Flags flew for targeting. Medics rushed onto the field. They barely got me to the sideline before I was being loaded into an ambulance.
Torn ACL. Concussion. The end of my career. The Dragons won the playoffs. Me? I won a one-way ticket out of football.
The doctors and therapists all said the same thing; playing again would be too much of a risk.
So now, here I am, standing in front of Cordova Linda High School, staring up at the building I thought I’d never return to as the new P.E. teacher and Assistant Football Coach.
I fiddle with my car keys, taking slow steps towards the front office. Students rush past me, laughing, shoving books into backpacks, and hurrying to class. My chest tightens. I used to own this place. I take a deep breath and continue my way inside.
After they print my horrible picture onto my teacher ID and provide me with keys to almost everything, I head to the gym. I round the corner, and my world screeches to a halt.
Stella.
She’s standing by the theater classroom, talking to Mr. Lightheart.
Her long black hair is in two loose braids, her emerald eyes shimmering with excitement. She’s wearing paint-streaked overalls over her favorite Rob Zombie T-shirt, her well-worn Doc Martens scuffed at the toes.
She’s fucking magnificent.
She laughs at something Lightheart says, her hand brushing his forearm, and my stomach twists.
Do they have a thing?
Before I can stop myself, I take a step forward. Then, as if she can feel me watching, she slowly turns. Our eyes lock, and she smiles. Not the distant look I expected. Not the glare I probably deserve.
A real, genuine smile.
Hope flickers in my chest. Maybe coming back to Agave Hills isn’t just about rebuilding my life. Maybe it’s about getting back the one person I’ve never stopped loving.
And this time, I will do everything to ensure she doesn’t slip away.
Two Years Later, Stella
Iam standing in the long school hallway, rows of lockers that seem to never end. The emptiness makes the air feel unsettlingly still.
My text notification goes off on my phone, I pull it out of my back pocket, and read the message.
Ansel: Please, sweet baby Jesus, tell me you’re not away in that sauna this weekend!
Me: Babes, I told you already. Professor Lowen’s letting me do the class project back home at my old high school.
Ansel: Shit! That started already? I’m having girl crisis 101 right now. I need all the help I can get.
Me: Ansel, I’m sure it’s not girl crisis 101. Breathe. What’s going on?
Me: I told you this project has me out of town nearly every weekend for the rest of the semester… just saying.
Ansel: Okay, we have officially hit DEFCON crisis mode. Crisis 90210! I will never survive the entire semester without you.
Ansel: So, you know that sexy art history major I was telling you about? Well, he asked me out *screaming silently*.
Ansel: But now I need YOUR HELP! He asked me out when I wore that cute little punk rocker skirt you let me borrow! I can’t let him see me in my preppy-ass clothes. I will die. What's the word? Mummification? Mortician? Mortification! God, you know what I mean.”
Me: Crisis 90210? You have gone off the rocker, Ans! Mr. Lightheart just walked in. I have to go. We have a stage production to plan and make magic with. Mi closet, su closet. Wear whatever of mine you want. Please, just wash it and put it back, and don’t get any mystery stains on it. Love you, babes, you will be great. XOXO! See you in a few days.
I slip my phone into the back pocket of my overalls and lean against the cold metal lockers. The hallway smells faintly like floor wax and old paper. I nudge a stray pebble with the toe of my boot, watching it skid across the tile.
Ansel and I met freshman year at VSD. Random dorm mates. It was total chaos. She’s loud, wild, and somehow always glittery… but she’s my person. A true ride-or-die.
