Page 40 of Dump Tackle My Heart
But I know she is.
Because I’m watching her too.
I clear my throat, and she immediately reaches for her phone.
“Wait—this is your wrap-up speech. I have to get this on camera.”
She sets it to record and props it on a stack of cookbooks, the red light blinking like a heartbeat.
I rub my palms on my thighs and take a deep breath.
The words she wrote for me are scrawled on the napkin beside my plate in her perfect loopy handwriting.
I could read them as-is.
She’d probably prefer that.
But that’s not how I want to end this.
So, yeah, I start with what she gave me.
“Happy Thanksgiving to all our fans back in Consequence and beyond. From the Carolina Rovers family to yours, we hope your day has been full of good food, warm hugs, and even better company.”
I glance at her. She smiles and gives me a little nod.
“But if you’ll let me go off script for just a second,” I add, voice lowering.
I see her eyes widen just slightly.
“I didn’t grow up with this holiday. Not where I’m from. Thanksgiving wasn’t a thing. We had other ways of showing love. Of celebrating each other. But here? I’m starting to understand it.”
I look around our temporary mountain cabin-home—the candles, the food, the cozy fire crackling behind us.
“It’s not about perfection. It’s about togetherness. Found family. Teammates who become brothers. Coaches who push you. Friends who keep you grounded. And people?—”
My gaze lands on Dani. She’s not smiling now.
She’s holding still. Watching me like she’s trying to memorize my face.
“People who surprise you. Challenge you. Teach you what it means to show up. To give a crap. To love.”
Her breath hitches.
“And if I’m lucky, really lucky, maybe this won’t be my last Thanksgiving like this. Maybe next year, and every year after, I’ll get to do it all again—with the same person.”
My voice falters just a bit, but I push through.
“I’m proud to be a Rover. And I’m even prouder to be here. With all of you, and especially withyou. Thank you, Daniela, for giving me my first real American Thanksgiving.”
She blinks, like she’s pulling herself out of a trance.
“But last year, didn’t Mr. Knight host a dinner?” she asks, trying to keep it light.
“Yeah.” I nod. “A posh affair. Catered. Very clinical. But nothing like this.”
I smile as she pauses the recording.
“One minute,” she says and moves to the desk where she’s been editing and posting all day.
