Page 26 of Flag On The Play


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“She left a card for your dad. He kept it in his desk drawer. Wouldn’t let me throw it out.”

Something squeezes my heart tight. “Did he ever talk about her?”

Mom shrugs, but her eyes are soft. “He asked about her once. Said you were different after she turned you down. Said he’d never seen you take a loss that hard.”

I huff out a bitter laugh. “I was a cocky asshole back then.”

“You were seventeen. And you were in love, even if you didn’t know it.”

I look away, swallowing hard. “She hates me now.”

“Maybe. But hate’s not the opposite of love, Finlay. Indifference is. And from what I saw when she came by? She’s not indifferent.”

I sit back in my chair, heart pounding harder than it did after tonight’s win. My mind keeps replaying that lap dance. The club. Her face in the crowd. Her smile. Her anger. The pride that flickered in her eyes after the game. The kiss that almost happened but didn’t.

And now this.

She visited my dad.

She didn’t have to, but she did.

“I don’t know what to do with her,” I finally say, voice low. “She makes me crazy.”

Mom smirks. “Then maybe she’s the only one who can make you sane.”

I don’t sleep much that night. My old bedroom is too quiet. The shadows feel heavier. My mind won’t shut off.

But when I close my eyes, I see her.

Still the girl I can’t stop chasing.

The church is quiet.

Too quiet for how loud my mind is.

I sit in the front pew, stiff in a black suit that feels more like armor than clothing. The scent of lilies is too strong. The organ plays some soft, somber hymn that doesn’t touch me the way it probably should.

The casket is closed. That was my mom’s decision.

“He wouldn’t want people remembering him like that,” she said.

The place is full. Neighbors, extended family, doctors my dad used to work with. A few coaches from my high school days. And behind me, I can feel the presence of my team.

Jace, Theo, Knox, and Tank are here, sitting in a row like we’re lining up for the national anthem. Calton came, too. Even Coach is here, stoic in a dark gray suit, arms crossed over his chest like this is another fourth-quarter stand.

It’s weird having them here. These guys have been to a hundred games with me. Fought beside me on the field. Bled with me in practice. But this is different.

This is real life.

This is the final whistle.

When the pastor steps up and begins the service, his voice is gentle. Warm. He speaks about my dad like he really knew him, and maybe he did. But I only hear pieces of it.

All I can think is I didn’t get to say goodbye.

I never got the final conversation.

The apology.