Page 37 of Hometown Touchdown
“Oh.” I nod slowly. “Hope it’s nothing serious?”
“Just tired, I think,” Mrs. Marlow replies. “She’s been adjusting to being back, you know how it is.”
Yeah. I know how it is.
I also know I couldn't stop picturing her face last night. What I imagined she looked like at that moment.
I push a hand through my hair, guilt riding high in my chest as her parents give me small smiles and walk off.
I should leave it alone.
Back in the locker room, it’s loud and rank and full of teenage chaos. Cam's got music blaring from a speaker that should’ve died five years ago, and kids are chest-bumping like they just won state.
I whistle sharp. “Bring it in!”
They huddle up fast, sweat-stained and breathless, their eyes shining.
“I’m proud of you,” I say. “Every one of you. You played with heart tonight. Discipline. You took hits and gave ‘em right back. That’s how we win. That’s how we build.”
They erupt in cheers. I let them revel in the moment.
But even while they celebrate, my mind drifts to her.
Lying in bed, maybe. Lights off. That crease between her brows. The way she used to tuck her chin into her shoulder when she didn’t feel good, trying to act tougher than she was. I don’t even know if she still does that. I shouldn’t care if she does.
But I do. I press the heel of my hand to my chest like I can smother the thought before it pulls too hard.
She’s probably fine. Probably curled up with tea and a heating pad and that massive blanket she always stole from the den when we watched movies in high school. It’s not my place. She didn’t text. Didn’t ask for anything.
I grab my keys off the desk.
It’s not like I’m going over there to confess something or stir up the past. Hell, I’m not even sure I’ll go inside. Just check on her. That’s it.
She’s just a friend. It’s harmless, right?
That’s what I tell myself as I pull out of the parking lot and point the truck toward our street.
Chapter eighteen
Brynn
Everythingaches.
Not in the poetic, lovesick way. In the actual, body-on-fire, teeth-chattering way that makes blinking feel like a chore. I’m curled on the couch under two blankets and one of Mom’s ugly crocheted throws, trying to focus on the dim glow of the TV and not the pounding in my skull.
The soup I tried to make earlier sits cold and forgotten on the coffee table. I think I managed two spoonfuls before my stomach declared war.
I hear a knock. At first, I think I imagined it. Fever hallucination.
But then it comes again—a short knock, firm.
I drag the blanket off my face and squint toward the front door. My body wants to stay horizontal, but curiosity drags me up.
When I crack the door open, Knox is standing there. And for a long second, neither of us says anything.
One hand rests on his hip, the other dragging over the back of his neck like he’s trying to work out nerves he doesn’t want to admit to. His hoodie’s damp from the mist, and his expression is somewhere between concern andwhat the hell am I doing here?
I stare at him. “Did you get lost on your way to your door?”
