Page 189 of Just One More Thing

A linebacker’s got the angle.

I lower my shoulder at the three and launch over the pile.

My body lands in a tangle of Panthers. Somebody’s facemask jams into my ribs. An arm hooks across my throat. I can’t see the official from down here.

But I hear the cannons.

Touchdown.

Wayne grabs my arm and hauls me up, then keeps lifting me off the ground.

“Put me down, Wayne. You’re giving me a wedgie.”

“You did it, Wheeler. Last fucking second.”

He doesn’t put me down. He shakes me like a rag doll while the rest of the offense crashes in.

Ryan finds me through the pile and slaps my helmet. “Hella good play.”

Sixty-five thousand people are screaming at once. Cannons firing. The jumbotron replaying the dive. My lungs still burning from the drive. My ribs already promising to make tomorrow personal.

I take my helmet off and look up into the stands where my parents would’ve been sitting.

I always have.

I always will.

I say a quiet thank you because I know they’re with me somewhere. I know it.

My gaze drifts lower. Past rows of people on their feet.

And I stop.

Four rows from the bottom, a woman is jumping with both hands over her mouth.

She’s wearing a white jersey that’s too big for her.

Number eleven.

It can’t be.

I take a step closer to the wall.

She lowers her hands.

Mo.

Everything in the stadium—the noise, the replay, the teammates still celebrating behind me—goes muffled.

All I can see is her.

Standing there in my jersey.

Tears running down her face.

She’s here.

I point to her.