The Game by Vi Keeland by Vi Keeland

“They’re just collecting dust. I don’t need the money, and neither do any of John’s kids, who’ll get whatever I have left when I kick the bucket. So I suppose I might as well.”

I nodded. “You got one in mind?”

“I was always a big supporter of that Camp for Kids foundation that pays for camp in the summer for parents who can’t afford it. Got John to support it, too. He donated and always had his players visit the camps.”

I smiled. “We still do it. I went two years ago. It’s a great program.”

“I think the camp could use the money more than me. I spoke to my financial guy a while back about donating, and he suggested I get the cars appraised. John used to do that often, to increase the coverage on the insurance. But I didn’t bother, so they haven’t been appraised in a few years. Apparently, I might have some tax due if they’re worth more. I’ve been meaning to get that process started, but it’s not so easy getting around anymore. Simple things like getting down here to meet someone to do an appraisal means asking for help. Which isn’t my strong suit.”

“Well, you don’t have to ask me. I’m volunteering. If you want me to, I’ll deal with getting the appraisals done.”

“Are you sucking up because you’re seeing my granddaughter now?”

I shook my head with a smile. “Does it matter?”

“Guess not. It’s not like I have any other applicants for the job of lackey.”

“I feel so wanted…”

Coach looked around the garage one more time. “It’s hard getting rid of something your kid loved so much. But I think it’s time to move on.”

I glanced at the blue Ford one last time. Everyone seems to want to move on, so what the hell am I doing?



***



A week later, my cell rang while I was on my way to practice. The caller ID flashed a number I didn’t recognize, so I let it go to voicemail. After, my phone buzzed with a message, so I hit play.

“Hi, Christian, this is Aaron Winkleman. I received your number from Frank Quinn at Quinn Financial who works with Marvin Barrett. Mr. Barrett is looking to get an antique car collection appraised and provided your contact information so I could get in to see the vehicles. If you could please give me a call back at your earliest convenience. Thank you.”

I’d managed to leave my crazy thoughts at the storage center that day, and I worried they’d come rushing back if I returned. But I did want to help Coach, so I saved the information to my contacts, then hit Call Back on my car’s display and spoke through the speakerphone.

“Aaron Winkleman.”

“Hey, Aaron. This is Christian Knox returning your call.”

“Hi, Christian. Thanks for calling back. Before I start, I gotta ask…am I speaking to the Christian Knox? As in the quarterback?”

“That’s me.”

“Wow. I’m a big fan. Sorry if that’s unprofessional to say, but I can’t help myself.”

I smiled. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

“Anyway, I was calling because I was given your number to arrange an appraisal on some cars. I take it you know about this?”

“I do. When are you looking to do it?”

“Considering it’s football season and your schedule is a heck of a lot more important than mine, I can work around you.”

“Thank you. Can you give me an idea of how long the appraisal will take?”

“It takes an hour or two to go through each vehicle, but I’ll bring a few guys with me, so it won’t take all day. With classics, you have to match up part numbers and record which are originals and which are replacements, because it tends to make a big difference in the valuation.”

“Just out of curiosity, can you also tell if a car’s been repainted?”

“Usually. Even if you match the paint color perfectly, the undercoating used today and years ago are different, and we also have tools to see what the naked eye can’t.”

I was quiet for a moment. “Could you do an evening appointment?” I asked.

“As long as you have good lighting.”

“The garage is pretty well lit. Would Thursday work? Maybe around five?”

“I’ll have to reach out to the team I’m going to bring, since I don’t know their availability after hours. But give me about a half hour, and I’ll get back to you.”

“Alright, great. Would you mind texting this number? I’m probably not going to be able to answer in a little while.”

“Sure, no problem.”

“Thank you.”

I drove the rest of the way to the stadium lost in thought. Right as I was about to lock my locker and head out to the field, my phone buzzed. So I opened the door back up and checked it.

Aaron: Thursday evening at five works for my team. Text me the address when you have time. See you then.



***



“What’s that thing for?”

Aaron and his team had been working on the cars for about forty-five minutes. He currently had a palm-sized gadget pressed to the hood of the Corvette, which he had done in several other spots before I walked over.

“It’s a paint meter. It tells me the thickness of the paint. A factory paint job is typically one-and-a-half mils, but a repaint is generally heavier—anywhere between two and eight. I run this along anywhere that’s often repainted to cover damage—the hood, quarter panels, bumpers—to confirm if the paint is all original.”