Page 113 of Hometown Touchdown
The first half is a dogfight.
They score early with a deep pass that burns our corner. We answer with a bruising, clock-chewing drive capped off by Leo twisting into the end zone with three defenders hanging on him. The kind of play that makes you believe momentum might be tipping your way.
But their quarterback’s good. Real good. He’s slick, reads our coverage like a book, and by the second quarter he’s found his rhythm. We’re down by ten at halftime.
In the locker room, I keep my voice even.
“You’ve fought harder than anyone thought you would. You’ve made it further than anyone outside this room predicted. But none of that means a thing if you don’t walk out there and play like it’s your last game. For some of you, it is.”
I look around. I see eyes glassy with emotion. Chests rising fast. Leo with his knee wrapped. Mac with blood crusted near his temple.
“We don’t need a miracle,” I say. “We need heart.”
The second half is a blur of tension and grit.
Our defense forces a fumble that gives us life. Leo runs another one in, this time diving just inside the pylon. Cam’s losing his voice in the stands. The crowd is electric.
With four minutes left, we’re down by six. One last drive.
Mac snaps it clean. Riley fakes right, rolls left. Leo breaks open. The pass flies.
And then—
A cornerback leaps, fingertips grazing the spiral. It wobbles. Bounces. And falls.
Incomplete. Turnover on downs. They kneel it out.
Final score: 34–28.
We lose. But something wild happens when the whistle blows.
The boys don’t drop their heads. They don’t cry or kick at the turf. They stand tall. They huddle up on their own. Arms slung over shoulders. Pads clapping. They shake hands with the other team. Tell them good game.
They know they left everything out there.
I kneel at the edge of the field, one knee in the dirt, just breathing. My headset hangs useless around my neck. My throat’s dry. My chest feels cracked open—but not in a bad way.
In a way that feels…full.
I hear my name.
“Knox!”
I look up.
And she’s there.
Brynn, sprinting across the field like she doesn’t care who sees. Her coat flying open, scarf trailing behind her. She weaves between players, cleats, water bottles—her eyes locked on me like she’s zeroed in on the only thing that matters.
Me.
She throws her arms around me before I can stand. I catch her and bury my face in her neck. She smells like cedar and coffee and home.
“You were incredible,” she says, breathless. “They were incredible.”
I nod, throat too tight to speak.
She leans back, palms on my cheeks. “You built something tonight. The scoreboard doesn’t matter because this town will never forget this season. And those boys will never forget what you gave them.”
