Page 5 of Hometown Touchdown
The shape leans forward slightly, cradling a Styrofoam cup in both hands, oversized sweater sleeves swallowing her fingers. Her legs are tucked under her like she’s settled in for the long haul. Something about the tilt of her head, the way she curls into herself while still watching everything—it tugs at something familiar.
It can’t be. But then the light shifts, just enough to catch her face.
Brynn Marlow.
My heart skips. No. It stutters. Rumor said she was back—broken engagement, crashed wedding plans. I chalked it up to small-town gossip. People around here treat rumors like currency. But she’s here, sitting just behind the cheer momsand Bunko club warriors. The same bleachers where she sat watching me play in high school.
I look away. Then I look back, because apparently, I’m still that stupid. She’s watching the game like she still remembers what it means to be part of this town. Then her eyes lock on mine.
It hits like a gut punch. Sharp and fast. She scrunches her nose at me. Jesus. I give her the nod. The one I reserve for former players, ex-classmates, and people I don't have time to talk to in the hardware store. Neutral. Distant. Safe. Then I raise my voice and yell at my quarterback just to prove to myself I can still focus.
I don’t look at her again. Not for the rest of the game. Not even when I know she’s still there. Still watching. Still familiar in all the ways I’ve spent years trying to forget.
We lost. Again. But this time, the scoreboard doesn’t scream embarrassment—just a soft, pitiful groan. Two touchdowns behind. Not awful. Not great. The kind of game you almost want to frame because at least we didn’t get stomped into the turf.
I give the boys a decent pep talk. Nothing too harsh. Monday will be for film and fixing the broken parts. No use breaking their spirits when they’re already dragging their cleats back to the locker room with all the enthusiasm of a funeral march.
I slip down the corridor in the fieldhouse and head straight for my office. The post-game chatter fades behind me as I shut the door with a soft thud and toss my clipboard onto the desk like it insulted my mother. I sink into my worn-out chair with a sigh so deep it could be measured on the Richter scale.
The walls close in around me—concrete, fluorescent light, and the faint smell of old athletic tape. I rub a hand down my face and stare at the ceiling like maybe it’ll have the answers I don’t. Like it’ll tell me why this team can’t find its rhythm. Why all the hours of drills and conditioning evaporate the second we hit the field. Why I feel like I’m chasing ghosts in cleats, yelling into the void while the town watches and waits for a miracle.
And why the girl who cracked my chest open like a goddamn watermelon is suddenly back in the bleachers like no time passed at all.
A knock at the door saves me from spiraling into full existential dread. “Yeah,” I grunt.
The door creaks open and in strolls Cameron Wells, head baseball coach and my best friend since we were both dumb enough to think boyband bangs looked good in our senior photos. He’s still got a tan from summer, the smugness of someone whose season doesn’t start until spring, and the confidence of a coach that took his team to the state playoffs.
“Not too bad tonight,” Cam says as he slides into the chair across from me, stretching out like this is his living room. “Could’ve been worse.”
“We only lost by fourteen. That’s basically worth a standing ovation around here,” I mutter.
He smiles, sympathy filling his expression. “You’re doing all the right things. The team just hasn’t clicked yet.”
I grunt. Not because he’s wrong. But because he’s not telling me anything I don’t already know. “The superintendent wants progress. Not excuses. I’m running out of both.”
Cam shifts forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “This job will chew you up if you let it. You’ve gotta give it time.”
“I’ve been giving it time for over two damn years,” I say, a little more bite in my tone than I mean.
He lets it go. He always does.
“You coming to Gordy’s?” he asks as he stands.
“Yeah.” I sigh, leaning forward to rub at the back of my neck. “I’ll meet you there.”
Cam nods and heads out, leaving me alone again with the hum of the overhead light and the chaos of my mind. Like how the sight of Brynn made my whole damn body feel like a live wire.
Or how I still remember what it felt like to kiss her under those same stadium lights after we won Homecoming king and queen—young and stupid and absolutely certain we were invincible.
We weren’t.
Chapter three
Brynn
“BrynnMarlow!?”
I whip my head around, momentarily disoriented by the sea of bodies moving through the stadium concourse. My eyes find Kate Prescott half-jogging toward me with that same big grin I remember from high school.
