Page 68 of Hometown Touchdown
“Oh, Brynn,” Kate whispers, reaching for my hand, squeezing it. “I’m sorry you went through that alone. But you’re not alone now. And you never were.”
“I was afraid to tell Knox,” I admit. “Terrified, actually. But I did. And is was like it didn’t even phase him. He said it didn’t change how he felt. Like it was nothing.”
“Because to the right person,” Kate says softly, “itisnothing. Or at least, not the thing that defines you.”
Kinsey nods. “To the right person, it’s part of the story—not the ending.”
I let their words settle around me. Warmth to wounds I hadn’t even realized were still open.
Maybe this is what healing looks like. Not grand gestures or dramatic declarations, but two women sitting across from you, reminding you that you’re whole even when you don’t feel like it.
Evie tugs on Kate’s sleeve just then, eyes wide and ponytail half-undone. “Mommy, my hair’s falling out.”
Kate smiles and turns to her bag. “Let me find your brush, honey.”
She rustles through the pockets for a moment, frowning. “That’s strange. I always keep it right here.”
She checks again, then shrugs. “Oh well. We’ll just finger-comb it and call it a messy princess bun.”
She doesn’t say anything else, but there’s a slight crease between her brows like she’s already mentally retracing her steps.
I glance out the window as the three of them fall into their usual rhythm. Kate brushes Evie’s hair with gentle hands, Kinsey digs into her fries.
And me? I lean back in the booth, hoodie sleeves pulled over my hands, heart a little lighter than it was when I walked in.
Chapter thirty-five
Knox
BythetimeWednesdaypractice wraps, I’m wiped. Not because the team’s dragging, we actually had a solid run today, but because I’ve been thinking about tonight since I woke up.
It’s been years since I planned a date that didn’t involve a bar tab or a playoff game on mute. But this? Brynn? She’s worth more than a pizza-on-paper-plates kind of night.
I head home, shower, change into a button-up, nothing fancy, just clean and intentional, and make dinner. Chicken parm, her favorite, with garlic bread and a simple salad. I even lightcandles and spread a quilt across the living room floor, because somehow a couch feels too distant and a table feels too formal.
And okay, maybe I get a bottle of wine with a cork instead of a screw top. Sue me.
By the time she knocks, my stomach’s a mess. Which is ridiculous. She’s already stayed the night. We’ve already kissed until we couldn’t breathe. But something about a first date feels bigger.
I open the door, and there she is, cheeks pink from the breeze, holding a bottle of sparkling water.
“Wow,” she says, eyes sweeping the room. “You really went for it.”
“Go big or go home, right?”
She smiles, stepping inside. “I am home.”
That right there? Yeah. That’ll keep me going for weeks.
We eat cross-legged on the floor, our plates balanced in our laps, candles flickering low while my dog snores softly from across the room. Brynn teases me about the matching cloth napkins and I roll my eyes but secretly love that she noticed.
After dinner, we sit shoulder to shoulder, drinking wine and talking. I take a sip and set the glass down, turning slightly toward her. “Tell me something,” I say.
She tilts her head. “Something like what?”
“Something I don’t know about you anymore. Like maybe explain the tattoo I saw on your side the other night.”
She thinks for a second, eyes scanning the ceiling like she’s debating what to say. Then she lifts her shirt just enough to reveal a small, delicate fern leaf inked on her ribs. “I got it in Seattle. A reminder of home.”
