Last Man Out by Mike Lupica

said.
    His mom raised her eyebrows. “That didn’t sound very enthusiastic.”
    â€œIt was just kind of weird tonight, is all.”
    â€œWeird in what way?”
    So much for not talking about practice. “I wanted to be out there so bad and playing again that I kept messing up.”
    â€œYou’ve got a lot on your mind. Don’t beat yourself up over it. Anyway, I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as you’re making it out to be.”
    â€œNot sure about that,” Tommy said. “I just kept making bad choices. And Dad always said there was no excuse for that.”
    She made her voice sound deeper, imitating his dad. “Bad plays, yes. Bad choices, never.” She reached across the small kitchen table and put her hand over Tommy’s. Lately they’d been eating dinner at this table, as if they were avoiding the dining room, where they’d always eaten family dinners when it’d been the four of them.
    â€œYou had to know it was going to be at least a little weird tonight,” she said.
    â€œBut I made things worse for myself,” he said. “
Much
worse.”
    â€œWant to tell me what really happened?”
    He shook his head. “It’s not that big a deal, Mom. I’ll figure it out.”
    â€œI know it’s football,” she said, “but maybe I can help with the figuring out part. Even though I’m not your dad.”
    â€œDon’t want you to be,” Tommy said. “Just want you to keep on being my mom.”
    Her hand was still over his. She squeezed his now. “Deal,” she said.
    â€œDeal,” he said.
    â€œDessert? I bought those chocolate chip cookies you like at the market.”
    â€œNo thanks.”
    â€œUh-oh. Now I know it was a rough practice.”
    â€œI’m just full.”
    â€œThat’s never stopped you before.”
    â€œMaybe I’ll have some later. Thursday Night Football is on tonight.”
    â€œPats?”
    She always guessed the Pats were playing when there was a game on television, even though she knew as much about the NFL schedule as she did about video games. Which meant a whole lot of nothing.
    â€œNope,” he said. “The hated Jets against the hated Dolphins.”
    She started to say something then, but stopped herself, because they both heard the siren.
    Neither Tommy nor his mom moved. It didn’t sound like it was coming from their street. But it was close enough. Maybe a block or two away. His mom turned to her left, looking out the kitchen window.
    Tommy watched her eyes, which looked scared and hurt at the same time, staring out into the dark, until the sound quickly faded into the distance.

ELEVEN
    T OMMY G ALLAGHER HAD NEVE R BEEN big on texting, once his dad and mom decided he was old enough to have a cell phone. Texting to him was just another form of talking, and he had never been a big talker, even before this week.
    His dad always said that you learned more with your mouth shut than you ever would with it open, that you learned by listening. He said he never knew anybody who made himself much smarter by talking.
    There it was again, he thought, lying on his bed.
    His dad always said.
    His dad used to say.
    His dad told him one time.
    How long did he go in a day without thinking that way about something? He wondered if it would ever change, if he’d do it less as the weeks went by, then the months and years.
    But did he want to do it less? Maybe that was the question he ought to be asking himself. Was this just Tommy’s harmless way of keeping his dad’s memory alive inside him?
    Everybody kept talking about moving on. But how much did he want to, really?
    He heard his phone buzz and saw he had a text from Greck, asking if he was doing okay. He put the phone back on his nightstand.
    He wasn’t okay, so why should he lie and pretend otherwise?
    Tommy thought briefly about calling Nick and apologizing, really apologizing