Page 32 of Until Forever Falls

The stadium vibrates with a tidal wave of cheers, the sheer force shaking the ground. Brooks rips off his helmet, his chest rising with each breath as he scans the stands, his gaze jumping from face to face before locking onto mine. The noise dulls, the night sharpens. A shift, almost imperceptible, settles across his face.

The field warps, a mass of bodies crashing together in celebration. But Brooks doesn’t move. His helmet slips from his grip, thudding against the turf. Sluggishly, his fingertips drag against his temple, as if he’s trying to find the source of something unraveling inside him. His breath hitches, shoulders lifting like it’s taking all his strength to stay upright.

One drawn-out blink. Another. Then, suddenly, he crumples to the ground, his body going limp as the color drains from his face.

My feet barely feel the ground as I push forward, my body moving before my mind catches up. The crowd is a blur, their voices nothing but white noise behind the single thought clawing through my skill.

Brooks.

He’s still on the ground when I reach him. The people around are useless, shifting in place like they can’t decide whether to step forward or back. His chest rises, falls—too slow. Too shallow.

“Somebody help him!” My voice rips from my throat, but no one reacts fast enough. “Is he okay? Did someone call for help?”

Graham, one of the other players, rubs the back of his neck. “I—uh—he just collapsed. I think he’s…tired?” His words trail off, unsure, and something inside me snaps. What’s with everyone dragging their fucking feet?

“Dill, breathe.” Beckett’s grip is firm on my arm, holding me in place before I can reach him. But it might as well be a brand, burning against my skin while Brooks is on the ground.

“Breathe? You’ve got to be kidding me!” I rip my arm free, shoving past him, but I barely make it a step before I’m yanked back to a stop.

“Clear a path!” A firm voice rises over the murmuring crowd. The shifting bodies finally give way as a man in uniform—EMT, maybe—pushes forward, Coach Tyler right on his heels.

“I’m fine,” Brooks mutters, his voice so faint it barely reaches us—almost as if speaking is a battle.

No onebuys it.

Not Miles, whose jaw locks tight. Not Colton, whose leg bounces with agitation. Not Beckett, whose stare pins Brooks in place, searching for the cracks. And definitely not me—because if he were fine, I wouldn’t feel like my own lungs were shrinking with every passing second.

Brooks drags a shaky hand over his face. “Look, I just haven’t drank any water today—” He moves to stand, but his body betrays him, his legs folding as though gravity itself just doubled.

“Hey, just stay down for a second kid. You’re not fine,” the medic says, kneeling beside him, a steady hand on his shoulder.

“I was just dizzy. It’s nothing.”

The medic doesn’t look convinced. “Lightheaded? Nauseous? Headache?”

Brooks stalls, jaw tightening. “Just a little dizzy.”

The medic studies him a second longer before pulling out a blood pressure cuff, securing it around Brooks’ arm. The soft hiss of air fills the space as it inflates. Brooks doesn’t react, but I catch the tension in his posture—the slight way his fingers curl into his palms.

A moment later, the medic releases the valve and checks the reading. “Your pressure’s a little low. You’re probably just dehydrated.” He shifts back slightly but keeps his voice even. “You need fluids—water and electrolytes. Sip, don’t chug. And you’re done for the night.”

Coach Tyler levels Brooks with a look. “I know your parents are out of town tonight. You got someone to keep an eye on you?”

Colt doesn’t miss a beat. “Dylan’s got him.” He tips his head toward me, the implication clear and heat rises to my face as every pair of eyes turns in my direction.

Brooks’ lips part as if he might argue, but instead, he simply mouths, “Please.”

It lands like a loaded question, even though it isn’t—a responsibility I hadn’t expected but can’t refuse.

“Yeah, we’ve got him,” Beckett says, his voice composed as he glances down at me.

I steel myself with a quick nod, my heart pounding as I move forward. “Yeah…yeah, of course.” The words leave my mouth before I even realize I’ve moved.

“Hydration and rest,” the medic says, his eyes hardening. “If he gets worse, get him to a hospital.”

“Got it.” The words leave my mouth before I fully convinced myself I do. I school my expression into something passably confident, but in all reality, I’m cracking open. A wildfire of uncertainty ignites in my chest.

Dylan, it’s just dehydration. Not life or death. Chill.But the what-ifs still consume my thoughts. Brooks pushes himself to his feet, offering me a wink that borders on cocky, as if this is all just some big misunderstanding.What have I gotten myself into?

---