Page 185 of Just One More Thing

Red jersey. White numbers. WHEELER stitched across the shoulders. Number eleven. I reach out and drag my thumb over the fabric. It’s stiff. Not broken in yet.

I came back because I couldn’t stay.

I couldn’t sit in the boathouse with that second chair still angled toward mine and the empty space beside me shaped exactly like her. Couldn’t wake up every morning and look across the water, expecting to see her light on.

Football didn’t fix anything the first time. But it was loud enough to keep me moving until I could carry the weight of what hurt.

Maybe it does that again.

Maybe that’s enough.

I take a deep breath and let it out slow.

Ryan walks by with his helmet tucked under one arm. He glances at me, then at the jersey. “You gonna put that on?”

I look over at him.

Ryan nods toward the locker.

He crouches to straighten Hank’s Buccaneers bandana the team store hooked him up with, along with a bed, bowls, and enough toys to make my bulldog look like he signed a better contract than I did.

“Because if you’re having second thoughts, I know a guy with a boat,” Ryan says.

“I’m good. Appreciate it though.”

“I’m here, man.” He pulls me up and into a one-armed hug. “On the field and off.” Then he heads toward the tunnel.

I pull the jersey and gear over my head.

Wayne appears carrying what looks like an iced coffee buried under whipped cream. “Damn, Wheeler. You look stressed. Here. Sip this. It’ll scare away the quitter jitters.”

“I’m fine.”

“Hey,” he says, quieter this time. “You don’t gotta be old Jake today. Just gotta be this one.” He pats my chest once, right over the numbers.

“Thanks, man.”

Then he lifts the iced coffee. “But the quitter-jitters coffee is available.”

A few minutes later, I walk Hank down toward the tunnel to meet his nanny, Alex. “Y’all are gonna watch from the box,” I tell him, rubbing the loose skin behind his ear. “It’ll be quiet. Air conditioning. Lots of cookies and toys too.”

Hank looks up at me with his bottom teeth showing like he’s weighing the offer against emotional abandonment.

“I know,” I say. “Hard life.”

I kiss the top of his head, hand Alex his leash, and watch them walk away. He turns back once and gives me an arf.

“Love you, buddy,” I shout.

Then I start bouncing on the balls of my feet. “Let’s fucking go,” I mutter.

“Wheeler.”

I glance up. “Coach.”

“You’re mic’d up today. Watch the language.”

“Yes, sir.”