Page 111 of Hometown Touchdown
“I’m very available for follow-up questions,” I murmur, running a hand over her spine.
“You’re also very naked.”
“Shocking,” I deadpan. “You ripped my clothes off in a frenzy.”
She hums, eyes closing. “No regrets.”
We lay there for a few more minutes in perfect silence. And when she finally falls asleep curled up on my chest, I press a kiss to her hair, hold her tighter, and whisper into the dark:
“I’m gonna marry you, Brynn Marlow.”
Chapter fifty-three
Brynn
Thebleachersarecolderthan I expected.
Even with a stadium blanket under me and a knit scarf wrapped twice around my neck, there’s a bite to the air that sneaks through the layers. Cedar Falls fall evenings are nothing if not committed to the bit. Windy, crisp, and so full of hometown energy it practically vibrates under your skin.
The playoff banner flaps behind us, gold letters catching the light. The field is glowing under the stadium lights, sharp and vivid. It's district championship night. And I’m sitting inthe exact row I’ve watched from a hundred times before—but everything feels different now.
Because this time, I’m not just here for football.
I’m here for him.
“Do we think that’s a good omen or a disaster?” Kinsey asks, pointing her hot chocolate at the field, where a giant inflatable wildcat is currently struggling to stay upright.
Kate snorts beside her. “If it deflates before kickoff, it can’t be a good sign.”
Mrs. Dalton, sitting on the other side of me with a thermos of cider and a smile that somehow manages to be both sweet and all-knowing, leans over. “Oh, that poor mascot. They’re never quite right after homecoming.”
“Neither was I,” Kinsey mutters dramatically. “I remember losing an earring and my dignity on that dance floor.”
My mom giggles, snuggled into her puffer coat and holding a bag of kettle corn like it’s precious cargo. My dad’s at the end of the row, talking shop with Mr. Dalton—both of them bundled up in team jackets like proud dads who havedefinitelywatched enough football to coach if given half the chance.
Evie is wedged between Kate and me, wearing tiny earmuffs and a team hoodie two sizes too big. She’s coloring on the back of a program with a purple marker and occasionally shouting “Go Wildcats!” without looking up.
“Tell me again why I’m nervous and I’m not even the one coaching?” I ask, half-laughing, half-sick to my stomach with secondhand anxiety.
Kate reaches for a popcorn kernel from my mom’s stash. “Because you're emotionally invested in the six-foot-two man storming the sideline like it owes him money.”
I glance toward the field.
Knox is pacing in front of the bench, headset on, jaw tight, clipboard in hand. His ball cap is low, eyes narrowed. Helooks intense, focused, and unfairly attractive in that black team pullover that hugs his arms a little too well.
He looks likehimself.
My heart pulls in my chest because I know exactly how much he’s poured into this team. Every late night. Every film breakdown. Every quiet moment where he doubted if he was good enough to lead these boys and every louder one where he showed them he was.
“He’s going to be great,” Mrs. Dalton says, catching the look on my face. She pats my knee with a kind of motherly confidence that feels like a hug.
“I know,” I say. But that doesn’t mean I’m not currently vibrating with nerves like I’m about to be called into the game myself.
Just then, a voice rings out behind us.
“Well, if this isn’t the prettiest little cheering section I’ve ever seen!”
Haddie Carmichael appears in her signature emerald green coat, tablet in hand and camera strap around her neck like she’s the press at the Super Bowl.
