Page 3 of Play the Last Card

Scott stares at my hand for a moment before wrapping his fingers around mine. His hand is calloused, rough, and uneven. It dwarfs my own. Yet as I settle into the shape and feeling of his fingers curled around mine, it’s as if the two fit perfectly. As if each is carved out purely for the other.

He drops my hand, brows pulling together and a frown tugging at his lips.

“See you round, Ivy.”

Despite the fact there isn’t a hint of a smile on his face and his features are still set into what I’m beginning to think is probably stone, his eyes flash with something else. The green of his eyes swirl under the shadow of his cap. They’re intense but a spark takes hold and lights a small fire in the pit of my stomach.

I swallow the lump in my throat, losing the war with the unwanted flush heating up my face. I give him a small wave, calling after him, “Welcome to Boston.”

Chapter Two

Ivy

“Stop fussing, Ivy. It’sfine.”

I roll my eyes and continue my task of fixing the corners of my grandfather’s hospital bed, a hand swiping beneath the mattress to smooth out the fold. If he isn’t allowed to come home then the least I can do is make sure he is comfortable.

“You would think they would know how to tuck in the corners properly at least. Nan was the head nurse here for, what? Thirty years? She’d be disappointed at the slipping standards if she saw them today,” I huff out, running my palm over the sheets again.

“Or, she would tell you to relax. Ivy ...” I lift my head, meeting Pops’ concerned gaze. The edges of the harsh blue, the same exact shade of my own, soften before I drop my gaze back on the perfectly tidy bed corner that I’d just undone only to re-do. “Will you sit down?”

I huff again, tucking in the last section of the hospital sheet before falling into the chair at his bedside.

“How was the bar the other day?” Pops asks.

“I don’t want to talk about the bar,” I grumble.

“Well, I do. Look at me.” I find his gaze again. “You heard what the doctor said. It’s time we think about the end now. I need round the clock care. I am not putting that on you. When we find a nurse, I will come home. For now, I am here.”

“Icould take care of you at home.” My voice barely registers louder than a whisper. Pops leans over to cover my hand with his.

“Ivy, you’re young. You’re smart, beautiful, and you have an entire life ahead of you. You should be out living your life. Not caring for an old man two wobbly steps away from death.”

I shake my head, tears stinging my eyes. “Don’t.”

William ‘Billy’ Booker was an American All-Star. From high-school football, to college, and on to the pros. Pops’ career had been what most would consider hall of fame worthy. Drafted out of college, he played for the Packers, the Chargers and, finally the Broncos over a fifteen-year career. He gave it all up when he and Marie Booker—the love of his life—had their son, Matthew.

My dad.

Nan used to tell me stories about the birth of my dad. He’d been their miracle baby, the one they were told would never happen. The way Nan would tell it, they had finally settled into the knowledge that the dogs would just have to do. So much so, that she hadn’t even realized that she was pregnant until she’d been four months along.

The miracle baby that had put an end to one of the most consistent and greatest careers in early American football.

Pops gave it all up in a heartbeat.

I’d never forget those stories, about how my dad had grown up with Pops at home and Nan working as a nurse at the hospital downtown. Nan had been a football wife for fifteen years. Once my dad had been born, she’d insisted on going back to work full time and Pops had been thrilled to stay home. A football in his hand since before he could walk, my dad was slated to be the next great American All-star.

Or so says Pops.

Pops coached his little league team. Been there to take him to his junior pro games, every weekend of the season, all over the east coast. Had sat in the bleachers yelling at the referee with all the other football parents through high school. Had done the same when dad had played for Harvard in college. Would have done the same when he’d gone pro.

Would have.

Matthew Booker died at the age of twenty-two as the rumored number one draft pick for the Boston Broncos, husband to my mom, Sara, and father to a growing toddler—me.

A few months after my third birthday, my parents were driving back from New York. Nan and Pops had given them a weekend away as an early Christmas present. My dad had been travelling for football, on the road for a string of away games before the break. Mom drove down to meet him but they decided to come home early. Dad hadn’t been home properly between games and classes for a few weeks by then. He wanted to come home and start his break early, with his daughter. So they’d left, ignoring the weather warnings, eager to get home to their baby girl. Eager to get home to me.

Snow had been falling for hours, covering the ground. The fog had been dense. From the way the truck driver had told it, no one should’ve been driving in that kind of weather.