Page 26 of Hometown Touchdown
We win 26–24. Against the top team in our division.
The locker room afterward is chaos—music blasting, kids yelling, Cam trying to dance and almost dislocating a hip. I stand back and watch it all unfold, soaking it in. This is why I do it.
This is why I took this job, even if I wasn’t exactly qualified for it.
As we load up the bus to head back to Cedar Falls, Cam nudges me. “That look on your face? That’s joy, man. Get used to it.”
I don’t say anything. I just nod.
Because Iamhappy. I think. Or something close to it.
Chapter twelve
Knox
It’sSundayeveningasI barely make it two steps through the front door of my childhood home before I’m wrapped in the smell of roast beef, garlic, and my mom’s signature scent—some kind of expensive candle that smells like vanilla had a baby with a meadow.
“There’s my boy!” she calls from the kitchen.
I hear the scrape of a chair and my dad’s voice, calm and steady as always. “Big win Friday, son.”
“Thanks,” I say, setting my keys in the little bowl she insists I use.
“Are you hungry?” she asks like she doesn’t already know the answer.
I lean into the doorway. “Is that a real question?”
She’s wearing her Cedar Falls sweatshirt—same one she wore to every game I played in high school—and her cheeks are a little pink from standing over the oven. Her eyes are bright, though. Proud. She’s practically buzzing.
“You should’ve seen me screaming when Diaz caught that ball,” she says, tossing a salad like it wronged her. “I almost dropped my popcorn.”
Dad lifts his coffee mug. “She cried.”
“I didnotcry,” she shoots back, then glances at me with a sheepish smile. “Okay, maybe a little. It was just—it was a moment, Knox. You and that team. You’ve got something special this year.”
I shrug, but I feel it. That weird, warm swell in my chest. I’m still riding the high from that win. That pass. The way the boys lit up after. Hell, the way I lit up after.
“You looked proud on the field,” Dad says.
I nod. “I was.”
We sit down to eat. Everything feels easy, until my mom breaks the silence.
“So,” Mom says casually, spooning gravy onto my plate like she’s not planning a sneak attack. “What are you doing Tuesday night?”
I narrow my eyes. “Why?”
“No reason,” she singsongs. Which, from my mother, means I should haveeveryreason to be suspicious.
Dad clears his throat. “Here it comes.”
“Okay,” she admits, stabbing a green bean with a little too much enthusiasm. “I may have told someone you’d go out with her niece.”
“Oh, come on.”
“She’s lovely!” Mom insists. “Teaches third grade. Volunteers at the animal shelter. She has a beagle named Muffin, for heaven’s sake.”
I drop my fork. “Her dog is named after a baked good?”
