Chapter 2 — The Weight of Number 7
Meg
The morning sun streamed through the kitchen window, pooling over the cluttered countertop and catching on the edges of syrup bottles and half-filled glasses. The faint hum of cicadas filtered through the open window, a relentless soundtrack to the sticky summer air. Mom stood at the stove, flipping pancakes with the kind of efficiency that suggested she wasn’t paying full attention. Her posture, slightly bent and stiff, betrayed the tension she was trying to mask. She was bracing herself—for what, I wasn’t entirely sure. Maybe just me.
Emily, on the other hand, was anything but tense. She sat cross-legged on her chair, her oversized green football jersey swallowing her small frame, her words tumbling out in bursts between bites of syrup-drenched pancakes. Her boundless energy had its own gravity, pulling at everything in the room.
“Coach Tobias said I might get to play quarterback later this season!” she exclaimed, her voice bright enough to cut through the heaviness in the air. “He said I have good instincts. Do you think I have good instincts, Meg?”
I glanced down at my toast, the crust crumbling slightly beneath my fingers. The urge to deflect with sarcasm rose, but I swallowed it. “Sure,” I said, keeping my tone as neutral as possible. “Sounds great.”
Emily’s grin widened, her excitement undampened by my lukewarm response. “He also said I remind him of Dad! Isn’t that cool? He said Dad was the best at reading plays and thinking ahead. Do you think I could be like that someday?”
Her words hit me harder than I expected, the ache spreading like a slow tide through my chest. I stared at my plate, the sour aftertaste of orange juice lingering on my tongue. A memory flickered in the back of my mind: Dad leaning over my shoulder, his steady voice explaining how to read defenses, the scent of freshly cut grass clinging to him like a second skin. The memory was warm but jagged around the edges, too sharp to hold for long.
“You don’t have to be like Dad,” I said finally, the words coming out sharper than I intended. “You can just… be yourself.”
Emily’s grin faltered, her hands tightening around the frayed hem of her jersey. “I know that,” she said, her voice softening. “I just think it’s cool, that’s all.”
“Well, maybe don’t try so hard to be like him,” I muttered, pushing back my chair. The scrape of the legs against the wood floor seemed to echo louder than it should have. “I’m going for a walk.”
“Meg,” Mom said, her voice sharp with warning. She turned from the stove, spatula still in hand, her expression calm but watchful. “You haven’t even finished your breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry,” I lied, already halfway to the back door. “I’ll be back later.”
“Meg—” Mom started again, but I was out the door before she could finish. The screen door creaked shut behind me, leaving the clink of dishes and Emily’s muted voice to fade into the background.
Outside, the air clung to me, thick and muggy, wrapping me in a sticky cocoon. Gravel crunched under my sneakers as I drifted toward the edge of the backyard, the flowerpots Emily insisted on watering standing in neat, colorful rows. Beyond them, the line of trees beckoned, their shade offering a momentary reprieve. The scent of damp earth mingled with the faint tang of summer grass, but none of it eased the weight pressing down on my chest.
The number seven loomed in my mind, bold and unrelenting. It wasn’t just a number anymore—it was a reminder, a legacy, a shadow I couldn’t seem to shake. I hated how easily I’d left the kitchen, hated how I always seemed to retreat the moment things became too hard. Three years away, and I was still running.
---
When I returned, the house was quieter. Emily sat at the dining table, her oversized jersey still draped over her like it was a shield. A notebook was splayed open in front of her, the pencil tucked behind her ear bobbing as she scribbled furiously. She didn’t look up when I stepped inside, but the slight tilt of her head—carefully neutral—told me more than words could.
“Hey,” I said, my voice awkward in the hushed room. “What’re you working on?”
“Plays,” she replied shortly, her pencil not pausing. “Coach Tobias said I should start learning some basic ones.”
I nodded, shifting on my feet. “Need help?”
Her head snapped up, her green eyes wide with surprise. “You want to help me?”
“Just asking,” I said quickly, already regretting the offer. “If you don’t want me to—”
“No! I mean, yes, I want your help,” she said, her voice stumbling over itself in her eagerness. She shoved the notebook toward me, her smile tentative but hopeful. “I don’t really get how the routes work. Like, how do you know where to go when the play starts?”
I hesitated, the pencil feeling oddly heavy in my hand. For a moment, the past rushed back—Dad’s voice, warm and steady, guiding me through a similar notebook during my first season. My chest tightened, but I shoved the memory down, focusing on Emily’s expectant expression.
“You have to picture the field like a grid,” I said, sketching out a rough diagram of the field. Emily scooted closer, her curls brushing my arm as she leaned in.
“Each route is like a path,” I continued, the pencil scratching against the paper. “Your job is to follow it exactly. If the quarterback doesn’t know where you’ll be, the whole play falls apart.”
Her face lit up, the earlier shadow of disappointment melting away. “So, if I’m the quarterback, I have to memorize where everyone’s going?”
“Exactly. It’s like solving a puzzle. Every piece has to fit together.”
“That’s so cool!” she said, her grin widening. “Can you show me some more?”
For the next ten minutes, I sketched out simple plays, explaining each one as Emily peppered me with questions. Her enthusiasm was infectious, pulling me in despite myself. By the time we finished, her notebook was filled with messy but determined formations, each labeled in her looping handwriting.
“Thanks, Meg,” she said quietly, clutching the notebook to her chest. Her voice was soft but steady, and the warmth in her gaze made something in my chest loosen. “You’re really good at this.”
The ache in my chest flared, but this time it was softer, tinged with something bittersweet. “I used to be,” I murmured, reaching out to ruffle her curls before standing. “Don’t forget to clean up before Mom gets home.”
---
The clatter of pots and the faint hum of the television filled the house that evening. Emily was sprawled on the couch, flipping through channels, her notebook still tucked beside her. Mom moved around the kitchen with brisk efficiency, the tension from earlier lingering in her precise movements.
“Meg,” she said without turning as I entered. “Can you set the table?”
I grabbed a stack of plates, balancing them carefully as I carried them to the dining room. Emily trailed behind me, her notebook clasped tightly in her hands.
“Are you coming to my first practice tomorrow?” she asked, her voice hesitant.
I froze, the plates wobbling slightly. “I don’t know,” I said carefully, setting them down one by one. “I might be busy.”
Emily’s face fell, her shoulders slumping. “Oh,” she said softly, her voice barely audible. “Okay.”
“Em—” I started, but she was already turning, retreating to the couch. The sight of her curling into the cushions, her jersey swallowing her small frame, made guilt coil tightly in my chest.
“You should go,” Mom said from the doorway, her voice quiet but firm. “She wants you there, Meg.”
“I’m not ready,” I muttered, avoiding her gaze. “I can’t.”
Mom sighed, stepping closer. When she spoke again, her tone was softer but edged with steel. “Do you think any of us were ready when your dad passed?” she asked. “Do you think it’s been easy for Emily, or me, or anyone?”
I looked away, the words hitting harder than I expected. “You moved on,” I said, bitterness creeping into my voice. “You have Rick.”
Her eyes flashed, sadness mingling with frustration. “Moving on doesn’t mean forgetting,” she said sharply. “And you don’t get to decide how the rest of us grieve.”
The silence that followed felt heavy, pressing down on me like the muggy summer air outside. Upstairs, Emily’s soft humming drifted through the quiet, off-key but achingly familiar. My gaze flicked toward the couch, where her jersey lay crumpled, the bold number seven staring back at me like a challenge.
I didn’t know if I could make it to practice tomorrow. But for Emily’s sake, I had to try.
