Page 102 of Hometown Touchdown
The second half is disciplined and clean. We don’t slip. We don’t stumble. Riley plays like a kid who’s figured out how to carry the weight without letting it crush him. The defense holds fast. We don’t give up any ground. We push until the finalseconds tick down, and when the scoreboard locks in a 24–10 win, it’s like the world explodes.
Helmets fly. Boys shout. There’s joy that doesn’t come from luck or a miracle—it’s the kind you build, brick by brick, play by play.
I let it happen around me for a minute. Just breathe it in. This kind of pride doesn’t show up often, and it damn well doesn’t come easy.
Eventually, the celebration spills toward the sidelines where parents and fans have started trickling down to the field. I find myself walking toward them, not with any real plan, just... drawn there.
Brynn steps away from the bleachers as I approach, her gloved hands tucked into her coat pockets, that little smile still tugging at her mouth like she’s keeping a secret. She sidles up beside me, close enough that I can feel her warmth.
“Nice win, Coach Dalton,” she says, eyes twinkling.
“Thanks,” I murmur, leaning in just enough to let our shoulders brush. “Are you wearing my scarf again?”
She smirks. “Your scarf? Pretty sure possession is nine-tenths of the law.”
“I’m gonna need it back.”
“Guess you’ll have to come claim it.”
My laugh is low and quiet. I glance down at her, and for a second, it’s just us in this crowded, noisy field, two people circling what we really want.
And then I see Haddie Carmichael.
She’s standing off to the side of the field near the concession stand, cup of cider in one hand, cell phone in the other, and her eyes locked straight on us. Her expression is somewhere between thrilled and scandalized. The exact sweet spot she lives for.
Brynn follows my gaze and exhales. “Oh no. Is that—”
“Haddie,” I confirm. “Phone in hand.”
“She’s already drafting the Facebook caption, isn’t she?”
“God help us.”
Brynn groans and buries her face in my shoulder for one brief second. I slide my arm around her waist automatically—then catch myself and drop it before anyone else notices.
“Guess we’ll find out tomorrow if we made the morning gossip roundup,” I say.
Brynn lifts her head and grins up at me. “If we’re going down, at least we’re going down victorious.”
“District playoffs,” I say, still not quite believing it.
She grins wider. “And possibly a scandalous soft launch.”
We stand there together, laughing under the stadium lights, the scent of turf and cold night air all around us. The world is shifting under our feet, in all the right ways.
The house is warm when we step inside, but she’s still got her arms wrapped tight around herself, holding in the chill from the night air. Her cheeks are flushed, lips pink, and there’s this quiet hum under her skin—the kind of energy that always lingers after a win. After something earned.
“You want the first shower?” I ask, though I’m already peeling off my jacket and toeing off my sneakers.
She shrugs out of her coat, eyes flicking to mine like she knows something I haven’t said yet. “Depends. Are you planning to keep me company?”
I pause for a beat, taking in the playful smirk that curls at the edge of her mouth. It’s not cocky. It’s confident. Safe. Like she knows I’ll say yes.
And she’s right. I follow her up the stairs without another word.
The bathroom fills with steam fast, the glass fogging over, the sound of the water echoing softly off the tile. I step in first, letting the heat soak into my shoulders, the weight of the night slowly easing from my muscles. A moment later, the curtain shifts, and Brynn slips in behind me.
Her fingers skim across my back, featherlight at first, then firmer as she trails along my spine. I turn and watch her tilt her face up toward the spray, eyes closed, wet strands of hair clinging to her shoulders. She’s breathtaking like this—unguarded, luminous, standing inches from me with nothing between us.
