Page 53 of Hometown Touchdown
I blink fast, willing myself not to cry in the middle of the coffee shop. “You’re right. It just feels so big. Bigger than us, even.”
“Then make it smaller. Start with honesty. Tell him the truth, Brynn. Not because you owe him your pain, but because he deserves the chance to love you anyway.”
I nod slowly, heart pounding. “Okay.”
“Atta girl. Now drink that mocha before I start charging you for emotional labor.”
I smile and take a sip, letting the warmth settle my nerves. Levi’s right. If I’m going to give Knox a real chance, I can’t hold back the hardest parts of myself. No matter how terrifying that is.
Chapter twenty-five
Knox
ThelightsovertheCedar Falls High field buzz with electricity, the metal bleachers alive with the kind of Friday night energy that makes this town tick. Fall cracks open just enough to paint the sky in burnt orange streaks and send a bite into the breeze. It should be perfect football weather—the kind you daydream about in July when you’re sweating through drills.
But on the scoreboard, we’re down by twenty-one at the half. At home. On Senior Night.
I crouch on the sideline, elbows on my knees, fingers laced tight. Behind me, the band halfheartedly starts in on the fight song. I’m not sure they have the spirit for the full tempo. Truth is, I can’t blame them. Our offense has been sloppy. The defense can’t execute to save their lives. Special teams might as well be playing hopscotch out there.
And my boys—these kids I’ve poured into, hollered at, believed in, and occasionally wanted to throttle—look completely defeated.
But I’m not. Not this time.
“Coach?” Mac, our center, his eyes shadowed by his helmet, his voice a little raw, breaks the silence. “What do we do?”
I should have an easy answer. Run the play. Rally the team. Flip the damn scoreboard. But as I sit there crouched on the sideline, that question hits harder than it should. Because it’s not just about football—not tonight, not anymore. It’s about whether I’ve got what it takes to lead people who are counting on me. These boys. This town. Brynn. I’ve already lost her once, and now that she’s back, I feel that pressure sitting in my chest like a second heartbeat. I can’t fail her again. Can’t fumble this chance, even if I don’t fully understand what it is yet. If I lose this game, it’s just another number in a column. But if I loseheragain, I don’t know how I will come back from that. So I start with this. With them. With doing right by the people in front of me.
I stand, slow and steady, brushing the grass off my palms. The old version of me—the guy from last season who would’ve yelled until his voice broke and probably thrown a clipboard or two—is still somewhere inside. But I’ve buried him under long nights, deep breaths, and the reminder that leadership doesn’t mean being the loudest voice in the room.
It means being the one they trust when the walls close in.
I step into the middle of the huddle where the team waits, half-kneeling, silent except for the occasional wheeze of a waterbottle. I look at every single one of them. Underclassmen who are still too wiry to hold their pads right. Seniors who’ve grown taller than me this year. Kids who don’t have fathers at home. Kids who do, but don’t want to be like them. Kids who are looking at me like I have the answer.
“Okay,” I say, voice even. “That sucked.”
A few of them chuckle. I crack my knuckles and let the quiet linger.
“But here’s the thing,” I continue. “A scoreboard doesn’t show heart. It doesn’t measure grit. And it sure as hell doesn’t tell you the story of a team unless you let it.”
They watch me now, faces tilted toward mine under the lights, expressions shifting from defeated to something hopeful.
“We’ve been behind before. You’ve fought back before. But tonight isn’t about a comeback for the crowd or a win for the stat sheet. It’s about showing up for each other. Every single play, from here until the clock runs out, you give it everything. Not because I said so. Not because you want a highlight reel. But because this is your team. Your brothers. And win or lose, no one walks off this field tonight thinking you didn’t fight like hell.”
Mac nods. “Let’s go, boys.”
And just like that, something in them shifts.
I jog back to the sideline, chest rising slow, controlled. My hands aren’t shaking. My jaw isn’t clenched. I’m not trying to force them into greatness, I’m trusting them to find it.
The third quarter starts, and no, it’s not a miracle. We don’t shut the other team out. But our boys tackle cleaner. They cover their men. Leo, our wide receiver who hasn’t caught a cold all season, snags a thirty-five-yard pass on a second-and-forever and damn near runs it in. And the sideline—hell, the whole town—comes alive again.
By the final whistle, we still lose. Twenty-eight to twenty-four. But the way the team walks off the field? Heads high. Jerseysstained and torn. Grinning, some of them. Shoulder-slapping. Laughing. Because they’ve left it all out there.
So have I.
Later, in the locker room, I watch them pack up. Music plays, Mac is still hyped, showing off the replay on his phone to a group of guys who cheer like he’s won the Super Bowl.
Cam wanders in and claps me on the shoulder. “You good?”
