Game Over
Livvy knew tonight would change everything. She didn’t know how yet—only when. After the Super Bowl, once the television went dark and Jeremy’s buddies cleared out, he would finally learn just how badly he’d underestimated her.
He’d left his cell phone on the counter. One beep and Dahlia’s name had popped up. She tapped Messages.
The thread looked unmistakable: flirty texts, exchanged between Jeremy and his high school dream girl.
Jeremy used to brag about her service—used to tell people his wife could outrun half the guys in his softball league. That was before her deployments and their weekends apart.
Now, Livvy suspected Jeremy was meeting Dahlia at some hotel when she was away for National Guard training. What else could explain the spotless sink, the untouched fridge?
From the kitchen, she was far enough away to be forgotten but close enough to catch Jeremy’s whispered boast—“scored,” followed by a chorus of hoots from his friends. She shut off the faucet and leaned in, listening more closely. When Charlie chimed in, “After all these years? One of us finally nailed Dahlia the Dream!” she knew they weren’t talking about football.
They forgot geometry and chemistry—but remembered her nickname.
As Livvy rinsed the chef’s knife she’d used to separate the pizza slices, she studied the blade. Was it worth a life sentence?
The phone rang, cutting straight through her dark thoughts.
Up to her elbows in soapy water, Livvy raised her voice over the TV in the next room. “Jeremy, can you get the phone? I’m expecting a call from my unit.”
Jeremy scooped a glob of salsa from his shirt into his mouth. “We’re watching the game.”
He glanced toward the sink where Livvy’s arms were buried in soap.
“Fine, I got it,” Jeremy said. But then, “What a tackle!” He sat back down.
Livvy’s voice could crack plaster. “Answer it!”
Charlie and Larry jumped, beer sloshing from their bottles. The broadcast went to halftime.
“Geez! Calm down, G. I. Jane.” Jeremy hauled himself out of the recliner. As he passed, he scratched Tank behind the ears. Livvy’s Welsh Corgi gave an appreciative tail wag. “At least someone in this house is on my side.”
Jeremy picked up the receiver. The voice on the phone was friendly, practiced: “Good evening. How are you this evening?”
“What do you want?”
“May I speak to Lavinia Hundley?”
“She’s unavailable.”
“Is this Mr. Hundley?”
“We’re watching the game!”
“My name is Ansari. I’m calling on behalf of the Benevolent Society for Heroes. As you know, supporting our wounded veterans is important. Those who defended our freedom were willing to give their all—”
Jeremy cupped the receiver. “Telemarketing jerk—calling during the Super Bowl?” His friends shook their heads.
“Don’t be rude,” Livvy said. “It’s to help vets.”
“Mrs. Hundley has been a valued donor,” Ansari said. “We are hoping that she will continue her generosity—”
Jeremy grinned. “Let’s have fun with this clown.”
His friends set down their beers, one of the Super-mercials flickering behind them. Livvy reached for a dish towel.
In a mocking tone, Jeremy said, “I guess twerps like you don’t like football.”
“Actually, I—”
“Do you even know about American football?”
“I’m sorry? If this is not a good time—”
“Buddy, you picked the worst possible time to call. You ruined the game.”
His friends laughed.
Then Jeremy leaned toward the phone, grinning. “Tell you what—how about you donate to me for emotional damages for interrupting the Super Bowl?”
The guys howled.
But Jeremy kept going, pushing the joke further and further until the humor curdled into something meaner.
His harshest barbs targeted veterans, knowing it would rile the caller.
Livvy heard Jeremy’s buddies cheering him on. She slammed the dish towel and shouted so both Jeremy and his friends heard her: “He’s only doing his job. You know how much veterans’ groups mean to me. Give me the phone.”
“Too late,” Jeremy said, disconnecting the call. “Game’s back on.” Then, he bellowed the way you’d flag down a beer guy in the cheap seats: “Another beer here.”
Livvy crouched beside Tank. “No more taking orders after tonight,” she whispered. “Not from him.”
Tank looked up at her, ears flattening as if to say he preferred not to be involved.
When the final whistle blew, Jeremy and his friends were already on their feet, seething. A missed field goal had sunk their team, and they stalked out cursing, shaking their heads at what could have been.
“Should they be driving after all that beer?” Livvy asked.
“Stop nagging?” Jeremy shot back, his words slurred.
No wishful thinking could erase the fault lines. His affair with Dahlia had crushed her, and his contempt for her military service cut deep. Her Guard work mattered to her—and he’d spat on it.
With a six pack in him and still stewing, Jeremy let his next words slip out unfiltered. “She was right. I need someone who ‘gets’ me.”
“She?”
The final blow.
Her eyes landed on the cast-iron pan resting on the stove. The thought of it in her hand made her fingers clench. Jeremy focused on the TV. It would be so easy—
The doorbell rang. Jeremy grunted and heaved himself up, swaying as he found his balance. “Guess those knuckleheads forgot something,” he muttered.
Livvy stepped back as her husband opened the door. A young man stood on the porch, black hair swept neatly to the side, his collared shirt buttoned to the top. Just beyond him, a red compact idled at the curb.
“I’m Ansari Pavel. Are you Jeremy?” he asked, his voice respectful, touched with a slight accent.
Jeremy rubbed his eyes and stared.
“I never do this,” the visitor said. “I know how annoying calls like mine can be, and I’m not asking for money now. Just let me say my piece, and you can get back to your post-game festivities.”
Over his shoulder, Jeremy snapped, “Livvy, call the cops.” Then he launched into insults, his voice rising as Ansari’s audacity sank in.
Unable to complete a sentence, Ansari threw up his hands. Livvy couldn’t tell if it meant surrender, frustration, or both. With Jeremy still spewing hate, Ansari retreated to his car and drove off.
Jeremy slammed the door. “Can you believe that guy? He must have PTSD to pull a stunt like that.” He pushed past her on his way to the kitchen, a careless sweep of his arm nudging her off balance. She caught the counter with her hip, a sharp jolt that made her wince.
Livvy bristled. No more. Her eyes landed on the kitchen recycling can, stuffed with pizza boxes and beer bottles from the Super Bowl party. She reached for a bottle, planning to swing—until a more disciplined idea surfaced.
“Can you take the trash and recycling out to the curb?” she’d asked in a neutral tone. “Pickup’s in the morning—don’t forget.”
Jeremy grumbled as he hefted the recycling bin and the other trash and hauled them into the garage.
Livvy stood at the foot of the stairs, frozen. Then she moved—quietly, purposefully. She calculated the timing like a drill weekend: how long, how far, how quietly. She waited for the clink of bottles tumbling into the recycling, the garage door’s hum, the thud of cans hitting the curb. When it stopped, she slipped into the SUV. Hands shaking, she gripped the wheel, shifted, and pressed the gas—hard. A scream—hers or Jeremy’s? Her foot stayed down.
Back inside, she’d estimated how long it would take—the interval they’d expect her to start wondering why her husband hadn’t finished whatever chore had kept him. The pieces had to fit.
Fifteen minutes passed. Twenty.
Her fingers trembled as she reached for her phone and dialed 911.
“My husband went outside,” she said. “When he didn’t come back. I—I had a feeling something was wrong, so I went downstairs and looked out front—” She broke into sobs.
Tank looked up at her, head tilted. Something in her voice wasn’t right. Hadn’t she just been petting him?
***
Hours had passed since the paramedics rolled Jeremy into the ambulance, and now Livvy sat in the ER waiting room. This was where doctors delivered comforting news—or explained why they couldn’t. With no windows, she couldn’t tell if it was still dark outside. A small TV mounted on the wall—meant to distract nervous families—droned on.
The surgeon entered and told her that Jeremy’s head and chest injuries had caused too much internal bleeding. There was nothing they could do. Livvy barely registered his words—until he asked, “Do the police know what happened?”
As if on cue, the local news broke in with the answer:
We have a sad, breaking story to report. Last night, there was a hit-and-run accident in the Lumbrook neighborhood. It happened after the man and his friends enjoyed a Super Bowl party at the victim’s home. The homeowner was taking his trash to the curb when he was struck. He was taken to Meadowview Hospital with life-threatening injuries. At present, the sole lead on the driver is surveillance footage capturing a red Honda Civic leaving the neighborhood shortly before the victim’s wife called 911.
“I can take you home now, Mrs. Hundley,” a police officer said, gently. “I’m very sorry.”
Livvy swallowed hard. “Do you have any idea who could’ve done it? A hit-and-run?”
“We’re checking the footage. But don’t worry, Detective Robert Brierly doesn’t give up. He’ll find whoever did this.”
***
The next day, every sound made Livvy’s skin prickle—imagined footsteps at the door, a visitor with questions she couldn’t face.
Tank barked once, his ears flat and his body taut as he faced the front door. Then the knock came.
Livvy crossed the hall and peeked through the blinds. A man in a brown suit stood on the porch, hands in his coat pockets.
When she opened the door, his expression didn’t change. “Mrs. Hundley? Detective Robert Brierly, Lumbrook Police Department.”
Livvy stood in the doorway, shoulders square, spine stiff. She trembled inside, but training kept her at attention.
“I’d like to speak with you about a man named Ansari Pavel,” he said. “Does that name mean anything to you?”
An image flashed: Jeremy opening the front door, his stunned look as Ansari introduced himself. Reminding herself of her plan eased the tension in her chest. It was convenient to have someone else to blame. She stepped aside and invited the detective in.
Brierly paused in the doorway, taking in the room with his habitual squint, like he was measuring distances—between people, between stories, between truths.
“Someone with that name came to our home after the Super Bowl,” Livvy said. “Someone from a veterans’ group. I’ve donated to them before.”
The detective glanced at his notepad. “According to Mr. Pavel, he copied your address from a donor sheet and drove here after work. He claims he spoke to your husband at the door, tried to ‘educate’ him after hearing some… colorful remarks when he called earlier.”
“Yes, he called at halftime. Jeremy had a little fun with him. He went too far. My husband said the guy was pissed off. Had to be—for him to come here in person.”
“I spoke to one of your neighbors. She mentioned hearing a lot of noise out front.”
Livvy thought of Jeremy’s voice carrying across the yard when he was drinking—how she was always worried the neighbors would hear every word. Now, she was glad because her neighbor confirmed that he and Ansari were arguing.
“Jeremy kept egging him on. He was drinking and upset.”
“Why?”
“Because his team lost.”
“Your husband’s friends, Charlie and Larry, confirmed the call—how Jeremy needled Ansari. But when I asked if anything else might’ve pushed someone to harm your husband, they… exchanged a look. Didn’t offer a word.”
Livvy hesitated. “So just the argument with Mr. Pavel.”
Brierly’s pen hovered above the notepad. “Street cameras show Mr. Pavel’s car entering the neighborhood and leaving a few minutes later. Same make, model, and plate as the red Civic at his house. He maintains he drove off with your husband alive—and still shouting.”
Livvy stayed silent. Years of Guard training taught discipline, patience; nervous people with secrets answer questions they weren’t asked.
Brierly looked at her for a long moment before tucking his pen away. “Mr. Pavel is a person of interest in the hit-and-run. He insists he’d never hurt anyone. Says his father earned a Purple Heart in Vietnam. Says he only wanted to defend his honor.”
Livvy kept her expression passive, but the detail lodged in her chest. Someone defending veterans was now in a jail cell—but not because of her, she told herself—because of Jeremy.
“Anything else you can tell me, Mrs. Hundley?”
She shook her head. “That’s all I know. Just that he and Jeremy were arguing, they were both angry, and… oh, yes, that Ansari guy made a threat.”
“Threat?”
“He said, ‘You’d better be careful out there. You never know what might be coming.’”
Brierly studied her. “You know something, Mrs. Hundley… I’m an Army vet myself—Enduring Freedom. Afghanistan teaches you things,” he said lightly. “Most trouble shows up looking ordinary.”
Livvy kept her breathing even. His words unsettled her, but she didn’t look away.
He smiled, not kindly.
***
The morning of the funeral, Livvy felt Tank’s warmth at her side. The limousine pulled into the driveway. She held herself steady, controlled, unshaken.
As Father William McMasters offered the short prayer, Livvy scanned the faces of those laying flowers on Jeremy’s coffin.
Dahlia hadn’t shown. Maybe she was home texting someone else’s husband, Livvy thought, a faint smile behind a tissue pressed to her lips.
Someone from the funeral home held open the door of a black sedan. “We’re ready to take you home, Mrs. Hundley,” he said, his voice soft.
Detective Brierly stood beside his car, gloved hands shifting his keys. He watched Livvy closely as she dabbed at her eyes, deliberately. When she looked at him, he didn’t blink. Livvy tightened her scarf and got in the car.
When she returned home, Tank greeted her with an enthusiastic “Woof.” She patted the Corgi reassuringly.
“Just you and me now, buddy,” she said. “It’s a shame that young man’s in trouble. Took guts to stand up for veterans. Come on—let’s get you some supper.”
Livvy opened the door from the laundry room to the garage. Tank trotted close, tail wagging, nose twitching—this was where the dog food was stored. As Livvy reached for the carton on the high shelf, her gaze drifted to the SUV. The dent caught the dim light—a reminder of a night she wished to forget. She sighed. “We’ll have to fix that,” she murmured to Tank. “Before anyone notices.”
Tank started a low growl.
Livvy froze.
Backlit by the fading sun, a silhouette hovered in the garage door window—someone watching.
She pressed the wall button.
Brown pants. Hands tucked into coat pockets.
Standing there was Detective Brierly.
“Your husband’s cell phone was on the ground, beside his body,” he said. “Not in his jeans.”
“He often carries it around, so he won’t miss calls.”
“Yes, but you said he was taking the trash cans to the curb—two of them in fact.”
“Right after Ansari left.”
“Carrying two trash cans with a cell phone in his hands? More likely, he deposited the cans, then took out his cell.”
Livvy remained silent.
“Your husband’s phone was open to a sports betting app.”
“He bet on the game. His team lost.”
“That’s not the bet that matters. These apps timestamp every transaction. Immediately after the Super Bowl ends, wagering opens on next year’s winner.”
Livvy frowned. “So?”
“So your husband placed another bet,” he said. “After the game was over. At 10:45 he doubled down. Bet his team will win next year’s Super Bowl. Some sports fans are loyal to a fault.”
He let that sit as he gauged Livvy’s reaction—a slight facial twitch. Then, he added, “Which means Jeremy was alive and on his phone well after Mr. Pavel left at 10:35. No other vehicles entered the neighborhood after that—until our cruiser. At 10:45, the only car close enough to hit him was one already here.”
Livvy’s eyes flicked to the SUV, the weight of Detective Brierly’s words pressing down on her. Brierly tracked her gaze.
Tank gave a low, uneasy growl and nudged her calf. Livvy exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
Brierly’s eyes went to the dent in the SUV’s bumper, where something dark had dried in the crease.
He looked back at Livvy.
“Some plays take a little longer to review,” he said quietly.
Livvy’s mouth opened, but no words came.
Tank backed away, as if he, too, felt the weight of that statement.
“Mrs. Hundley,” Brierly said, stepping toward her, “I’m going to need you to come with us to the station.”
Outside, a cruiser door slammed.
Her eyes darted to the SUV again, to the dent she’d tried not to see.
“You planned it well,” Brierly added. “Just not well enough.”
Livvy closed her eyes.
Game over.
Gregory Meece’s career in education spanned every grade from kindergarten through college. He earned degrees in English, communications, and education. His short fiction has appeared in several anthologies and in magazines including Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Black Cat Weekly, Bristol Noir, Thriller Magazine, House of Long Shadows, Blood Moon Rising, New Flash Fiction Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, Cleaver Magazine, Willows Wept Review, Fabula Argentia, Scaffold, and Every Day Fiction. He lives in Pennsylvania, where he works with his Amish neighbors, carves wood, and writes stories. Visit him at MeeceTales.com.
