Blitzed(37)

"Hey mister! Number fifty-one!"

I turn, surprised as I see a little blonde girl in the stands, waving to me. I've got time. It's still a half-hour until game time, so I take a moment and walk over. "Hey, what's up?"

"Can I get your autograph?" she asks, thrusting a blue Hawks hat and Sharpie at me. "Mama says you're her favorite player."

"Really?" I reply, touched. "How old are you?"

"I'm five," the little girl says, and there's something about her face, the way she looks, that just seems familiar. It's like I'm looking at a Photoshop of two people that I know, one of those mashups you can see on the Net from time to time, just for some reason, I can't put a name to the faces. "I just turned five, but in a few months, I'm going to be five and a half."

"Really? Congratulations," I say. "You want me to just sign this, or do you want this made out to your mom?"

"Would you? Wow, that'd be great!" the little girl says, and I can start to pick out an accent in her voice, something faint and maybe European. "Mama would love that!"

"Okay, then what's your mama's name?" I ask, switching to the way the little girl talks. "I'll sign it to her, then. And if you have anything else, maybe something for you too?"

"Wow . . .” the little girl breathes, but before she can answer, a man calls out.

"Laurie! Let the man prepare for his match in peace!" The man, who clearly has an Italian accent, says, coming up. He's about my age, maybe a little older, and the way he puts his hand on the girl's shoulder, I'm sure he's her father. Laurie starts to protest when I interrupt, smiling up at the man and waving.

"Oh, it's no problem, it's still warmups," I reply quickly. The man doesn't look convinced, so I know I need to work fast. Seriously, it's a pre-season game. What's he all upset about? I'm the guy playing, and I'm not even this uptight about it. I uncap the Sharpie and get ready to sign for the girl, or her mama, I guess. I don't want to turn her away. She's just too cute. "Laurie here was just going to tell me who to make the hat out to. So, Laurie, what's your mama's name?"

"Whitney," Laurie says, and my pen falters, pausing just before making contact. "Mama's name is Whitney, but I call her Mama."

"I see," I say, forcing my pen to move again. "Well, here you are. 'To Whitney, who has the cutest little girl in the world. Thanks for the support, Troy Wood.' How's that?"

"What's going on?" a voice behind the man says, and my heart stops. Looking up, I see her come down the stairs behind the girl and the man, and it's like I've been caught in a time warp. The face—it's the same beautiful heart shape, with the same gentle bow-like curve to the upper lip. She's got the same little scar on her chin, where she told me that she'd fallen off her bike when she was a little girl and took seven stitches. Her hair's shorter, but still shoulder length and that amazing, lustrous shade of auburn that haunts my dreams, and I can't stop staring.

"Whitney . . .”

Whitney stops and sees me, her own eyes going wide as she looks down on me. Five and a half years, and I feel like I'm back at Silver Lake again, back to the first time we met, except ironically, this time I'm the one on the grass and she's the one in the stands. "Troy. My God, it's good to see you. It's been a long time."

"Very long," I choke out in reply as the man leads Laurie away. Whitney stays behind, and I look up at her, the rest of the stadium forgotten for a moment. "It's . . . it's good to see you."

She's got something in her eyes, and I don't know what, but it's hard to think with so much emotion flowing through me. I feel like the past and the present are crashing together, and I'm having trouble containing myself. "It's good to see you too, Troy. I'm glad you made it . . . the Hawks even. Wow."

"Yeah . . . wow. And you're a mother now. She's a cute kid."

"She's the most important thing in the world to me," Whitney says, glancing back over her shoulder. "She's amazing."

"Amazing," I repeat, and I feel like the breath's been knocked out of me. A mother. Whitney's a mom. "Whitney . . .”

"I need to get to our seats," Whitney says, turning back to me. "It's good to see you, Troy."

She turns to walk up the steps, and I find my voice. "Wait! Whitney, wait!"

She pauses and looks back. I take my chance. "Please, Whitney, I want to talk. Just . . . I really would like to talk."

She considers me for a moment, then nods. "We're having dinner at the Cafe Italiano in town tonight, maybe around seven. Can you make it?"

I know the place. It's not great Italian food, but it works for a town the size of Silver Lake Falls. Screw the post-game press conferences. I can make it. "I may be a little late, but I'll be there."

"All right. Good luck today, Troy. Laurie's really been looking forward to seeing you play."

Whitney walks away, and the public address announce system plays the music that signifies that warm-up time is over. I retreat to the locker room, getting ready for the game. As I finish suiting up, pulling my helmet on and making sure my gloves and shoulder pads are right, the numbers run through my head.