Page 22 of Hometown Touchdown
“Oh—and hey, Coach?”
I glance back.
She winks. “You’ve got a grass stain on your butt.”
I don’t check. I don’t respond.
But when I get inside, I find myself smirking—and then immediately hate myself for it.
Chapter ten
Brynn
AfterImakethebutt comment, his eye begins to twitch. He doesn’t say anything. Just walks away with that same tired swagger and that damn clipboard.
When he disappears inside, I exhale for the first time in minutes. The popsicle drips down my wrist. I don’t even care.
I sit there for a long moment, staring at the patch of space where he stood, and suddenly I feel the weight of all the energy I spent trying to keep things light between us. It’s exhausting—pretending we’re fine, pretending I’m fine—when every encounter pulls me back to the day everything fell apart.No matter how much time has passed, I always end up back there. Back to that quiet, terrible day six years ago when I told him I was leaving for Seattle. That I needed to go. That loving him wasn’t enough to make me stay or make me follow him.
There wasn’t a fight, no shouting or slammed doors. No tearful pleas or dramatic ultimatums. Just silence. A silence that said everything we were too heartbroken to speak out loud. He let me go with a look I’ll never forget. A look like he knew it was the right thing, even if it was the last thing he wanted. Like holding on would’ve only crushed us both.
I think, if I’m honest, I wanted him to stop me. Maybe not with words, but with something—some kind of desperate, reckless, come-back-here moment. I wanted him to fight for me. I wanted to feel like I was worth the risk.
But he didn’t. He let me walk away.
And I did, telling myself I was brave. That chasing something bigger meant closing the door on what I had here. On him. On us.
But that’s the thing about doors—they don’t always stay closed just because you told yourself they should. And now…he’s next door. And I’m the one who feels haunted.
I get up, toss the popsicle stick in the trash bin, and walk inside. Still feeling that impossible heat under my skin. It’s been years, and yet a single conversation on the front stoop has my heart tied in a knot.
I keep telling myself this is nostalgia. Familiarity. That proximity is the only reason he’s getting to me.
But deep down, I know better. Because the ache isn’t new. It’s old. It’s still there, just under the surface.
I think about that night. The night everything fell apart.
Six years ago
It was a Wednesday. I remembered because he came straight from practice—cleats still on, hoodie soaked through, that old duffel bag slung over one shoulder. He smelled like grass and sweat and that cheap cologne I secretly loved.
He looked tired. Bone-deep tired. The kind of tiredness he never admitted to anyone but me.
I had come to visit him for a long weekend, but I had already decided this was the weekend I would tell him.
I had packed the last of my things into the trunk of my car before I left campus. My acceptance email from Westhaven was still open on my laptop. The apartment lease was signed. The deposit was wired.
The only thing left was telling him.
I was already waiting for him when he walked into his run-down little apartment. It was our spot, the place where we’d sit for hours on the old loveseat, music playing low, legs tangled, hearts full.
But that night, I didn’t meet him halfway. I stayed sitting, hands clasped in my lap, stomach in knots. He noticed immediately. Knox always noticed me.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, dropping the bag with a thud. “Did something happen?”
I shook my head, forcing a tight smile. “No. Nothing happened.”
He stepped closer. “Then what’s with the face?”
