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Tears making her blue eyes glisten, Lorelei extended her hand, and he slid the ring onto her finger. Standing, he took her into his arms and kissed her as if he loved her more than life, and she clung to him as if he were just as vital to her.
Something pierced the hollowness inside me like a blade, making me ache. Not because I wanted that, no way, but maybe deep down I sometimes did.
“Mr. Valentine?” a young voice said, breaking into my thoughts.
Tearing my gaze away from the happy couple, I turned and watched a boy around seven or eight years old approach me. He held a football with a shooting-star logo. That little overpriced keepsake cost $29.95 at the stadium gift shop.
“Yes. How can I help you?” I asked, my voice rough from emotion.
A different pain pierced my heart, one I nearly always experienced around children. But I had no right to long for a family. What kind of father would I be after the piss-poor example of my own?
But what if I had taken another road? What if I’d convinced Carlotta to keep our baby? What if she had defied our parents? What if I’d defied mine?
“I’m Dylan Marshall,” the little boy said. “I’m a big fan.”
I dipped my chin in thanks. “I’m honored to have you as a fan.”
Adults might be influenced by the hype, but not kids. Their adoration for the game and the part I played in it was pure. I was genuinely comfortable with them and enjoyed being hands-on with the Champion Foundation that provided equipment and training to inner-city youth who couldn’t afford it.
“That ninety-yard touchdown you threw to Zack to win the Super Bowl was amazing.” Sounding much older than he appeared to be, little Dylan shuffled his feet.
“It was a good pass,” I said. “But it was my buddy Zack who leaped into the air over tight coverage to catch it.”
As Dylan and I chatted, I noticed a tall man with black hair and emerald eyes moving closer. He was watching Dylan, wearing an adoring-father expression. Not that I’d ever experienced that from my dad, but I knew what it was supposed to look like.
“If I wasn’t planning to be a musician like Ben when I grow up,” Dylan glanced at the man behind him, “then I’d be a quarterback like you. Would you sign my football?”
“Of course I will.”
I never turned down kids if I could help it. I believed the strongest and sometimes the brightest memories were formed in childhood. In my case, there were strong memories, for sure, but none of them without my mom that were very good.
Taking the football and the pen the boy offered, I scrawled my signature before returning both items.
“Could I take a photo of you and Dylan?” Ben asked, stepping closer.
“Absolutely.” I stepped behind the boy and placed my hands on his shoulders while Ben took a photo.
“Thank you.” Dylan spun around to look up at me again, his face lit up like the sky would be after the fireworks.
“Thanks, man.” Ben gave me a chin lift and gathered the boy close.
Looking at them and the obvious affection between them, I felt that piercing pain grow stronger, making it difficult to breathe. I reminded myself that I had five Super Bowl rings, a fifteen-thousand-square-foot house in the most prestigious neighborhood in Dallas, and a Lamborghini and a Lincoln Navigator in my garage.
My life was full of accolades and possessions that should make any man happy, but none of those things made it easier to breathe or filled the void that seemed to be expanding inside me.
I started to turn away from Ben and Dylan but stopped. Just because I didn’t feel good didn’t mean I should pass up an opportunity to do something nice for someone else.
“Hey, kid,” I called.
“Yeah?” Dylan gave me an expectant look.
“Take this.”
I yanked off my jersey and tossed it to him. Beaming, he caught it. Flashes from media cameras backstage went off all around us, capturing the moment. It would probably show up on sports apps and ESPN SportsCenter the next day.
But that wasn’t why I did it. I played my part, but sometimes I went off script. When I did, I almost felt like I was that person I wished to be but had lost somewhere along the way.
“Are you sure?” Dylan’s eyes were almost as large as the zero before the seven on my jersey.
