CHAPTER 31 KAYLEE
We’re all set for the Jump-A-Thon next weekend, so this weekend I decided I wanted to spend the day watching football. It’s masochistic for sure, but I want to cheer on Jack. It’s weird watching the Aces and not seeing Luke out there with the team he played his entire career with.
It’s even weirder seeing Ben as he runs out onto the field, pumped for a game that doesn’t really matter.
He’s the guy who gets everyone on the sidelines amped up with his gregarious nature.
He’s lifting his arms up at the crowd, asking for them to be even louder before the game begins.
His facade is back on in full force, and I wonder if it’s just football that brings this out in him or if he’s like this elsewhere in his life without me now, too.
Those gathered in the stands happily oblige, most of them tipsy from tailgating before the game.
Those buzzes will wear off by the end of the first quarter—something I learned from experience.
Some quit drinking after tailgating to save the astronomical fees associated with stadium beer, and typically the crowd gets a little quieter mid-second quarter.
But others keep going, and they make up for their subdued counterparts.
I sigh as I grab a fistful of popcorn, dropping a kernel onto my Aces sweatshirt.
“Why do you do this to yourself?” Cooper asks. He tips a bottle of beer to his lips.
“Thought the kids might want to see Daddy,” I quip, but neither of us laughs.
“When are you going to tell him?” he asks softly.
“I don’t know,” I murmur as I stare at him. God, do I love him. I love him so much it hurts. Isn’t that the old saying…love hurts?
I can attest to that.
“When are you going to tell your family?” he prods.
I shrug. “I don’t think I can get away with not telling them much longer. As soon as any of them come out to see me, they’ll see I’ve packed on a few pounds since my days in Vegas.”
“All the good San Diego eating,” he teases.
“Pizza on pizza with pizza,” I confirm.
The game starts, and the Aces have the ball first. I know I said I wanted to watch the game to cheer for Jack, but the truth is that I can’t take my eyes off Ben.
My eyes are trained on the jersey labeled Olson 88 once Jack has the ball and he’s ready to make the first real play of the game. He hands it off to Jaxon Bryant, who carries it a few yards down the field.
Ben has a nice block to allow Jaxon through, and both the offense and defense move down the field.
On the second snap, Jack stands with his extreme confidence as he looks for an open receiver to throw it to.
He tosses it toward Ben, who seems to stumble back a bit before correcting.
He grabs the ball in some miracle catch, and when he goes down, he lands hard on his shoulder.
And he doesn’t get up.
“He’s not getting up.” Panic is evident in my tone. “Why isn’t he getting up?”
“He’s okay,” Cooper says.
He doesn’t know that. How can he tell? Ben’s just lying there.
“Get up!” I scream at the television. I stand up, and some popcorn falls off my lap and onto the ground.
“Get up!” My eyes fill with tears as I watch him roll onto his back.
The camera catches the wince there before it pans out and the announcers tell us they’ll be right back after this injury break.
That isn’t the only break happening here.
My heart cracks and fear fills the open space.
He’s okay. He has to be okay.
He has two babies on the way.
He doesn’t know.
I have to tell him.
He has to know.
I stand and stare at the screen as I wait for the game to return from commercial.
When it does, we watch as Ben walks down the sidelines with the trainer and toward the locker room.
“Ben Olson looks a little shaken up, but it’s always a good sign when they get up and walk off the field,” the announcer says.
The game continues like I care. I need to know if he’s okay.
I need to know what happened.
I need to be there with him.
But I’m not. I’m here in San Diego while he goes through this alone, and there’s not just space and distance between us now but time.
I grab my phone to send him a text. I have no idea when he’ll get it. I have no idea what he’s doing in the locker room or if he’ll even have any answers tonight.
I see his last text from me before I tap out my words to him. I’m sorry. I never replied.
I’m such an asshole.
I couldn’t reply. I was too scared I’d only be led right back down the path of rejection again, and that still stings. But just because I’m scared doesn’t mean I shouldn’t take the risk.
Me: Please let me know you’re okay.
And then I wait.
We keep watching the game as I wait for an update, and one doesn’t come until the game returns from halftime.
One of the announcers cuts to Kim Reynolds down on the field.
“I spoke with Mitch Thompson just a few minutes ago, and he told me Ben Olson is inactive for the rest of today’s game.
” The camera pans to Ben standing on the sidelines as the rest of the team gets ready for the second half.
He’s out of his uniform now, wearing sweatpants and an Aces shirt, and it’s hard to tell from this angle, but I can still see it on his face.
He’s worried. I’m worried, too. “It’s a shoulder injury and the team will find out more pending an MRI this week.
Back to you in the booth,” she says, and that report really gave me zero comfort, but it sounds like even he doesn’t know how bad it is.
The second half is interminable as I wait for the game to be over so he can check his phone and write me back and tell me he’s okay.
Except he doesn’t. Even when the game is long over, I still don’t have a reply from him.
An hour passes, and then another and another. It’s a little before ten when a text finally does come through.
Ben: I’m okay. Team doc thinks it’s a mild rotator cuff tear. Should be back in action in time for the regular season.
I breathe out a sigh of relief. I’m about to type something out about how I’m glad it’s nothing too serious, but another text comes through from him.
Ben: Thanks for checking.
I want him to add more—maybe something like how he wishes I was there with him. Because I’d drop everything to be there if he asked me to.
But that never comes.
It just feels like I missed another chance—like he doesn’t really want to get back together, like he made the right choice in ending things.
I shouldn’t have texted him. It’s only tearing the bandages off the cuts too soon.
I keep going anyway.
Me: When’s the MRI?
Ben: Tomorrow morning.
Me: Let me know how it goes. I’m thinking about you.
Ben: I’m thinking about you, too, Peaches.
I type out one more text. I’m always thinking about you.
And then I delete it before I set my phone down and try to get some sleep.