Page 31 of Until Forever Falls

For a second, I wonder what it would be like to just turn around, head back to the truck, and go find Dylan—to spend the day with her instead of being here, trying to please him. But I’m not a quitter, and that’s exactly what my dad expects of me.

I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, shoving the contempt before it can surface. No point spitting it out now. This isn’t what I wanted, but it’s what I’m unfortunately stuck with.

I clear my throat and close the distance between us. “Hey, Dad.”

He turns, and his eyes light up with that familiar spark of pride. “You’re here,” he notes, wiping his hands on his shirt absentmindedly. “Figured you might’ve bailed on me.”

I glance over at the men working, their hard hats on, heads down. It’s just noise to me now—the sound of something that’s supposed to represent success but only adds more pressure.

“I said I would.” The words slip out flat, drained. I just want to get this over with.

His hand clasps against my back with enough force to make me straighten. “Good. You’re not gonna learn by standing around.”

I acknowledge his words without really absorbing them—they barely register. My mind is already elsewhere—Friday night, the game, the chance to look up and see Dylan there, cheering for me as if I’m worth something.

“Just tell me where you need me.” The words taste like dust, settling with grit before I force them down. I tug my gloves on, my fingers stiff inside them, already itching to be anywhere but here.

A cloud drifts overhead, a lazy escape, and I track it, letting myself pretend for just a moment that I could float away too. But the second passes, and I’m still stuck here.

12

Dylan

Then

The referee’s whistle cuts through the air, signaling the start of the game. The kicker launches the ball high, spiraling end over end as Miles sprints into position. He catches it cleanly at the ten-yard line, tucking it under his arm and surging forward. The field comes alive as players collide, bodies jostling for position. He weaves through a gap, pushing past the twenty, the thirty—until a Montclair defender lunges, taking him down just past midfield.

The roar of the crowd swells as the offense takes the field. I hold my breath as Beckett jogs into position, Brooks and Miles flanking him. He’s locked in, riding the momentum without a second thought, as if the field was made for him. He’s not just playing—he’s proving something, and it’s impossible to look away.

The ball snaps, and the game explodes into motion. Voices boom around me, but all I hear is the rush of adrenaline, my own heartbeat thudding in time with the play. Beckett drops back, eyes scanning the field. A defender breaks through the line, but Beckett shifts his weight, sidesteps, and rifles the ball downfield.

“That’s my brother!” I yell, the volume of it shocking even my own ears.

The whistle blows moments later, signaling a timeout. One last play remains, the tension thick as the players jog toward the sideline, some gulping down water, others catching their breath. I sink deeper into my seat, my eyes locking onto Brooks as he tugs off his helmet. The floodlights skim over his sweat-dampened golden brown hair, casting a gilded glow around him, sending a flurry of wings loose beneath my ribs.

I reach into my hoodie pocket, fingers curling around my phone. The moment Brooks’ name flashes on the screen, I straighten as a flutter stirs deep in my chest, climbing higher while a delicate pink blush blooms across my cheeks.

Brooks:You at the game?

Dylan:Obvi. Where else would I be? :)

Brooks:No clue. ;) Glad tho! Wouldn’t wanna play w/o my good luck charm.

My cheeks flush a deep pink, revealing me before I can mask it.

Dylan:If that’s the case, you better show out lol

Brooks:You got it boss!!

A new wave of cheers crashes over the stadium, pulling me back into the game. The scoreboard flashes—Rockport 21, Montclair 7—but my focus is locked on my brother. A white-hot thrill tears through my body like a live wire as he rifles a pass toward Brooks, who snatches it midair without breaking stride.

“C’mon,” I whisper, holding my breath as he dodges a defender, sprinting toward the end zone. Montclair’s safety closes in, but Brooks cuts right, then left, sending the defender stumbling.

“Go!” I scream, jumping to my feet. “Go, go, GO!”

He crosses the line, the ball secured in his hands, and the stadium erupts. The referee’s arms shoot up, signaling the touchdown. The scoreboard flashes—final seconds drained, no time left. Game over.

“YES! Six more on the board!”

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