Wildflowers and Wide Receivers

Prologue

Jonah

N ew Year’s Day

I’d just had the best night of my life.

The clean vanilla scent of her hair, the softness of her skin, and the taste of champagne on her lips . . . it was the kind of night that songs are written about and poems are penned; one that had the ability to change the trajectory of life. I’d felt free and exhilarated, and grounded and home at the same time. I was certain I’d found that feeling we all long for and hope to find, the one that usually comes when you’re not looking for it and least expect it, and it whispers, “Soulmate.”

Only, as fast as a mirror shattering and the vibrating of my cell phone, that feeling disappeared with the first rays of sunlight, and my best night was replaced with my worst morning.

In fact, worst isn’t even a strong enough word to encompass the overwhelming emotions I felt. What anyone would feel.

Life is funny like that. Well, I shouldn’t say funny because there’s nothing funny about the many voicemails I discovered on my cell phone first thing this morning—the endless slew of text messages from people wondering where I was or what I now have to do today.

I thought I’d be reliving the buzz from the night before, getting a strong workout in, cleaning up my condo a little bit, then finding myself back at the home of the most incredible girl. They say magical and fabulous things can happen on New Year’s Eve, and they weren’t wrong. Only that magic instantly evaporated, as did the vision of me with the gorgeous, funny blond girl I had just met the moment I picked up my tux jacket from her couch and walked out her front door. As it turns out, horrible and unthinkable things can also happen too.

My first call had been to my offensive coordinator, Marcus. He immediately answered and said, “This had better be damn good, Dallmann.”

In return, I barely choked out the words, “I need you.”

Outside of him, I wasn’t sure who to call, but of all the people in my life, I knew he would be the right choice. And he was. While I headed home to shower and change, he got on the phone with our travel department, and they worked their magic.

Keeping my head propped against the plane window and my eyes closed, I can still see her large, beautiful smile with bright pink lips, but as the miles grow farther between us, even that becomes blurry. Then again, maybe the blurriness is from the tears.

Tears.

Tears that started hours ago and just won’t stop. Endless and leaking from my broken heart to my eyes and then dripping down my face. Do I care that I’ve been photographed repeatedly in this emotional state? Yes, but what can I do? When you live in the public eye, there’s no way to hide from it, no matter how desperately it’s sometimes needed. And of course someone is always waiting for a moment just like this.

A moment that should be respected and allowed to remain private. Instead, I’m certain it’s already splashed across the internet and sports social media sites, with the world wondering, “What’s happening to Jonah Dallmann?”

“Please bring all seats and tray tables to their upright position. Our crew will be coming down the aisle one last time before we land,” says a voice over the speakers. I thought this would be the longest flight of my life, the three hours from Tampa to Boston, but as we’re about to land, I realize it isn’t long enough.

I’m just not ready for any of this to be my reality.

As the plane pulls into the gate, I lower my hat even farther on my head and pull the hood of my sweatshirt over it. Standing, I retrieve my bag from the first-class overhead compartment and feel the stares on my back. If they follow football, my face might be recognizable to some, but my size has always intrigued people. I’m not a small man. I’m six foot three, weigh two hundred and forty-five pounds, and my wingspan is eighty-one inches, almost seven feet. People stare because they know I’m an athlete, and more often than not, people love to ask me for who. They get excited about the prospect of meeting a professional athlete, and I usually go along with it. After all, I've worked hard to be where I am, but today is not the day. Today, I wish I could just blend in.

Stepping out of the airport to meet the car service, I’m met with frigid, damp air. In my rush to book the flight, pack a bag, and leave, I’d somehow overlooked that January in the Northeast is miserable and forgot to grab a coat.

Of course.

Immediately, I think I can borrow one from my brother. He’s not quite as big as I am, but he’s still large enough that I can manage for a short time with his, but then I remember why I’m here, and my heart seizes so bad it feels as if my chest is caving in on itself.

Twenty-five minutes later, we pull up to his house, and I find my uncle standing on the front porch smoking a cigarette. I thought he’d given them up, but then again, given the situation, who can blame him?

After climbing out of the car, I glance up at the sky's darkness. It’s overcast and thick with winter clouds. Its somberness is fitting. It’s a random thing to notice, but the gloominess matches the moment, and as irrational as it is, I’m grateful that the day isn’t sunny and bright. Something about that would feel wrong.

Ice crunches under my boots as I make my way up the short sidewalk to the house. It’s a standard South Boston row house: upright, crammed between the neighbors, tiny front porch with a metal railing, and faded green siding. Christmas lights remain hung around the inside of the window, and a small lopsided snowman sits on the front lawn, or should I say snowwoman since it’s decorated with a pink hat and scarf, and has long eyelashes. The aching is so painful as it constricts and squeezes that I feel like I can’t breathe.

After I signed with my first NFL football team, I tried to buy a new house for my brother, John, but he and his wife, Ashley, loved this one, so I just paid it off. They’d already lived here for a few years and made it their home. I wanted to do something nice for him. After all, he’s always been there for me as my biggest fan and staunchest supporter. Being drafted after all those years and all the hours of practices and games wasn’t just my dream coming true; it was his too.

John was with me at the draft. Carolina selected me in the second round. When they handed me the team hat to put on my head, I asked for two so he could also have one. That hat and a photo of us at the event in Dallas still sit on his mantel today.

Trudging up the steps, I stop in front of my uncle, but no words are said. His eyes are red-rimmed, the deep grooves of his wrinkles are more pronounced, and he looks as if he’s aged ten years. My heart doubles down on the pain. He embraces me, and we take a moment to cry with each other at the grief that’s filled every space inside us.

Death.

Unexpected tragic death.

Death of the one person who means the most to me in life.

Stomping my boots to free them from any leftover snow or ice, I walk into the house, and the smell of pine greets me from the leftover Christmas tree still sitting in the corner of the room. Its lights are on. My guess is that they were never turned off last night.

When I look around, nothing appears out of place. Their home looks like it does any other day, and just like it did a week ago when I was here for Christmas. The dining room table is decorated with winter colors. Boots are lined up next to the front door with coats hanging on the coatrack, and the crackling fireplace makes it all warm and cozy.

And that’s when I spot her next to the fire.

Time stops, and the air rushes from my lungs as the world around me goes silent.

There, wrapped in a fuzzy pink blanket, being rocked by someone I don’t know, is Vivi. Even though it’s early afternoon, she’s still wearing pink unicorn pajamas, and she’s clinging to a stuffed dolphin she got from the aquarium when my brother and sister-in-law came to Tampa to watch me play a few months ago. Her white-blond hair is sticking out everywhere, and at this moment, my bright, full-of-energy, little light of my life looks dull.

“Uncle Jonah,” she says when she sees me standing in the doorway. Her eyes are so large and watery, and her voice is so sweet and so small and so broken.

“Wildflower.” My voice cracks on the syllables, just like my heart.

Cutting the distance between her and me, I scoop her little body up into my arms. She wraps around me like a koala bear and cries.

I cry with her, breathing in her sweet scent of lavender from her kiddie shampoo.

She’s so small and soft. She’s so sweet and perfect.

How do I make this better?

How do I ease her pain?

I can’t because there’s only one thing she wants. The one thing I can’t give her. And her next six words slice me to the core, causing permanent damage.

“I want my mom and dad.”