws the first down to Goodwin, and we rush to huddle again, the clock running down. I search the club sidelines while Beau calls the second play, “Phili. Bagel. Lucy. Sixteen. Discount.”
That call is all gibberish code except for the third word—the play—and the fourth word—the player. “Lucy” is a left throw. “Sixteen” is me for my favorite movie, Sixteen Candles. It’s also Martinez’s number and decoy if the other team overhears.
I knew what Beau would call for our second down, so I glance up, searching again.
And my chest, heavy with pads and worry, falls, relieved.
There he is.
I spot Forrest’s little tawny head peeking over the railing. I see Reese behind him, her long, blonde hair tucked into a ponytail under a black Atlanta baseball cap.
I see Forrest watching me, and light explodes in my heart. It lifts my chin and shoulders, too, and I smile…
Because it’s fucking on.
Let’s win this.
We jog into position and hold, my muscles pulled like a rubber band to snap. Beau takes the hike, and I bolt, my peripherals clocking the blur of players while I block. They pivot away, assuming Beau will throw right again, but he falls back.
He’s the Pope In The Pocket.
It gets tighter and tighter around him, but he’s calm. He won’t crack under pressure.
He shifts his shoulders right, and the defense runs that way, covering Goodwin and Martinez.
I’m wide open as Beau, lightning fast, switches the ball to his left hand, throwing fifteen yards into my waiting hands.
There’s no stopping me. All my stress from before explodes through my muscles. I use it to drive down the field, shucking the cornerback before I juke the safety with a quick right, claiming the end zone with a subtle swagger, but not enough to get fined.
The crowd erupts, their roar deafening. A mob of players pile on me, slapping my helmet and pads. Cameras and boom mics rush the field, surrounding our cheering huddle, while Beau huddles in, smacking my helmet, too.
“Fuck yeah, man!” he shouts. “That’s how we win, baby! That’s how we win!” He’s on fire. So am I.
More press and players storm the field. Proud slaps hit my pads and ass as Beau turns to run to the visitor’s sidelines. He always shakes the hand of the opposing team’s quarterback first, then other players.
Usually, I do, too, but not today.
I throw my helmet on the field and tuck the winning ball under my arm. Slapping players’ hands, I give props, but I’m searching. When my eyes land on Reese, she nods, seeing me, too.
She knows to wait.
She lets me give a quick interview and three quick comments in praise of Beau and our team before I jog her way.
“Hawke! Hawke!” Other press flank me. They want comments, too, but not now.
All I can see are those big hazel eyes gazing up at me, surprised as I jog his way. They’re so full of innocence, joy, and pride. It suddenly makes my eyes burn with tears. The rocks in my throat make it hard for my heaving chest to breathe. I’m still amped from the game, but this has my nerves alive.
My heart pounds harder than ever before.
Everything falls away but my little boy.
“Hey there!” I run to the edge, to the metal half-wall. Reese lifts Forrest in her arms. He’s getting big, but he’s still small enough for her to hold.
“Are you a big fan?” I ask, hoping he can hear me above the cheering crowd.
He beams, his eyes locked on mine. “I’m your biggest fan!” he shouts from two feet away.
“You are!”
“Yeah! You and Bronson! I’m gonna be you one day! I’m fast, and I can throw!”
I play along. “What’s your name?”
“Forrest!” He shouts. “For Forrest Gump. Bama’s fastest player ever.”
I swallow hard. That’s Beau’s favorite movie. Beau is number four because of it, and that’s where this little boy gets his name.
Did Reese name him after Beau? Did she do it out of guilt? I ask myself all the time.
“Well, I played for Auburn,” I tell him. “Do you like them too?”
Reese beams at our exchange. Her smile lights up with her son in her arms.
“No,” Forrest answers like a kid, brutally honest. “But you play for Atlanta now, and they’re my most favorite, so it’s okay. You’re my favorite, too.”
“I am?” I laugh. “You sure? Do you even know my name?”
Please say it. Please know me. Please have one piece of me in your heart.
“You’re Colton Hawke!” he crows. “You’re the best! You’re the fastest like me!”
“Well, now I’m your biggest fan.” I want my son. I want to reach across and hold him in my arms, but I can’t. There’s too much press gathered around. “Do you want my game ball, Forrest?”
His eyes get big, lighting up like I’m Santa. “Really?”
“Yeah!” I hand it to him. “Keep it safe for me now. Okay? I’ll come throw it with you one day.”
“Will you really?” He smiles so cute.
He’s lost his front tooth. He’s getting so big. I’m losing so much time.
“Yes,” I promise. “Let’s take a picture. Then I’ll remember you and come visit. Okay?”
I turn, and there’s Scott, our publicist, waiting with one of our team photographers, just as I begged him to. I told Scott this kid is special, but he has no idea how much.
“Look at the camera,” Reese coaches Forrest.
They turn right, and I turn left, trying to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him, but the barrier is in the way.
I need my son. I need to hold him.
The grip on my heart is suffocating while I force a smile as the big lens aims our way before the photographer gives a thumbs-up. He got the shot for me.
“When will you come see me?” Forrest asks. “I’ll tell my dad, and he can play with us, too.”
His dad?
I search the crowd, looking over Reese’s shoulder. I don’t see her husband. Jake travels a lot for work. I know because that’s when I usually get to see Forrest.
“How about after the season?” I answer.
“After you win the Super Bowl?” he asks.
“Yeah!” I smile. “After I win the Super Bowl for you!”
Hands start tugging my arm. I look, and it’s our staff. They’re huddling us back into the locker room.
“Okay, Forrest.” I turn back to promise him, “I’ll see you again. Okay? You take care of our ball, and I’ll come play with you.”
“Can he mom? Can Colton Hawke come play with me?” he asks.
I stare Reese down.
You owe me this. You better say yes.
She reads my eyes and nods, smiling.
Another hand tugs me, so I wave. “Okay, Forrest. I’ll see you soon.”
He smiles, waving back, and I hate this. Tears burn my eyes again.
I hate leaving him. I hate saying goodbye to him.
Every time I do, I ache. I feel like my heart gets ripped out of my chest.
But when I turn and see Beau standing there, frozen with a swarm of people around him. He’s staring at me, then Reese, then Forrest…
I know that look in his aching eyes.
I’ve ripped his heart out.