Page 79 of Hometown Touchdown
Shotgun snap. Riley drops back—nothing open. Coverage is tight. He feels the pocket collapsing and rolls out right, the defense containing him near the sideline.
For a second, it looks like they’ve got him boxed in.
Then—quick as a blink—he zips a bullet over the outstretched hands of a linebacker. A tight window, just inside the hash.
The kind of throw that takes guts and precision.
Alvarez leaps. Catches.
Touchdown.
27–21.
Kenny easily makes the extra point and the stands explode.
But there’s still a minute twenty-three on the clock. Too much time.
They come back swinging, no huddle, fast passes. My defense bends and bends, but doesn’t break. On fourth and ten with six seconds left, they go long.
Our cornerback leaps. Deflects it.
The second the whistle blows, the field becomes a riot of helmets and shouting. Riley is lifted off the ground, the players piling around him, and somehow I get pulled into the middleof it—hugged, clapped on the back, their sweat-soaked helmets knocking into me as they scream and cry and laugh.
Pride swells in my chest so big it feels like I might split wide open. The kind that rises hot and deep, settling in my bones, making it hard to breathe in the best possible way. They did it. My team. My boys. They fought for every inch, every down, and they didn’t just survive—they earned this win with determination and heart.
I close my eyes for half a heartbeat and let it sink in—the sound of their joy, the heat of the lights, the weight of everything we’ve worked for finally paying off. And then I look up.
My eyes go straight to the stands. I don’t even think about it. I just look for her.
And there she is.
Brynn stands at the edge of the crowd, hands pressed to her mouth, eyes shining with unshed tears. She’s not cheering like everyone else. Not screaming or clapping or waving her arms. She’s just watching me. Only me. Still. Silent. Steady.
And in that second, everything else fades—the roar of the crowd, the chaos on the field, even the sting in my legs from the past four quarters. It all disappears. It’s just her.
I want to run to her. I want to climb the damn bleachers, pull her into my arms, bury my face in her neck, and show this whole damn town how much I love her.
But I can’t. Not yet. So I just look at her.
I give her everything I have in that look—my pride, my joy, my love. All of it.
And she gives it right back.
Chapter forty-one
Brynn
Thecrowdisstillechoing behind me as I slip through the back gate of the field, where the old metal bleachers cast long shadows and the stadium lights buzz overhead. I don’t stop walking until I’m completely out of sight.
I didn’t plan to wait for him here, not exactly. I know Knox is giving his team a victory speech right now, trying to control the chaos of the locker room. I could see it in the way he carried himself at the final whistle—shoulders full of pride, yes, but also something more settled. Something quieter. Like winning wasn’t just about the scoreboard.
I lean against the fence behind the end zone, the cool metal pressing into my back, and let the night settle around me. My heart’s still racing from the game, from the fourth-quarter touchdown that sealed it, from the roar of the town coming alive around him. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him look more in his element, commanding and focused, surrounded by the boys who’d run through a wall for him. And yet, even as he celebrated with his players, I could see it written all over his face.
He was searching for someone.
He was searching forme.
When I hear footsteps crunching over the gravel, I don’t move. Knox steps into the shadows beside the bleachers, still in his hoodie and coaching gear, the sleeves pushed up, sweat drying at his temples, the faint scrape of turf on his cheekbone from where he got clipped during a sideline pileup. He’s the picture of everything he is—steadfast, grounded, calm after the storm.
