Chapter 24: Fireworks Night

On Sunday I went through the door marked FIELD LEVEL, STAFF ONLY, and nobody stopped me.

The service tunnel was cool and dim and smelled like cut grass.

Russ stood by the cart of drag mats, the way he had stood two weeks ago.

He wore a clean button-down shirt instead of his crew green.

He held a paper cup of lemonade.

"The roller driver is covering the field tonight," he said. "I asked him why he'd do it. He said, 'Nope. Go.'"

"That's his whole speech."

"It's a lot, for him."

I took the cup.

The tunnel was very quiet, and I could hear the grandstand overhead filling up, a low rumble of feet and voices and folding seats.

"I'm going to say something," I said. "You don't have to say anything back."

"I'm good at that."

"I love you."

He went completely still.

It lasted long enough that I heard the drip of a hose somewhere down the tunnel, and the cart's wheel tick as it settled.

"That's three words," he said.

"I counted too."

"I've only got six for this."

"Go ahead."

He looked at me, with his gray eyes and his sunburned neck, and his hands hanging at his sides.

"I loved you since the towel," he said.

I laughed, and I put the cup down on the cart.

He kissed me against a stack of drag mats while the whole stadium stamped its feet over our heads.

At 7:05, I took my seat in section 128, seat 9.

Dad was on my left in his Foxes cap.

He was working on his fourth hot dog, and when he saw me he handed me the next two.

"Hold these."

"Yes, Dad."

Marilyn sat on his other side, in her cardigan, with her glasses on a cord and a program open on her knee.

They had come together.

Neither had explained it, and I hadn't asked.