Page 18 of Until Forever Falls

The clock ticks on, but the rest of the day blurs together, until it all feels like one long stretch of time. I go through the motions; nodding when I need to, answering just enough to keep the teachers off my back. Each period signaling a countdown, moving me closer to the one place where I can block everything out.

The last bell vibrates through the air, and finally, I can breathe again. I head to the locker room, already peeling off the day as I pull on my practice gear. Football will be a good distraction, a way to let everything go, if only for a little while.

As soon as I step out on the field, I feel like I can finally reset. Coach has us running drills—simple stuff, but the kind that demands every ounce of focus. My feet move on autopilot, my mind shutting off. I don’t need to think. I just need to move.

The pace is relentless. My muscles burn, and my lungs protest, but I don’t stop. When we finally break into a scrimmage, Beckett’ energy shifts. He throws himself into into the game with this intensity I haven’t seen yet, like he’s trying to burn through something too. I can feel it in the air, the way he’s pushing himself harder.

By the time Coach blows the whistle to call it, we’re both drenched in swear, barely standing. I’m not sure if it’s the physical exhaustion or the fact that for a few minutes, I could forget everything, but I’m grateful for the release. It’s not the answer to whatever I’m feeling, but it’s enough for now.

The team filters into the locker room, the buzz of conversation filling the space as everyone sheds their sweaty gear. The steam hangs thick in the air, making it feel like it’s holding onto every ounce of the day’s tension. I pull off my pads, feeling the weight of practice slip off with each layer. After a quick rinse, I slip into a fresh T-shirt, the fabric feeling like a small comfort against the exhaustion that’s setting in. The kind that makes your limbs feel like lead and your mind just wants to switch off.

But before I can really settle, Beckett’s voice cuts through the haze.

“Brooks!” He’s got that lopsided grin of his that somehow looks both frustrated and amused at the same time. “Need a favor, man.”

I glance over at him, raising an eyebrow. “What’s up?”

He rubs the bridge of his nose, squinting like he’s trying to push the frustration out of his system. “My truck won’t start—again.” He lets out a long exasperated sigh. “You mind giving me a ride home?”

I nod, slinging my bag over my shoulder, and we make our way to the parking lot. Becks is already deep into a post-practice analysis, tearing apart his own performance and spiraling over whether Coach is about to knock him down a peg.

“Coach’s whole personality is making us work twice as hard.” I say, unlocking the truck and tossing my bag into the bed. “You’re holding your own—better than a lot of the guys, to be honest.”

“Thanks, man. I just feel like I’m slipping. Got a lot on my mind lately,” he admits, slumping into the passenger seat.

“Yeah, I get it,” I say, glancing over at him before starting my truck and pulling onto the road. “I don’t know all the pressure you’re dealing with, but I’m here if you need to talk. We’re all just trying to figure it out, right?”

“You’re not wrong,” Beckett says, suddenly straightening up. “Turn left here, and follow it straight down until you hit that old gas station on the corner. You’ll know it by the sign—half fallen down, like it’s been through a war. After that, it’s the third left, but don’t blink or you’ll miss it.”

I follow the directions, feeling the age of the neighborhood press in as we drive past rows of houses with peeling paint, cracked windows, and fences barely holding it together.

His gaze drifts to the window for a split second, his muscles tense, jaw set behind his closed lips, like he’s bracing for me to say something—maybe judge him. But I don’t. I stay quiet, focusing on the route he gave me, letting the music take over the silence in the cab.

The calm we’d settled into doesn’t make it past the driveway. As soon as I cut the engine, Dylan explodes through the front door, followed by her mom. Her fists flex at her sides, her stare piercing, and whatever just happened inside—it wasn’t good. Beckett tenses, curses softly, then throws me a quick look before climbing out of the truck. “I swear, this never ends,” he grumbles, striding toward the group.

I follow, a surge of protectiveness rising in me. Dylan freezes when she sees us, her expression morphing from anger to embarrassment, like she’s been caught mid-escape. Their mom stops too, noticing us for the first time. She smooths her expression into something more composed, but her eyes remain steely. The switch is unsettling, and I want to jump in—to somehow break this weird friction radiating off everyone—but I know better.

Whatever’s unfolding behind those walls isn’t just an argument. The storm in her eyes tells me this isn’t new, and I get the sense that she’s used to fighting a battle no one else sees. And maybe it’s time someone did.

8

Dylan

Then

I shove my books into my bag and make a beeline for the door, eager to get home. Bodies press forward in every direction, the rush to escape almost frantic. Lost in thought, I don’t see him until we collide—one second I’m walking, the next I’m on the floor, papers scattering around us like fallen leaves.

“Wow, that was graceful,” I mutter, already standing and reaching for his arm. “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

He grips my hand, brushing off his shorts as he stands. There’s something rugged yet polished about him, his muscular build clearly defined beneath his navy-blue Rockport Titans T-shirt. “You’ve got one hell of a tackle. I’ll give you that.”

“I feel awful,” I insist, grabbing his books and a few stray pens. “I swear, I’m not usually this clumsy.”

He flexes his fingers like he’s checking for injuries before squatting down to grab the rest of his things. “Dylan, it’s fine. At least you’re dedicated to the full-contact approach.”

My lips part in surprise and I scan his face for any hint of familiarity, tousled blond hair falling across his forehead. His blue eyes meet mine briefly, smoldering with a confident intensity. “How do you know my name?”

“It’s a small town,” he says, rolling a stray pen between his fingers before tucking it behind his ear. “Word gets around. Plus, your brother’s on the team. We share a locker room.”

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