Chapter 16

Jett

My fucking kid. I’m not sure how to answer him, but I can see the blush covering my woman’s face. We’ve had several heart-to-hearts about our future, so she knows where I’m at, and thankfully, we’re on the same page. However, right now, the priority is Dusty’s recovery which is what she insisted on getting through first when I wanted to move ahead. We’ll be staying at her place since the doors are wider, which will make it easier for him to maneuver in the wheelchair he’s going to be using for a few months.

Instead of answering him, I move closer to Sunday and lean down to brush a kiss across her temple. “You decided to hang with him during your break?” I ask, grinning at the two of them.

“Yeah, it was either that, or cramming it down while I counted out supplies,” she teases. “No, seriously, I figured he would enjoy ‘real’ food compared to what he’s been getting, so I brought him a sandwich. If I had known you’d be here too, I’d have made an extra one for you.”

“I’m good, sweetheart. Just swung by to see what he wants me to pick up to eat later.”

“It doesn’t matter, Dad,” Dusty replies. “You pick, okay?”

“Well, you two, I’ve enjoyed it tremendously, but I need to head back to work,” Sunday announces, picking up the trash and throwing it away.

“I’ll walk you down,” I offer, grinning at her.

“Thanks, Sunday!” Dusty exclaims.

“Anytime, little man.”

* * *

Between the rollercoaster ride of Dusty nearly dying, us all feeling the aftereffects of losing Timmers, and getting plays mapped out for the state championship game, I feel worn out, but despite that, I can’t help the smile that I’m sporting as Sunday wheels Dusty around her house while her two kittens ride on his lap.

In typical fashion, he’s chattering a mile a minute while I unpack his stuff in the spare room that Sunday set him up in. Walking out of the room once I’m done, I find them in the kitchen where he’s regaling her with stories about the nurses he had during his stay.

“They’re all good, Dusty,” she chides, sliding a tray of fries in the oven. “Some have been there longer, of course, but they know their stuff, I promise.”

“Yeah, I know, but one of them was really young, and every time I’d ask her a question, she’d run out to the desk and talk to the person behind it, then she’d come back to answer me. I don’t think she knows all the stuff yet, Sunday,” he states, sipping on his glass of chocolate milk.

“Could it be because you asked her stuff that was totally unrelated to your care?” she teases, handing me a beer.

“I don’t know, maybe,” he huffs out. “But grown-ups should know stuff that kids don’t, right?”

She shakes her head and replies, “Dusty, you asked her if she knew how to operate a forklift!”

I snicker, because when he’s bored, like he was the past few days, he tends to think up bizarre scenarios. “What was her response?” I ask, curious now about how she handled my son.

“She said that she actually did because she worked in a warehouse as a teenager and even had her certification! I think that’s pretty cool,” he says, grinning at me.

“Well, I think we need an early night because the game is tomorrow and it’s going to be a long day for all of us,” I retort as Sunday brings plates to the table.

* * *

“Ladies and gentlemen, please direct your attention to the scoreboard,” the announcer requests.

I take a deep breath, knowing what’s about to happen; a tribute to Timmers, which I suspect will have many in the audience weeping. He was a phenomenal kid and I know I’ll miss him. Collectively, the people in the stands swivel their heads up to the board, where pictures of Timmers throughout his playing seasons flash on the screen in succession.

“Several weeks ago, Michael Timmers, number eighty-five on the Possum Run Polecats, was involved in a fatal accident that cost him his life, and critically injured his head coach’s eleven-year-old son. Timmers was an all-state wide receiver, and already had numerous colleges vying for him to commit to their school. In addition to his impressive record on the field, he was an Eagle Scout, held a grade point average of 4.0, and had other colleges wanting to give him a full academic ride. While the Falls Ridge Red Devils and the Possum Run Polecats may be rivals between the lines for four quarters, the loss of this young man is felt within our football community. Both teams are wearing his number on their helmets in remembrance of this fine young man, and the Falls Ridge Alumni Association has set out a donation jar at the concession stand to help his family with anything they need.”

Knowing everyone’s attention is now on me and my team, I call them in and say, “This game, regardless of the outcome, will probably be one of the most important ones you ever play. Let’s honor your friend and teammate, Timmers’ memory, and give it everything we’ve got. Just know that no matter what the final score ends up being, I’m beyond proud of each and every one of you boys. You’ve stood tall, come to practice even though you’re all hurting, and been there for his family. Small towns are sometimes given a bum rap because everyone seems to know everything about what’s going on, but in this case, the tragedy we suffered has brought this team closer and has united us, giving us a purpose. Now, get your minds set on what we’ve gotta do, which is play hard until the last whistle blows.”

“For Timmers!” Junior yells, putting his hand in the middle of our circle.

One by one, each of the boys, as well as all of us coaches, put our hands in to join theirs, then in unison we shout, “For Timmers!”

As I walk over to the fence where Dusty is set up, I see my woman has given him a warm blanket to ward off the chill, along with a goofy hat which has him grinning. “You good to go?”

“Yeah, Dad. Sunday said if I needed anything, to text her and she’d take care of it so you can focus on the game.”

“She did, huh?” I tease, loving how she mothers him.

“Did you see this hat? When she found out Timmers used to call me Dustman, she said she went online and found this for me because it would’ve made him laugh. I think she’s right, don’t you?”

I look at what he’s wearing and chuckle. She found him a Pigpen hat with dust motes floating all over it, reminiscent of Timmers’ nickname for my boy, Dustman. “It’s perfect, little man.”

“Yeah, now go win, Dad!”

* * *

“He would’ve loved this,” Collins says as we watch the team celebrate on the field after winning the game. In addition to the players, the parents are out there, as well as the other team, who have been congratulating each one of the boys.

“Still kind of shocked we pulled it off,” I murmur, my mind replaying the game. We were behind at half time, then when the game picked back up again, and the announcer mentioned that so far, over five thousand dollars had been collected for Timmers’ family, the tide changed in our favor. The Falls Ridge Red Devils fumbled twice, which we recovered the ball, and ran in gaining touchdowns, then their quarterback, who has the best accuracy in the state with respect to completions, lack of interceptions thrown, and overall yardage, threw an interception which put us over the top.

“Not sure why, Coach. We’ve taught them to take advantage of missteps, which they did.”

“I know, but even though I am proud as hell of all of them since the accident, you know good and well they’ve been all over the place during practice,” I retort.

“Maybe so, but regardless, we’re state champions, and I know we worked hard to get here.”

“You’re right. I’m going to see if I can find Sunday so we can get Dusty home.”

I walk off the field while the kids and parents continue to celebrate, and head toward the concession stand because that’s where she said she was going earlier. When I see her standing up ahead of me, her arms moving wildly while her body is tense, I take a closer look at who she’s talking to and feel my blood freeze in my veins.

Stacey.

My strides lengthen as I get to where they’re standing only to hear Stacey insist, “I need to see my son.”

“No. Absolutely not,” I state, my voice short and clipped. “You have no business even being here, Stacey. What the hell are you thinking?”

She turns her tear-streaked face toward me and replies, “It’s my fault Dusty almost died, and the other kid did. I wanted to pay my respects.”

“The time to do that was at the funeral for Michael,” I retort. “And my son doesn’t want to see you. Do you know he was blaming himself for the fucking accident? Because you’re his birth mother.”

“That sounds so harsh, Jett,” she sneers.

“As far as he’s concerned, that’s what you are, Stace,” I reply. “Sunday has been more of a mother to him in the short time we’ve been together than you’ve been his entire life. What does that say about you?”

She glares at Sunday, and I see her open her mouth, likely to say something scathing and mean so I throw up my hand nipping that in the bud before she has a chance to spread her venom. “No. You don’t talk to her, you don’t talk to Dusty. In fact, you should be getting paperwork from my attorney at any time.”

“For what?”

“To terminate your parental rights. It’s what he wants, and I try to give him that whenever possible within reason. This definitely falls under that umbrella as far as I’m concerned. Now, leave. Because trust me, the Timmers don’t need to see you walking around as though you don’t have a care in the world.”

“He wants that?” she whispers.

“Yes, he does,” Sunday replies. “And I agree with Jett. Michael’s family doesn’t need to see you here, Stacey. You need to leave.”

Surprisingly, where she was all set to argue with me, once Sunday says her piece, she turns on her heel and leaves.

“Come on, sweetheart, let’s get our boy and head home.”

“Sounds like a plan to me. I have a special celebration in mind for you,” she teases, winking at me.

My laughter rings out as we walk back down the track to where Dusty is being pushed toward us by Collins.