27. Callum
Callum
The arena is already loud when I walk to the bench, and I prefer it this way—busy, chaotic.
Everyone’s focus seems to be directed anywhere but me, which provides some peace of mind.
I’m trying not to think too hard about the people in the stands, if they know me, if they know what happened.
If they were at the funeral, when I wasn’t.
I did some tapping in the locker room before I came out.
I had to, after I saw that Tammy and Jeff left me a jersey with Tyler’s number on it to wear.
I teared up at the gesture and carefully put it on over my compression tee.
Then, I stared at myself in the mirror and wondered what Ty might think of it.
I came to the swift conclusion that he’d fucking hate me wearing his number and laughed out loud.
I could almost hear him say, “Take it off right now, asshole.”
Naturally, I’m still wearing it just to piss him off from beyond the grave.
It helps that almost all the bleachers are filled, making it harder to distinguish faces. The only ones that stick out to me are my own family sitting in the front row. Every single Galvin came.
The one person who’s not here? My girlfriend.
I haven’t seen Peyton yet, though I’ve scanned the crowd half a dozen times.
I’m getting a little worried. It’s not like Peyton to miss something like this, but I know the most logical explanation is that she got held up at work.
There’s no use letting my irrational side get the better of me. Not today.
“Hey, champ!” Jeff sneaks up behind me. “Game’s gonna start soon. You ready?”
I grin. “Put me in, Coach.”
He claps me on the shoulder. “Will do. As soon as your girl—”
Bubbly music cuts him off, blasting through the speakers. The MC’s voice echoes in the arena, sounding like an announcer before wrestlemania. “And now… to open the game… welcome everyone’s favorite seahorse: Campi!”
A seahorse runs onto the turf, stopping at mid-field to strike a pose. The mascot costume is massive, and purple, and… oh my God.
It’s Peyton.
It’s Peyton’s seahorse costume from her work closet. Giant snout and all.
Peyton the Seahorse dances to the music. She shakes her seahorse butt. She twirls. She waves at kids in the stands and runs around the arena to thunderous applause. She does a bunch of jumping jacks, one for every year the northwest Ohio chapter has existed.
She fucking moonwalks.
Then she slowly turns to face me… and curtsies.
Tammy nudges me. “She’s…”
Mine, I think.
“Amazing,” I say.
The coy look on Peyton’s face, when I invited her to the game, makes more sense now. Of course she wouldn’t tell me. Of course my mischievous, playful girl would take any opportunity to perplex and astonish me.
Campi the Seahorse gives me a little wave before prancing off the turf. We walk out onto the pitch. And as I take my position in the midfield, I wonder if my girlfriend will be in her seahorse costume the entire game.
I move back and forth on my feet, shaking my arms to wake them up. I only spent a few minutes warming up earlier, wanting to focus on my breathing exercises before the game.
The whistle blows, and my heart flips in my chest. My body moves of its own accord, remembering the game as though no time has passed.
But time has passed. And by the tenth minute of running up and down the field, my fragile bones ache, and I need a breather.
Thankfully, this is a charity game, and there are planned time-outs for fundraising updates.
Family and friends share stories about their loved ones impacted by epilepsy, and various performers put on little shows.
While the Waterton High Dance Team does their thing on the opposite end of the turf, I walk to where my family sits.
“Looking good out there, Cal Pal!” Ma shouts through the netting.
“You’re sweating, like a lot. Visibly more than the other players,” Clover comments, glancing up from her phone. Fucking Jackson sits next to her playing a hockey game on his Nintendo Switch.
“Uncle Callie! Up!” Lila shouts, hands reaching for me, before getting shoved by her twin.
I smile. “After the game, Lila girl!”
The dance team finishes up, and I’m about to head back to the bench, but a frazzled Peyton takes a spot next to Clementine.
“I’m here, I’m here! Sorry,” she apologizes, out of breath. “Taking that seahorse off solo is definitely harder than an inspector costume.” She smooths some of the hair framing her face and winks at me. “What did you think of my little performance?”
“Oh, I think you’ve never been more attractive to me.” I wink back.
Peyton gives an impish smile. “Ew, Callum. Do you have a thing for seahorses, now?”
“Isn’t it seahorsi? Like, plural?” Clover asks, not looking up from her phone.
“Jesus, Clover. Thank God you’re famous,” Clementine mutters.
I sigh, but my mood is at an all-time high. “There’s no time to address any of you weirdos, so let me just say thanks for being here.” I blow a kiss to Peyton (Clover mutters “yikes”) and head back to my spot on the field.
Almost two hours—and another electric performance with Campi the Seahorse—later, the final whistle blows.
My team lost. Badly.
Jeff doesn’t seem to care one bit, wrapping me up in a tight hug before I can take a swig of water. “Thank you for doing this for us. Thank you for doing it for him.” His voice cracks as he leans back, eyes teary.
I pull him in for another embrace. “Thank you for giving me another chance.”
When Jeff releases me, some emotional weight lifts from my shoulders.
I soak up the arena one last time, really taking in the amount of people that showed up.
It’s not exactly the audience size at a Premier League match, but in a small way, it feels like I fulfilled our childhood dream.
Playing on a professional field with our families rooting us on.
I grab my bag and water bottle and walk to the other side of the arena, where my entire family waits for me. Dad spies me first and starts heading my way while the rest of the family hangs back.
The T-shirt Dad’s wearing has my high school number on it. “Proud of you, Cal Pal. Watching you play again… It was awesome.”
“I didn’t score a single goal.”
His eyes twinkle. “I think you were focused on other goals today. And you smashed them.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
He squeezes my arm. “The rest of the family wants to congratulate you. Go say hi before you leave.”
We walk over to the Galvins and Peyton in the bleachers, and it feels nice, knowing my family is here to support—
“Have you been using the pore strips I got you?” Clover asks, cutting off my train of thought.
I pull her into a gentle headlock, mussing her hair. “Listen, you little shit. Stop talking about my pores in front of my girlfriend. It’s embarrassing.”
She squeals, trying to squirm out of my arm. “Let me go! Your sweat is dripping on my hair!”
Peyton giggles in the background. “Free her and hug me instead. I don’t mind your sweat.”
“You don’t have to ask me twice.” I all but toss Clover to the side in favor of wrapping my arms around Peyton.
“Good game, Hotshot,” she whispers in my ear.
“Hotshot, huh? Do you think we can sub that in for ‘Inspector?’ I like Hotshot better.”
She wrinkles her nose, stepping away from me. “You know what? I’m getting the ick when you say it.”
I squint. “You’ve been spending too much time with Clover.”
The rest of my siblings give their well wishes.
Back pats from Cait, fist bumps from Carter and Christopher, and a thumbs up from Clementine.
I swoop Lila up, as promised, before grabbing her brother and putting him on my free hip.
Logan holds a mini soccer ball—the one he got for his birthday—and tosses it in the air.
I watch it fall to the ground, and a swell of happiness balloons in my chest.
I’m proud of myself. For starting the voicemails this year, for finishing them, for making enough progress to love Peyton right.
I kiss each twin on the head. “Thanks for coming, Li-Lo.”
Lila gives me one hug before reaching for my girlfriend, saying, “Up! Up!”
Peyton glances at Caitlyn for approval, but Cait’s distractedly talking on the phone with Rhett—Lila and Logan’s dad. Even though they didn’t work out, the family still has love for him. Clover would probably trade me for one of Rhett’s horses in a second.
I try to quell a squirming Lila in my arms while still holding her brother. “I think Lila diving for you is the approval you’re looking for, Pey.”
Peyton eagerly takes her, bouncing her on her hip. “Should we get out of here?”
“Yeah, but I have to do something first.” I glance at the rest of my family, who’s scattered, talking with neighbors and friends. “Do you mind waiting for a few minutes? I’m going to run outside really quick, and then I’ll join you.”
She twists her mouth to one side. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s perfect.” I plant a kiss on Peyton’s lips, ruffle Lila’s hair, and hand Logan to Carter.
Grabbing my gym bag, I run out the back door of the sports complex.
The winter chill smacks into me all at once, burning my lungs.
I could’ve stayed indoors, but I wanted—no, I needed—to do this on a real soccer field.
Grass pokes through a light dusting of snow on the ground, and I run until I reach center circle.
I unzip my duffel and pull out my phone. When I told Tammy and Jeff about the voicemails, how I listened to them as part of my healing journey, she got Tyler’s old cell from the kitchen drawer and told me to keep it.
“We never turned the voicemail box off. We kept paying the bill in hopes that you were talking to someone, if not us. That maybe you’d want to call or text him now and again, even without a response back.”
“Do you ever call it, just to hear his voice?” I say.
She shakes her head with a sad smile. “I couldn’t forget my son’s voice if I tried.”
I put Ty’s phone in a memory box on the top shelf of my closet, and I haven’t called it. But the timing feels right. So, I dial a number I know by heart, and it goes straight to voicemail.
Then, I hear him. My best friend, my brother, from a lifetime that seems out of reach. His voice is higher than I remember it. Forever young, I guess.
“Hey, it’s Tyler. If you’re a sports agent, leave a voicemail. If you’re anyone else, for the love of God, just text me.”
Barking out a laugh, I gently kick a stray divot of muddy grass. The beep sounds, and I fill my lungs with air.
“Hey, Ty. It’s, um, me. I have so much to tell you.”
I swipe a rogue snowflake off my cheek. “First thing’s first, I’m absolutely jacked.
I hit three hundred on bench last week. Carter has me in the gym lifting every day.
Anyway, it’s important you know that I’d definitely beat you in a physical fight now.
Zebra would declare me the winner, hands down. ”
I grin on instinct, but the smile doesn’t quite reach my eyes.
“Speaking of Zeebs, she’s still kicking.
Geriatric, but just as irritated as ever.
Still misses you, though. When your parents dropped her off with my ma back then, she was, um, having trouble sleeping without you.
I had one of your old hoodies, so I put it on top of her bed, and that was the first time she slept through the night without crying. ”
My chest feels tight as I recall the memory. “Zeebs loves Peyton, though. Peyton’s her new favorite person—mine, too. She’s this woman I met at work, kind of. You’d love her, man. She gives me so much shit, but God. She’s so good. Beautiful and smart, and fucking hilarious, too.”
The back of my eyes starts to sting, and a lump forms in my throat. “I haven’t told anyone this, but, lately, I-I’ve been feeling like… I feel like you sent her to me.”
A tear falls, and the cold hits it immediately, sticking the salt water to my cheek.
“I know that sounds crazy. It’s probably crazy, right?
You know I’ve always been a logical guy.
But she’s just so miraculous, there’s no other way I can explain her.
She has to be the result of some sort of intervention beyond my beliefs. ”
I wipe my eyes, dragging in a wavering breath. “And if… If it was you who sent her, I just wanted to say that I’m eternally grateful.”
My voice is hoarse, cracking through the words. “She, uhm, she has the same shit you did, Ty. Epilepsy. And, sometimes, I still have these moments where I’m so fucking scared. I just want her safe, man.”
My nose burns from crying, tears freefalling off my chin.
“So… I’m asking you for one last thing. I know that I’m the one who owes you, but if the stories are true, and everyone gets a guardian angel, I’d like for you to be hers.
Can you watch over her, Ty? Can you do that for me? She deserves the best. And that’s you.”
I breathe out a shaky exhale. “Well, I think that’s it. I love you, man. I’ll always have love for you. Thank you for everything.”
I end the call.
And it’s at this moment I know for sure: death isn’t something that can be dismissed, and sadness isn’t something that can be solved.
But confronting grief is a small act of valor.
A different kind of victory, where there aren’t winners or losers.
Just everyday people, like me, who might be a little braver than they were yesterday.
Dropping my phone into my gym bag, I swing it over my shoulder and head back to Peyton.
I believe what I told Tyler. But if it wasn’t him who sent her, then I guess our relationship could’ve simply been happenstance. A coincidence. Good timing.
Or maybe Peyton’s right.
Maybe, we were kismet.
The End