Page 30 of Hometown Touchdown
Knox
She orders fried pickles. Of course she does.
Brynn always went for salty, crunchy things when she was nervous. I can see it now—the way she fidgets with her straw, eyes flicking toward the door like Eric the Emotionally Available might still show up and save her from this accidental reunion.
But I’m not letting her off the hook that easily.
“So.” I take a slow sip of beer. “Eric. Real person, you think?”
She snorts. “My mom swore he was great. Even sent a picture. He had that smile—like he needed everyone around him to validate his existence.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“Tell me about it.”
I nod. “Lindsey was supposedly into hiking and ‘talking about feelings.’ Whatever that means.”
Her head tilts. “So clearly our mothers are working together.”
“One hundred percent. Probably drinking wine and high-fiving right now.”
She grins. “And texting memes about us.”
She laughs and rests her cheek against her hand. Her elbow on the bar, her eyes shining under the low amber lighting. God help me, I missed that sound.
“They know us too well,” I say.
Her smile fades just a little. “Yeah. They do.”
It hits me at that moment how easy this is. How it still feels natural to sit next to her and trade sarcasm. How her laugh still does something dangerous to my chest. I want to know everything all over again. What she listens to when she can’t sleep. What her mornings look like now. Who broke her heart.
I clear my throat. “Do you ever talk to him?” I ask. “The guy you were engaged to?”
Wrong move.
Her posture stiffens. She pulls back, reaching for her glass like it might protect her.
“No,” she says flatly.
I don’t press. I want to. I want to rip that whole story out of her, demanding to know why he let her go. But I can feel the wall slam into place—same as always. Clean. Final.
I nod once. “Okay.”
She sets her drink down carefully. “So...how was practice?”
By our second round, the sting has worn off just enough to find easier conversation. We shift to safer ground: Cedar Falls. Who’s pregnant, who got promoted, who’s still showing up at alumni games like they’re twenty-two and not nursing back pain. I pretend not to care, but I still keep track of my completion record from high school. She talks about her job, throwing in just enough sarcasm to keep it entertaining. She’s still sharp. Still fast. But there’s a new edge now, like life’s trimmed away some softness and left something stronger behind.
We’re not drunk, but we’re definitely loose. Loose enough to lean closer. To let our knees brush. To linger too long in glances that feel like second chances.
The bartender flicks on the lights. Universal signal: last call, time to go. We both ignore it. I order another round, and she clinks her glass to mine.
“To meddling mothers,” she says.
“And cats with commitment issues,” I reply, grinning as our fingers brush during the toast. She doesn’t pull away. Neither do I.
When it’s time to leave, she insists she can call her own ride. I wave her off—I’ve already ordered the car. She rolls her eyes, but her mouth twitches at the corners. She likes when I don’t give in. Always has.
I help her into her jacket. When I pull it around her shoulders, my hand grazes her hip. She freezes—just a fraction of a second—but I feel it. That jolt. That recognition. The history hanging in the air between us like fog.
