At that moment, all I knew was that she had just stolen something from a grieving child.
Her son, Parker, looked horrified.
“Mom, what are you doing?”
“You wanted a game ball.”
“Not like that.”
Denise ignored him and held the football closer to his chest.
I stood.
“Give it back.”
She looked at me as though I was being unreasonable.
“The player threw it into the stands. That means anybody can catch it.”
“He pointed directly at my daughter.”
“Your daughter happened to be standing there.”
A man behind us leaned forward.
“We all saw him point at her.”
Denise turned.
“This isn’t your business.”
Then she looked at Maisie and seemed irritated that she was crying.
“Honestly, she’s eight. She’ll get over it.”
Maisie wiped her cheek.
“It was for me.”
Denise gave a small laugh.
“My son has played football for three years. He actually understands what that ball means.”
That sentence hit me almost as hard as seeing Maisie’s face.
Gavin had spent years teaching our daughter this sport.
He’d explained everything from pass interference to two-minute drills while she sat cross-legged beside him eating popcorn.
Football wasn’t just a game to her anymore.
It was one of the places where her father still existed.
I was about to tell Denise exactly that when everyone behind us suddenly started shouting toward the field.
Cole Brennan was standing still, looking at our section.
His expression had changed.
He pointed toward Maisie, then toward the football in Parker’s hands.
One of the staff members beside him followed his gesture.
A moment later, the enormous screen above the stadium changed.
Our section appeared on it.
Maisie was there, her sign still in her hands.
So was Denise.
And Parker was sitting beside her holding the football.
A wave of noise moved through the stadium.
Denise’s face went bright red.
Then Cole was handed a microphone.
“I need to clear something up,” he said.
The crowd quieted enough for his voice to carry.
“I threw that football to the little girl holding the sign about her dad.”
