Between Sundays Read online

For those of you who are not familiar with Forever in Fiction™, it is my way of involving you, the readers, in my stories, while raising money for charities. To date, this item has raised more than $100,000 at charity auctions across the country. If you are interested in having a Forever in Fiction™ package donated to your auction, contact my assistant, Tricia Kingsbury, at [email protected]. Please write Forever in Fiction in the subject line. Please note that I am only able to donate a limited number of these each year. For that reason, I have set a fairly high minimum bid on this package. That way the maximum funds are raised for charities.

  NOTE TO THE READER

  While set against a very real backdrop, the characters in Between Sundays are completely fictional. There is absolutely no resemblance between 49ers quarterback Alex Smith and the fictitious Aaron Hill, nor is there any resemblance between any of the characters in Between Sundays and any real professional football player.

  As with any novel, I have taken poetic license in some areas of research, in an effort to create not only believable football players, but relatable characters. I was very careful in my NFL research, but it would be impossible to be completely accurate in my depiction of professional football.

  That said, any inconsistencies between this novel and the real-life world of the NFL are entirely mine.

  FOREWORD BY ALEX SMITH,

  SAN FRANCISCO 49ERS QUARTERBACK

  As an NFL quarterback, I spend my Sundays during football season calling plays, reading defenses, and avoiding sacks. All of this takes place in front of a national television audience and eighty thousand screaming fans. However, my Sundays were not always spent this way, nor were my days in between. That is why my time spent “between Sundays” is so important to me.

  Back in San Diego, California, where I grew up, Sundays were spent with family. Sundays were “game time.” Sundays were times spent talking and laughing and being together. We were able to create a supportive team and that team did not rest during the week. Team Smith consisted of my mom and dad, my older brother Josh, and my sisters Abbey and MacKenzie. I would not be where I am today if it were not for the love and support of my family and the invaluable time we spent together, caring for one another.

  My family always believed in the importance of love and encouragement, the necessity of an education, and the value of reading. As a reader, I’ve seen the power of story. Sometimes a story is the only way to touch the heart of a person, to help them see the truth through something that isn’t true at all. That’s the case here. Though Between Sundays tells an entirely fictitious story, it is set against the backdrop of a very real problem facing our country today—the problem with our foster care system.

  I chose foster care as the focus for my Alex Smith Foundation because most foster children do not have what I have. My “team” structure, my upbringing, and my family life, is the antithesis of what most foster children have. More important, my family’s love and support did not end when I turned eighteen. Foster children are taken from their homes and families for reasons of neglect, abuse, and abandonment; and on their eighteenth birthdays, they are abandoned again by the state.

  Less than half of foster kids in our nation graduate from high school. Within a year of leaving the system at eighteen years old, a third end up homeless and another quarter end up incarcerated. College is out of reach for most of these youth. Recent studies indicate that just 7 to 13 percent enroll in college, compared with 62 percent of high school graduates nationally. Less than 2 percent of former foster youth who begin college complete a bachelor’s degree. This is compared with 27 percent of the general population. We as a society are failing these children, and, sadly, their stories and struggles go unnoticed today. These children deserve a better opportunity at life. They deserve a chance for a successful adulthood, and they cannot get that on their own. Which of us—alone and poor at the age of eighteen—would be able to succeed?

  Giving these foster youth a chance at life, a chance for success, is so much more important to me than improving my passing rating, scoring touchdowns, and wins and losses. I play a game on Sunday for a living, and I have a great team to support me on and off the field. These kids don’t play a game for a living. Their game is survival and they need and deserve all the support they can get.

  We all need support. Whether that support comes from running backs, receivers, linemen, coaches or parents, siblings, teachers, or mentors, we all have a responsibility to work together. As a quarterback, I know this firsthand. I would be nothing if it were not for the players around me. Likewise, I would not be where I am today if it were not for the love and support I received from my family and friends off the field.

  I appreciate Karen Kingsbury for allowing me to share my story, and I appreciate her willingness to expose the positive side of a professional athlete’s life between games. But most important, I appreciate the opportunity to create awareness for my foundation and to increase support for foster children everywhere.

  It’s not what we do in front of eighty thousand people on Sundays that defines who we are. Just as we are not defined by what we do on Sundays in church. It’s what we do and how we live Monday through Saturday, when no one is watching, that defines our legacy. It’s more than a game, it’s life, and we all have a chance to make a difference as we live our lives between Sundays.

  For more information about my foundation, you can go to AlexSmith Foundation.org.

  See you there!

  Alex Smith

  PROLOGUE

  September 2005

  The ache in Amy Briggs’s chest hurt worse than before, and every breath came with a frightening wheeze. A wheeze no cough could loose. Not that she had the strength. She’d taken ibuprofen an hour ago, but still her fever raged. It made the air in their boxy apartment feel hot and stuffy, and it blurred her vision. She tried to sit up, but her body was too tired.

  Cough syrup, that’s what she needed. Cough syrup to break up whatever was suffocating her. She stared at the rickety table next to the worn-out sofa. The bottle of Robitussin lay on its side, empty, next to a stack of bunched up tissues and a half-empty box of Kleenex.

  “Cory…” Her voice barely lifted above the sound of the TV. “Can you get me…some water?”

  Her little boy was six, mesmerized by a special on the San Francisco 49ers. He jumped up. “Yes, Mommy.” He stopped near her face, and his eyebrows lowered. “Are you better?”

  She struggled for her next breath, but even so, she forced a smile. “A little.” The lie was all she could manage. Cory couldn’t help her. If things grew worse, she could call Megan, her friend and coworker at the diner. Megan could take her to the hospital if her cough got bad enough.

  Her eyes closed and the sounds of the announcer dimmed in the background. Days like this, the battle was almost more than she could bear. Being a single mother to Cory, wondering where next week’s food was coming from. Especially now that she was sick. Three missed shifts this week and she wasn’t any better. A week without pay would mean she’d be bargaining with the superintendent at the end of the month.

  “Mommy…”

  Amy opened her eyes, but it was a struggle. She nodded to the table. “Set it there, okay?”

  He held the table so it wouldn’t wobble, and waited until the glass was steady. “Need anything else?”

  “Yeah.” She took his hand in hers and met his eyes. “I need you…just you, Cory.” She tried to fill her lungs, but failed. A series of coughs came from deep inside her, and she turned away.

  “Your skin’s really hot.” He touched his fingers to her forehead. “Maybe you should go to the doctor.”

  Maybe, she thought. But she was too tired to move. “After my nap, baby…all right?”

  He wrinkled his blond brow. “You sure?”

  “Yes.” She coughed into the pillow. “You watch your team.”

  For a heartbeat, Cory seemed torn. He looked at the TV and then back at her. “Feel better.”

  �
�I will, baby.” She inhaled, but it sounded like she was underwater. “I love you.”

  “Love you too.” He still looked worried, but he turned and moved a few feet closer to the TV, then he dropped down cross-legged and stared at the screen.

  At his 49ers.

  Since Cory was born she’d made the team her single obsession, even moving to San Francisco so that her son might have the chance he deserved, the one she prayed for every day.

  The chance to know his father.

  Of course, there were other reasons for leaving Los Angeles, reasons that had nothing to do with Cory or football. Those suffocating, terrifying minutes in the dark bushes that lined the campus parking lot that night had changed everything. Even if she hadn’t told anyone then, or now.

  A thousand bricks lay stacked across her chest. She had to sit up, had to find a way out from under the pressure. With her elbows, she used all her energy and slid up onto the arm of the sofa. A burst of oxygen filled her airways, and suddenly there was sweet relief.

  She felt herself relax and again the sounds around her grew dim. She was falling, drifting into sleep. In the background, the announcer was saying something about Aaron Hill and how this was going to be his best year yet. Aaron Hill…the one everyone’s watching, the voice said. Or maybe it wasn’t the announcer talking at all, but her heart.

  Aaron Hill…

  Her heart slipped into a rapid, pounding rhythm and she tried to push herself up again on the sofa arm. This time, there was no relief. She felt hotter than before, her lungs heavy with fluid. She wanted to cough, needed to find a clear breath. But there was none.

  “Mommy…” Cory’s voice held an increasing sense of alarm. He stood over her and ran his little boy fingers along her forehead. “You look sicker.”

  “I’m…I’m okay.” She had to be. Cory didn’t have anyone in all the world but her. “I’ll tell you…if I feel worse.”

  He frowned, nervous and frightened. Slowly he turned back to the TV, to the special still on. The 49ers. Ready for another season. Amy tried to focus, tried to listen to the announcer, but panic pulsated through her veins. Why couldn’t she breathe? What was happening to her?

  Strange voices filled her head. Voices from the TV. Or from Cory. She wasn’t sure.

  “…Aaron Hill…the quarterback to beat.”

  “…maybe the best year ever…a team desperate for a championship and…”

  Amy rolled onto her side. She sucked in a breath, but she couldn’t tell if any air entered her lungs. She needed to call Megan. Her friend would find her a ride to the hospital. Amy clenched her teeth and dragged back the smallest bit of air. Relax, she told herself. Everything’s going to be okay.

  A siren sounded in the distance, loud and louder, and after a minute Amy realized the sound wasn’t coming from out on the streets. It was coming from her throat, her chest.

  “Mommy, I’m calling Megan.” Her boy was standing near her again, his breath soft on her face.

  She tried to open her eyes, but the effort was more than she could make. Instead, she moved her lips and forced just enough air through her lips so he could hear her. “Please…call her.”

  Spots appeared before her eyes and danced in tight circles. The sounds around her blurred more, and time froze. Aaron, you should be here… She wanted to breathe, but the sound scared her. If it weren’t for Cory, she would’ve moved on, as far from San Francisco as possible. But Aaron and Cory belonged together.

  And this was the year.

  Right, God…? Please, God…

  I am with you, daughter…and I am with your child, now and always.

  Peace filled Amy’s heart. Good, Lord. Thank you. One benefit of leaving her parents’ house six years ago was this—she’d found a friendship with God. Not the critical, narrow-minded God of her mother’s world. But a God who had sent His Son to open the gates of heaven for her, a God whose Word was alive with hope and promise and direction for her future.

  Cory’s future.

  “Wake up, Mommy.” His little hand was on her head again. “Don’t go to sleep.”

  I won’t, baby…Mommy’s okay. Jesus is here with us.

  She said the words, but she wasn’t sure they made it past her lips. The sounds around her faded a little more, and even the whistling coming from her lungs didn’t seem as loud.

  Amy wasn’t sure if she slept or fell into a dream, but suddenly around her there was a burst of motion. Someone picked her up and she was on a long bed, moving fast, faster down a hallway. And she was in a car and there were sirens again but this time they weren’t coming only from her throat but from everywhere, all around her, and she was moving on the bed again and a little boy was crying.

  Cory! Cory was crying, and she had a sudden burst of energy. Her eyes opened and there he was, right beside her.

  “Mommy, don’t go to sleep…please.” His eyes were red and damp and scared.

  She brought his fingers to her lips and kissed them. “I’m okay, baby. Keep praying.”

  “I am.” His breaths were fast and uneven, his features overtaken with fear. “Don’t leave me! I need you!”

  “You’re okay.” She pressed his fingers against her cheek. She wanted to do as he asked, but she was so tired. Her eyes blinked twice, three times. Then they closed. “I…love you.” Her words were the softest whisper, and the darkness settled in around her again, a darkness thicker and more complete than any she’d ever known.

  Something was pulling at her. Something or someone, and suddenly she couldn’t fight it a moment longer. She let go, let herself be drawn in, and the feeling was wonderful. But as she did, as she moved toward whatever was calling her, she was seized with alarm.

  Cory!

  She had more to tell him, more to say. Her son needed her. Who would care for him if she wasn’t there? The pull was stronger than before, and instead of the darkness, she was surrounded by a warm glow, a living light that was unlike any she’d ever known. With everything in her, she understood that her future was here, in the light.

  But, God…what about Cory?

  At that instant, sound and sight returned to her world and she could see Megan, her arm around Cory, comforting him, and a knowing filled her. Megan would take care of Cory. And one day, she would hold her son again and he would understand that God kept His promises. This was the waiting room, all of earth. The real adventure was on the other side. The adventure she was going to take. Cory would be okay, just like she’d told him.

  There was something else Amy was sure about, more sure than ever before. Almost as if God Himself were making the future suddenly clear. Her son would always have Megan, but very soon he would have someone else too.

  Cory would have his father.

  ONE

  Two Years Later

  Sometimes Cory Briggs took the long way home, pedaling as fast as he could so Megan wouldn’t worry about him. Because Megan said eight-year-old boys should come straight home from soccer practice, especially on late afternoons. San Francisco was the sort of city where it was best if you were in by dark.

  But that early August day, Cory did it again. He slipped his backpack onto his shoulders, left the soccer field at McKinley Elementary, and rode his bike up the hill and a few blocks out of the way, to Duboce Park. He would make up time on the downhill, so he stopped just outside the fenced-in play area and stared.

  Shadows made it hard to see the bench, the one where he and his mom used to sit. But Cory shaded his eyes with his hand and squinted, and suddenly there it was. The same bench, same brown wooden slats, same way it looked back when he was a first grader, back when they came here every afternoon. He didn’t blink, didn’t break the lock he had on the bench, and after a minute he could hear her again, her happy voice telling him everything would be okay.

  “God has good plans for us, Cory.” She would kiss his cheek and smile at him. But her eyes weren’t always happy, even when she smiled. “We’ll find our way out together.”

 
He remembered her still. He blinked now because he didn’t want to cry. A bit of wind blew against his back, and Cory squinted against the tears. The day was hot, but already the bay breeze was cooling it off, which meant it was time to go. He climbed back up onto his seat and looked at the bench one more time. His mom was buried in Oakland somewhere. Megan took him once in a while, but Oakland was far away. When he needed to see her one more time, when he wanted to hear her voice, he came here.

  Duboce Park.

  “Take good care of her, God,” he whispered. Then without another look back, he set off along the sidewalk pedaling hard as he could, turning down Delores to Seventeenth, and the third story apartment where he and Megan lived.

  Cory knew the streets between his school and his apartment. He even knew the way to Monster Park, where the 49ers played. But Megan would never let him ride his bike all the way to the stadium. That was okay. It was enough just knowing it was close. Because once a year he and the kids from his neighborhood entered a drawing for tickets to a game, and this year…this year he was going to win.

  He focused on the ride. He knew which alleys to stay away from, and which areas had gang members standing around. He took the streets with the least traffic lights, because that was smarter. He had to stop for only three before he reached their building, jumped off his bike, and walked it through the doorway.

  Bikes were allowed in the elevator if they fit, and his did. At the third floor he stepped off and already he could hear it. The sound of happiness. Laughing and loud voices coming from the Florentinos’ apartment. He walked past two doors and stopped. The smell of spaghetti and garlic bread slipped beneath the door and filled the hallway. Sometimes, when Megan had to work late, he would knock on the Florentinos’ door and they’d invite him in for dinner.

  They had seven kids, but Mrs. Florentino said she always had an extra plate.

  Cory raised his hand to knock, because Megan might not be home yet. Then he remembered. She’d made a Crock-Pot dinner this morning because she got paid first of the month. He walked his bike to the end of the hall to No. 312. The newspaper was there, opened, and a little scattered. The Florentinos got the paper every day, and after they read it, they set it outside his and Megan’s door. Megan might deliver the paper, but that didn’t mean she could take a copy free. That’s what she said.