Page 27 of Flag On The Play
The peace.
And now I never will.
When they ask if anyone wants to come up and speak, I don’t move at first. I can feel my teammates’ eyes on me, waiting. My mom’s hand squeezes mine.
“Only if you want to,” she whispers.
So I stand and I walk up to the podium with legs that feel like they’re made of stone.
I clear my throat and stare out at the crowd. The words don’t come right away.
“I wasn’t here,” I start. “When he got sick. When it got bad. I wasn’t here.”
My voice cracks a little, but I power through it.
“My dad wanted me to be a doctor. I wanted to be a quarterback. That disagreement cost us years. Too many. But hewas the kind of man who showed up for you even when he was mad at you. He’d record every game, cut clips, talk to me about critiques even if I didn’t want to hear it.”
A few people chuckle softly.
I look down, jaw tightening. “He was tough. He didn’t give compliments easily. But he was proud of me. I know that now. And I hope, wherever he is, he knows I’m proud of him, too.”
I walk off before I break. My mom’s crying silently. Jace gives me a subtle nod.
I go to sit down and try to breathe, and that’s when I see her.
She’s standing in the back, dressed in black, hair down, minimal makeup, holding a small bouquet of white roses in her hand. Her eyes find mine instantly, and for a second, the entire room fades out.
I didn’t tell her. She didn’t ask.
But she’s here anyway.
And something about that makes me feel like I can finally take a real breath.
After the service, I shake hands. Hug a few people. My teammates give me space, but they don’t leave. Knox claps a hand on my shoulder. Tank offers a quiet, “Sorry, man.” Coach gives me one of those stiff, awkward hugs that somehow mean more than words.
I glance back toward the door, wondering if she left.
She didn’t.
Nova’s still here, standing off to the side, quietly waiting while the crowd trickles out. My mom sees her and walks over, giving her a soft smile, a hug, and a whispered thank you.
Her eyes stay locked on me as I walk toward her.
“Didn’t expect to see you,” I say, stopping in front of her.
“I wasn’t sure I should come,” she replies, voice quiet, a little unsure.
“But you did.”
“I wanted to pay my respects. He was a good man.”
I nod. “He remembered you, you know. My mom told me. Said he kept a card you gave him.”
Something flickers in her expression, maybe pain. Maybe regret.
“You okay?” she asks.
I laugh without humor. “Not even a little.”
