Chapter 49 - Donovan
Donovan
The whistle shrieks across the field, cutting through the late-afternoon heat.
My players scatter toward the water coolers, all red faces and sweaty hair under their helmets.
I check my watch; it's still ten minutes before I have to send them home.
Long enough to run the drill again if I want to push it.
I should. We’re three weeks out from the first game, and the defensive line still moves like they’re waiting for permission to breathe. But my phone buzzes in my pocket, and my focus breaks before I can bark the order.
It’s a message from the athletic director about the weekend schedule. For a split second, I think it might be Stella, even though I know better. We haven’t spoken since… everything.
The papers are still sitting on my kitchen table, two neat stacks, clipped together, waiting for signatures neither of us has put down. I told myself I’d deal with them last night. I told myself I’d deal with a lot of things.
I shove the phone back in my pocket, clap my hands, and call the team in. “One more run, then you’re done.”
They groan, but they line up. They always do.
The sun’s gone by the time I lock up the locker room. The stadium lights hum against the dark, moths throwing themselves at the glow like they’ve got something to prove. My shoulder aches, not from practice, just the kind of ache that’s been settling in lately and never quite leaves.
The drive home is short. Too short. The kitchen greets me with the low hum of the fridge and the sight of those papers still sitting dead center on the table. The pen I left beside them this morning hasn’t moved.
I drop my keys, toe off my shoes, and just stand there for a moment. I could sign them now. Make it final. Instead, I step around them, head for the fridge, and pull out a beer. I am not ready for the finality of losing Stella.
There’s mail stacked on the counter—a credit card offer, a flyer for a charity gala in Richmond next spring. I toss the first two aside, but the gala card sticks in my hand a second longer—the Hollow’s logo glints in gold at the bottom. I’ve been there before, when it all started.
The place is too quiet without her voice. I tell myself that it's a relief, but it’s just another lie I tell.
I drop into the chair at the head of the table, the divorce papers staring back at me. My phone sits beside them, its screen lighting up with a notification from a group chat I haven’t looked at in weeks. I swipe it away and, without meaning to, open her contact.
For a long moment, my thumb hovers over the keyboard. How are you? Did you eat today? I’m sorry.
The words blur together, but I don’t delete them this time. I hit send before I can second-guess it.
The screen glows with the single bubble, small and desperate, and I set the phone facedown like it might burn me, knowing it’ll go unanswered just like the rest.
Outside, a siren wails somewhere in the distance, the sound stretching thin before it fades. I take another drink, the cold bottle sweating in my hand, and I look anywhere but at those papers.
The TV’s still on from last night, frozen on some sports channel running highlights from a game I didn’t finish watching. I hit play, let the noise fill the room, but it doesn’t stick. My phone buzzes.
Mac: You alive?
I stare at the message for a full minute before replying.
Me: Yeah. Just busy.
Mac: Busy = sitting in the dark with a beer?
I almost smile, but it’s gone before it reaches my face.
Me: Something like that.
Mac: You should move back. The season's almost over, we could use a coach who knows what he’s doing.
I type can't, delete it, then type it again. Finally hit send.
Mac: Thought so. But if you keep this up, you’re gonna start talking to your plants.
I look at the empty counter, no plants in sight, and take another swallow of beer.
The sports highlights blur into commercials.
I kill the TV, grab another bottle, and head for the back porch.
The night air is cooler out here, but it doesn’t clear my head.
The flyer for the Richmond gala is still in my pocket.
I pull it out, turn it over in my hands, then toss it onto the table beside me.
The gold lettering catches the porch light, glinting like it’s in on the joke about my life.
I run my thumb along the edge, and before I can stop it, the memory comes back.
The first gala was loud, champagne glasses clinking, laughter bouncing off marble walls.
Elaine in black satin, hair swept up, bare shoulders gleaming under the chandelier light.
Elegance clung to her like a second skin; the same quiet command she brought to business attire and red-bottom heels now poured into satin and candlelight.
I’d told myself I was just keeping her company, that slipping away from the rest of the table to dance wasn’t crossing any lines.
We moved slowly, her hand warm at the back of my neck, the band’s trumpet swelling as she leaned in to say something I couldn’t hear over the music. I didn’t need to hear it—the look in her eyes said enough.
When the song ended, she laughed like the whole night was ours. And I let her believe it. Hell, I wanted to believe it too.
The flyer’s still in my hand when I blink back to the porch, the sound of the gala fading into the sounds of the city. I drop it onto the table and take a long drink, the beer gone before I even taste it.
I pick up my phone scroll through my contacts until her name stares back at me. My thumb hovers over the call button.
But before I can tap it, another image cuts in. Stella, at the door of our bedroom, hair loose, eyes sharp enough to gut me where I stood. The night she found out. The silence between us is heavier than any words I could’ve said.
The phone slips back onto the table, screen down. I grab another beer instead.
Inside, the divorce papers are still waiting, and for a second, I think about signing them. Just to stop seeing her face every time I try to move forward. But I don’t.
I never do.
By the time I head in, the house feels colder than when I left it. I drop onto the couch, beer still in hand, and let my head fall back. Somewhere between one slow breath and the next, the bottle slips from my fingers and lands softly on the carpet.
And I don’t bother picking it up.