My Darling Jane (The Darlings)

The June sun blasts down on my Escalade as I crawl off the interstate into a classic New York traffic jam. A delivery truck’s hogging the road, and a couple of drivers are locked in a horn-blaring standoff. Typical city gridlock.

In my rearview mirror, Mr. Prius is flipping me off like I’m the one causing this mess. Right, buddy, because I control traffic.

I crank up the radio to escape the chaos. It’s the Dog and Jerry Show on air, a sports-talk duo.

“The Pythons snagging Dalton Talley in the draft? That’s a game changer,” Dog says.

Jerry’s quick to counter. “Kid’s a walking red flag. Two colleges in four years? Flake alert.”

Dog laughs. “Hey, the guy’s just shopping for the right fit. Besides, after Jasper’s disaster in Seattle, Dalton Talley might just be our new golden boy.”

Ah, the Seattle game. My favorite nightmare.

Then Dog’s voice perks up. “Breaking news: Jasper’s thrown another interception in practice!”

Jerry cackles like it’s the best joke he’s heard all year. “Jasper’s so bad, Seattle threw a parade in his honor!”

“He’s so old, he farts dust!” Dog says.

Jerry chimes in. “He’s so old he remembers when a touchdown dance was a polite handshake—”

I snap the radio off and go back to the symphony of horns. Still better than those clowns rehashing the same jokes every year.

The Tundra ahead eases up, and I’m finally moving. Pulling into the training-facility lot, I spy a Porsche squatting in my spot. QB, the sign reads, clear as day.

“What the hell?” I say to the silver car parked in my spot.

To be fair, there are three front spots, all labeled “QB,” but everyone knows I park in the first one. I pull into the second, beside the Porsche, and think about bumping it with my door, but don’t. It’s a nice ride, and I have a pretty good idea of who owns it. Dalton Talley.

Stepping out of my Escalade, I grab my gym bag just as a deep voice booms from behind, “Yo, bro, why do you glory boys get prime parking, while us linemen are exiled to dumpster-ville?”

I turn to see Simo Tualea, our team’s behemoth of a lineman. “Because your blocking is shoddy, big man,” I shoot back, clasping his hand and forearm in our customary post-touchdown handshake.

He grins. “How was the break, QB1?”

“QB1? With Talley around? I’m thinking kicker might be a safer bet,” I joke, only half kidding.

“Nah, you’re the face of this team. Fans would riot if they benched you. Hey, speaking of, got some helmets in my truck. Mind signing them? Birthday gifts for family.”

“Drop them with marketing. I’ll sort it out.”

“Think you can get Talley to sign too? A bit of the old and new?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Love you, man, but yeah. Can you?”

I sigh heavily. “Sure. When I meet the kid, I’ll make it priority one,” I say, my tone full of sarcasm.

Simo holds the weight room door for me, and I continue. “Let me know when the whole line’s around. Got new bracelets for everyone.” I show him the latest one on my wrist. I had it handmade in three shades of leather with a unity charm in the center.

“Nice. Better than last year’s. Lost mine in the snow during the Cleveland game.” He gives me a backslap and heads off to the leg machines, where several guys are.

Reaching my locker, I notice the one next to mine, freshly labeled DALTON TALLEY, already filled with street clothes. A note from Coach Duval sticks on my locker: “See me.”

Quickly changing into shorts and a tank, I then make my way to his office. He’s in a conference room with Dalton. My eyes study the new recruit. Tall, lean, and fresh faced, he’s the picture of youthful ambition. I push down a wave of envy and step in.

“You wanted to see me, Pete?” I tighten my shoulders, ready for whatever’s coming.

Pete stands and smiles and shakes my hand, but Dalton is too engrossed in the film to acknowledge me. Typical rookie arrogance.

I clear my throat, trying to grab Dalton’s attention, but he remains fixated on the screen. Coach Duval shoots him a brief glance, then turns his focus back to me.

Pete says, “I’ve got Dalton in today. Have you two met?”

I shake my head. “Nope.”

Dalton gives me a head nod without standing. “What’s up?”

“Not much,” I murmur, annoyance rising.

Pete clears his throat. “We’re planning some film sessions, something to jump-start Dalton on how we run plays. How about Tuesday and Thursday mornings until camp? Can you meet with him?”

Dalton, without missing a beat, interjects, “Monday and Thursday afternoons.”

I shoot a glance at the rookie, then back at Pete. “Thursday afternoon’s a no-go for me. Got my nutritionist appointment.”

Dalton deigns to look at me again, sizing me up. “Whatever, man.”

Pete tries again. “Okay, how about Wednesday and Friday mornings? Work for you, Jasper?”

“I can make it,” Dalton cuts in and smirks, throwing a challenging look my way.

Pete seems ready to wrap up. “Great, let’s start with the Seattle—”

“No,” I say, cutting him off. The last thing I want is to relive that game.

Pete’s taken aback. I’m usually easy going—hell, I’m the team mascot, practically—but not with a new quarterback who can’t even get up to shake my hand. “What works for you, then?”

“Our regular QB meetings on Wednesdays. That’s it. I’m here to train, not babysit. Dalton can watch tape with you. Might pick up some manners.”

Dalton shrugs and returns his focus to the screen. “Fine. Don’t need him anyway.”

Pete pulls me aside, a frown creasing his forehead as he talks in hushed tones. “I thought you’d help mentor him. No need to feel threatened, Jasper. You’re still our guy.”

Am I, though?

I watch Dalton taking notes on a laptop as he watches the film. Mixed emotions churn inside me. He’s the fresh face, the new talent, and while I know I’m secure in my role as the quarterback, his arrival stirs fear within me—a fear that isn’t really about football at all.

I’ve always prided myself on being the leader, the one the team looks up to, but I can’t help but wonder, What if I’m not enough anymore? It’s not that I doubt my skills on the field; it’s the fear of losing my place in this makeshift family we’ve become as a team.

I stand firm. “I’m here to play, not to coach. I’ve got my own game to focus on.” I pivot toward the door.

Dalton’s quick with a comeback. “Sure, man. I’ll learn loads here watching your tape, like what not to do.”

I spin around. “Just for the record, I’m a three-time Super Bowl quarterback. Also, you parked in my spot. Don’t do that shit.”

Pete jumps in. “Enough. Dalton, back to the film. Jasper, go on to training. No need for you here today.”

Yeah, that sounds better.

Dalton grunts, sinking back into his seat.

Shaking my head, I stride out, leaving the door ajar, Coach’s voice trailing after me. “We’ll sort this out.”

Postworkout, I change in peace, Dalton’s locker thankfully empty. But outside, my relief fades. He’s lounging against my Escalade, clutching a paper.

“What’s the deal with you?” I ask, dropping my bag, braced for round two.

He hesitates, then offers the paper. “Found this on my windshield. It’s not meant for me, so I guess it’s yours.”

I snatch it, scanning the words. My hands clench around it.

Dear Jasper,

I can barely write these words. My hands are trembling with fear and suppressed love. It’s been a lifetime since I held you in my arms, a lifetime filled with regret and silent whispers of your name.

Seeing you from afar, witnessing your life unfold, fills me with both pride and an indescribable ache. I’ve carried the weight of our separation every day, the memory of your tiny fingers slipping from my grasp haunting me. My heart lives in the shadow of the choice I made. It was the hardest decision of my life, but seeing the incredible person you’ve become, I cling to the belief that it was the right one for you.

You have every reason to hate me, to throw away this letter and curse the day I walked out of your life. I understand, more than you can imagine. The pain I’ve caused you is my life’s greatest sorrow. But if there’s a shred of forgiveness or curiosity in your heart, know this, you were loved every single day of your absence. Loved fiercely by a mother who never stopped thinking about you, worrying about you, loving you.

I’m leaving you my number, not with the expectation of a call, but with the hope of one. Perhaps to hear your voice, to say the words I’ve rehearsed in my mind a thousand times, or just to listen to whatever you need to say to me, even if it’s anger.

You don’t have to forgive me. You don’t even have to understand. Just know that I am here, bearing the weight of my choices, and loving you.

Mom (445-555-5790)

I reread it, then glance around the parking lot searching for her. My throat feels tight, and my chest rises as I take deep breaths.

Is this for real? Did she actually come here?

Dalton cuts into my thoughts. “If I’d known it was for you, I wouldn’t—”

I cut him off. “Don’t play nice right now. You missed your shot, rookie.”

He steps back. “I legit thought it was for me. My bad.”

I’m silent, my mind racing. The last thing I want to do is get emotional in front of Dalton.

He crosses his arms. “We all got family drama. My own’s a mess. When’d you last talk to her?”

I haven’t seen her since I was five years old.

“None of your business,” I say as I open my door and get inside.

He is still standing behind his car, staring as I drive through the parking lot.

As I idle at the highway on-ramp, the note in the passenger side is like a grenade.

State champion, college standout, pro footballer, and not a peep from her. Now, suddenly, a note. A number. It feels like a mockery of all my achievements.

Growing up, even with the best adoptive parents, there was this empty space she left. I had everything a kid could want, except answers.

Why did she leave?

Would she ever come back, even just to explain?

I remember my tenth birthday vividly. My adoptive parents, Paulina and Elijah Jannich, outdid themselves with a party and a brand-new skateboard. They rented the skate park, and it was epic. But that night, I lay in bed, tears streaming down my face because she wasn’t there. Part of me, the innocent part, had hoped just because it was my birthday and it had been five years since she left, she’d appear.

I remember the ache in my chest, the feeling of abandonment so acute it was almost tangible. I told myself she was dead. It was easier to grieve than to hope. I swore I’d never waste another thought on whether she was still out there.

For years, I kept that promise.

No, she doesn’t get to come back now. Not after leaving a kid to wonder, to hope. To me, she remains what I decided long ago, a part of my past that I buried deep down.

I grab the paper, crumpling it up, and toss it into the back seat.

She’s still dead to me.