Page 41 of Hometown Touchdown
I need to keep my distance. She’s not mine. Hasn’t been for a long time. And I can’t mistake whatever this is for something real. Not again.
My phone buzzes on the counter. I lunge for it before it even finishes vibrating.
Brynn:Alive-ish. My fever broke. Pretty sure a small demon is living behind my eyes, but the heating pad is helping. Also, thanks for the stuffed bunny. His emotional support has been crucial in my recovery.
I huff out a laugh before I can stop myself, tension easing just enough to ache in my shoulders.
Another buzz.
Brynn:Also, did you buy the entire pharmacy? Pretty sure I could survive the apocalypse with what you left on my coffee table.
She’s joking. Teasing. Being Brynn in a way that’s so familiar it wraps around me like muscle memory.
My thumbs hover, ready to respond. I want to tell her she’s welcome. That I’m glad she’s okay. That I bought the bunny because it reminded me of her, and I didn’t know what that meant until I left her place and couldn’t stop thinking about it.
But I don’t say any of that.
I type:
Me:Glad you’re feeling better. Let me know if you need anything.
It’s clean and brief—no emojis, no flirting, no softness that might invite her to say something I’m not ready to hear. I set my phone face down on the counter like it’s radioactive. Because right now, it kind of is. This is how it starts: the easy texts, the recycled jokes, the way we slip back into old rhythms like no time has passed. Familiar. Dangerous.
I don’t want to be that guy again—the one who waits, who hopes, who quietly makes space for someone already building a life without him. So I draw the line. This is it. Just a check-in. A text. Nothing more. She doesn’t need me, and I sure as hell don’t need to fall into something that already broke me once. Boundary set.
And if I keep repeating it enough times, maybe—eventually—I’ll start to believe it.
When I step through the front door of my parents’ house on Sunday evening, the tension I’ve been carrying all week starts to melt off my shoulders. This place always does that. My mother chatting in the kitchen, the low murmur of the TV from the livingroom, the familiar creak of the floorboard near the stairs—it’s the soundtrack of a life I haven’t outgrown, even if I’ve tried.
I shut the door behind me and take a deep breath, catching the unmistakable promise of Sunday dinner: garlic, rosemary, and something roasted to perfection. Mom’s cooking.
I sigh like I just dropped my whole week on the welcome mat.
“Shoes off,” Mom calls from the kitchen, not even glancing up.
“I’m not a heathen,” I mutter, toeing off my boots like I do every single Sunday.
“Debatable,” Dad chimes in from his recliner in the living room. “We saw your postgame interview. You said ‘hell’ on local television.”
“I said ‘played like hell.’ It was a compliment.”
He peers at me over the top of his reading glasses, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “Still proud of you. That was a damn fine win.”
“Two in a row,” I say, unable—and unwilling—to hide the grin spreading across my face. “Boys are starting to believe.”
“They should,” he says, his voice softer now. “You’re a good coach.”
That one lands deep. Hits somewhere I don’t talk about much. Because coming from him, it matters.
I pass through the living room and into the kitchen where Mom’s orchestrating enough food to feed a high school roster. There’s a perfectly golden chicken resting on the counter, steam curling off the skin like a commercial. Mashed potatoes in a big blue bowl. Carrots coated with butter. She’s making gravy like the fate of the world depends on it.
“I thought you said you were keeping it simple this week,” I say, peering into the pot.
“It’s just chicken.”
“Yeah, and three sides. And a pie.”
She shrugs, but her mouth twitches. “Winning deserves good food.”
