Declan #2
I have a few other cars in the garage at our childhood home.
But this Lamborghini is my favorite of them all.
I held off on buying her, feeling torn between spending so much and telling myself I earned it.
Most of my teammates don’t blink at paying what some people spend on a house for a set of wheels.
Even though I was raised with wealth, I held off.
Finally, Delaney pushed me, saying, “What do we work so hard for if we can’t buy ourselves a toy here and there? Your body has been worked over in ways most people will never understand. Get yourself the car, man.”
I look back at the blue sports car and smile.
The rest of Patrick’s friends show up: Dustin and Emberleigh, Carli and Cody, Greyson and a woman he introduces as his fiancée, Hallie. And then Cass and Winona.
It was interesting.
I wonder what Winona does for a living. Is it interesting?
Winona’s face warms with a smile I’d call a small-town smile. It’s open and friendly. Simple. She doesn’t want anything from me. She obviously couldn’t care less what I do for a living, how much money I make, or what cars I drive. She might not even know my jersey number.
I don’t know what comes over me. I walk right up to her.
“Do you know my number?”
Her face contorts with confusion. She pulls out her cell phone.
“I don’t have your number. Did you want to give it to me for some reason?”
I chuckle. This woman. As if I’m going around giving out my cell phone number. It leaked once and I had to get a new number the next day.
“My jersey number,” I mutter, wondering why it’s so important to me. I should just drop this.
“Your jersey number?”
I should say never mind. But I press on, my habit of pursuing a matter until it’s resolved rearing up. Now I need to know if she noticed. And I need her to know it if she didn’t.
Why? What does it matter?
So, one woman in all of this small, practically unknown town doesn’t love football, doesn’t know I exist. So what?
“All the players have numbers on their jerseys,” I say. “Those never change. It’s like our driver’s license number or social security. It’s how they identify us.”
“Huh.” Winona looks perplexed.
“Our name’s on there too,” I add for no understandable reason.
“Why do they need a number if they have your name?” She pauses, her brows drawing further in.
“If your coach can’t find you on that field, I think he needs an eye exam at the least. Even I recognized you, and I’ve only seen you in passing over the years.
Tell them you don’t need numbers. There has to be a better system of keeping track of you. ”
I break into a full laugh.
Her face contorts even more.
“You’re not wrong,” I laugh lightly, reining in my laughter but unable to get my smile to subside.
I can’t wait to tell Linc and Delaney about this conversation.
Our group starts walking toward the front doors of the Fork & Fiddle.
Why do we have numbers? She’s actually got a point. Our names are on our jerseys.
“I’m eighty-eight,” I tell her.
“Eighty-eight,” she repeats. Her eyes go skyward and she repeats it like she’s trying on the sound. “I like that. It’s symmetrical and nice.”
I shake my head, that smile returning. “Glad you approve. I share that number with a long line of notable tight ends.”
“Wait,” she stops in her tracks. “You share the number? This just gets worse.”
I laugh again, my shoulders shaking with my laughter. I don’t even try to clarify. For this brief moment, I’m seeing our numbers through her eyes. “It seems to, doesn’t it?”
“How do you get the number?” she asks. “Do you pick it? Is it assigned to you?”
She’s interested. And I can’t explain why that matters.
Maybe it’s the thrill of winning someone over to my side.
I could tell her the whole system of number assignment—how some of us go to the mats for the numbers we had in high school or the number worn by our NFL hero.
I could help her like football. She could even become a fan.
Something about that trajectory feels wrong. I kind of like the way Winona’s unaware and unimpressed. Would fandom kill that? I hope not.
I hold the door open and Winona passes through in front of me.
She smells like flowers—wildflower fields, not roses.
There’s nothing contained about this woman.
She’s a field of wildflowers on the outskirts of a small town, undeveloped and colorful.
She’s the woman spinning, face to the sun, arms outstretched, twirling like no one’s watching.
“Thank you, Eighty-eight,” Winona says with an amused smile.
“You’re welcome,” I say.
Cass steps between me and Winona, peppering me with questions about the offensive lineup. Unlike her twin, she’s well-versed in football and the particulars of the team. She’s not obsessive. She reminds me of Candace, the reporter—a woman with a strong knowledge of and respect for the sport.
The hostess leads us to the back room I reserved. We pass the stage where there’s occasional live music, weaving between smaller tables and the picnic tables they have scattered around the concrete floor.
The eleven of us are seated around a long table.
The waitress takes our orders, and before long, we’re digging into steaks and burgers, laughing and talking.
A lot of the conversation is about practice and our upcoming season, but the firefighters bring up the upcoming chili cook-off and the women break into their own conversation about a book they’re all reading.
I insist on paying the bill, and then we disperse to our cars.
I drive home alone, pushing the remote to the gates for our community and driving past another set of gates to our section of the neighborhood. I turn into the circular driveway, opening one of the six garage bays to pull the Lamborghini in for the night.
The sound of my footfalls on the marble floors echoes through the empty house.
I’m alone here in the place that holds all my childhood memories.
Some people would call this an estate. It’s a six-bedroom, six-bath home.
Most of the ceilings on the first floor are double-high. It’s a lot of house, that’s for sure.
I make my way upstairs to the master. This was my parents’ room, but I’ve taken it over for the time being. I shuck my clothes, draw a bath and pour in a couple cups of epsom salts.
The grandfather clock sounds in the foyer. The chimes linger in the darkness.
I sink down into the water, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath.
Me. I’ve got me.
And football.
And next week I start my best season ever.
That’s more than enough.