Page 36 of Hometown Touchdown
I blink at my own reflection, and for a second, I wonder if I’m finally losing it. Stress-induced auditory hallucinations. Fantastic. But then I hear it again—clearer this time. My name.
Not shouted. Not dramatic. Just whispered, breathy, intimate.
“Knox…”
Everything in me tightens.
The wall between our bathrooms isn’t thick. Maybe it was built to code, but it’s definitely not built to handle this kind of situation. Because that’s Brynn. And she’s...yeah. Doing exactly what it sounds like she’s doing.
And saying my name while she does it.
My stomach drops and heat coils low and tight in my gut, sharp and immediate. I brace my hands on the edge of the counter and try to breathe, but it’s like all the oxygen’s been sucked out of the room. I shouldn’t be listening. I know that.But I’m frozen in place, ears tuned to every rustle, every breath, every low moan.
I can picture her too easily—legs tangled in the sheets, her hair fanned across the pillow, one hand sliding over soft, flushed skin, her hips lifting in rhythm, mouth parted and eyes fluttering closed. I’ve seen it before, years ago, when everything between us still made sense. When touching her didn’t feel like trespassing on something I no longer had a right to.
My name again. This time a little louder. Like she’s taunting me.
The ache in my chest punches right through the heat simmering under my skin. I press my palm flat to the wall, like I can feel her through it, like somehow she might be doing the same. My other hand drifts down, and this time, I don’t stop it. I close my eyes, the tension breaking loose like a snapped tether. I stroke myself with slow, deliberate movements, trying not to picture her—but failing, hard.
All I can think about is the way she used to look at me. Like I was hers. Like I was the answer to every question she didn’t want to ask out loud.
Her moan lifts again, soft and high, and I match her rhythm without thinking. My breaths get heavier, chest rising and falling as the pressure builds. I want her. I wantus. The way we used to be—before the silence, before all this awkwardness, before the goodbye that’s never really left me alone.
She gasps, her voice catching on the edge of release, and it tears something out of me. I come hard, her name stuck in my throat, hand fisted against the wall.
After, it’s quiet. Just the hiss of the shower and my own breathing slowing in the steam-filled room. A sickening mix of satisfaction and shame starts to creep in.
I stare at the wall, knowing she’s on the other side of it. Probably curled up now, content and soft and unaware of howthoroughly she just wrecked me. And all I can think about is how badly I want to be the one she turns to next time. How easy it would be to close the distance.
But we’ve got a past we never really unpacked. It’s a mess that neither one of us has had the courage to confront. And I’m not sure if we ever will.
The scoreboard buzzes over the field, the crowd erupting in a wave of cheers that cuts through the cool night air. Final whistle. Another win. Our second in a row.
I blow out a breath and scan the field, hands on my hips as players collide in sloppy hugs and helmet slaps. It’s not perfect—plenty to work on—but damn if it doesn’t feel good. These boys are starting to believe. To push. To want it.
I should be riding that high. But I’m not. Not completely.
Because underneath all the noise, all the adrenaline, is Brynn. Still in my head like a song I can’t shut off.
Last night. The sound of her through the wall—soft, breathy, then suddenly wrecked. Afterwards, I turned the water cold and then stood frozen in my bedroom, towel around my neck, fresh from a shower that hadn’t done a damn thing to settle the tight coil in my gut.
At first I wasn’t even sure it was her. Thought maybe the TV was on. But then I heard my name. Quiet. Like a sin. And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. I don’t know if it meant something or nothing at all, and it’s driving me insane.
Cam punches my arm as he jogs by, whooping like an idiot. “Two in a row, Coach! We’re gonna be famous!”
“Try not to pull a hamstring celebrating,” I mutter, but I can’t help the corner of my mouth tugging up.
Parents begin to flood the edge of the field, faces alight with pride and relief. A few shake my hand, offer claps on the back. I’m halfway through trying to find our kicker’s mom when I spot them—Brynn’s mom and dad, lingering near the fence. Not in their usual seats tonight. No Brynn beside them, yelling at the refs.
I make my way over, brushing my hand down the front of my hoodie like it matters what I look like. Why? I don’t know. I just…do.
“Hey,” I say when I reach them. “Glad you came out.”
Mrs. Marlow gives me a polite smile. “We wouldn’t miss it. You’ve got them playing sharp.”
“Thanks. I didn’t see Brynn tonight.”
“She stayed home,” Mr. Marlow says, shifting his weight. “Wasn’t feeling so hot. One of those days.”
