Chapter 3: Sixty Minutes
The first half of the championship game was the longest thirty minutes of my life.
Mason played like a man possessed.
Every touch was sharp.
Every run was deliberate.
He was everywhere on that field — tracking back to defend, then sprinting forward to create.
The Division I scouts in the upper rows were leaning forward in their seats.
I barely saw any of it.
David had taken a position twelve seats to my left.
Close enough that I was aware of him every second.
He clapped when Mason made a good pass.
He stood up when Mason nearly scored in the twenty-second minute.
He did everything a proud father does.
It made my jaw ache.
At halftime, the teams disappeared into the tunnel.
The stadium filled with noise — parents talking, kids running along the sideline, a brass band somewhere near the south end.
I stayed in my seat.
Then David sat down beside me.
Not twelve seats away.
Right beside me.
One seat between us, and he moved into it without asking.
"He's extraordinary," David said.
I kept my eyes on the tunnel entrance.
"Yes.
He is."
"That left foot." David shook his head slowly.
"Sarah had a left foot like that.
In high school she played—"
"I know what Sarah played," I said.
"I was there."
A pause.
"Right," David said.
"Of course you were."
The band finished.
A group of small kids in matching jerseys ran across the far end of the pitch.
I watched them instead of looking at David.
"I want you to know," David said, "that I'm not here to cause problems."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because my son asked me to come."
"Your son." The words came out flat.
Not angry.
Just flat.
"Leo—"
"He called me Dad for the first time when he was six," I said.
"We were eating waffles.
He didn't even realize he'd said it." I finally turned and looked at David directly.
"Where were you that morning?"
David's jaw tightened.
He looked at the field.
"I'm not the same person I was," he said.
"I'm not interested in who you are now.
I'm interested in who you were when a four-year-old boy woke up alone in a house and didn't know where either of his parents had gone."
David said nothing.
The tunnel doors opened.
The teams began filing back out.
"I'm not going to make a scene," I told him.
"Not today.
Not here.
This is Mason's day." I stood up as the players emerged.
"But when this game is over, you and I are going to finish this conversation."
David looked up at me.
Something moved across his face — not guilt exactly.
Something more complicated than guilt.
"Fair enough," he said quietly.
Mason jogged out last again, adjusting his captain's armband.
He looked into the stands, found me, and gave a single nod.
I nodded back.
Then his eyes moved to David.
And he nodded at him too.
That second nod landed somewhere in my chest like a stone dropping into still water.
I sat back down and fixed my eyes on the field and told myself that Mason was eighteen years old and he was allowed to nod at whoever he wanted and that it meant nothing.
I told myself that three more times before I believed it even slightly.
May you like
The referee's whistle cut across the stadium.
The second half began.
