I’m driving toward it.
Toward a house that needs fixing.
Toward work that matters.
Toward people who show up.
And as the wind fills the cab and the land stretches wide and wild around us, I let myself smile.
Because maybe, just maybe, this is whathomeis supposed to feel like.
Chapter 7 - Nate
The world keeps spinning even when you tank.It doesn’t even wobble.
We didn’t just lose.We got swept.Four games, four funerals, and every sports show running the same clips like they were daring us to argue.Golden Boy Goes Cold.Captain Crumbles.Is Captain Carson Cursed?
After Brielle, I told myself I was fine.I was fine with every picture of her and the suit.The happily ever after story they were spinning for 'likes'.Fine with them painting me out to be the bad guy in the story.
Fine looks a lot like empty bottles, new faces, and too much noise.It looks like me laughing when nothing’s funny and clapping guys on the back, I don’t trust with my car keys.It looks like leaning into the only thing people seem to agree on about me anymore, that I’m better as a headline than as a person.
You want a show?I’ll give you a show.
New girl every week.New dress, new perfume, new PR angle.Turn my face to the light and let it burn.If all they want is the playboy, I can do that in my sleep.
My agent called it a “rebrand.”
Coach called it a “goddamn embarrassment.”
He was right.
After the sweep, we all needed to blow off steam.A few of the guys hit the bars too hard, and I was right there with them, matching rounds, laughing too loud.The next morning, photos splashed across every news outlet.Half the city saw me with someone I didn’t even remember meeting.And I definitely don't remember doing what they pictured us doing in the hallway to the club bathrooms.
Then came the call.
His voice had an edge to it that I rarely heard from Coach, not with me.
“You clean up your act, Carson, or someone else wears the C.”He didn’t wait for me to respond.“And if you think the front office won’t ship your ass out of Summit City to save face, you haven’t been paying attention.”
The line clicked dead like a door slamming.That was a little over a week ago and I haven’t slept right since.
Canada Day means red flags on every porch and people coming together to celebrate.My phone won’t stop lighting up, teammates, hanger-oners, a few women whose names I never learned, asking if the lake house is happening.
It’s happening.
If I can’t fix a season, I can at least fill the empty ache that I don't understand.
We leave the city in a convoy.My Bronco is out front, the top off.Two more SUVs behind us are full of guys and girls yelling along to whatever song is trending.A BMW convertible brings up the rear, hair and scarves and cell phones raised high.The highway breathes us toward the ridge.Every kilometre closer, my chest gets tighter, and I tell myself it’s just the stress of the season.
We roll into my parents’ lane like a road show, tires kicking up powder-dry dust.The yard looks the same as it always does, grass cut even, flags clipped to the porch rail, Mom’s planters exploding with geraniums and something white I should know the name of but don’t.The air smells like sun on old wood and cut hay and the faint metallic tang of the creek running hard from a late snowmelt.
I kill the engine, and for a second, it’s quiet enough to hear the bees in the clover.Then doors slam and the noise pours out.Laughter, bass thudding from somebody’s portable speaker, the high whine of a girl’s voice asking where the bathroom is, like we’ve crossed three hours of prairie, and she held it the whole way for this moment.
I tell myself I’m just here to grab a few things, steaks, ground beef, a case of Mom’s pickles if I can find them.That’s the story I’m going with.The truth is, I haven’t set foot on this land since Christmas, and that was a hit-and-run.A bag of gifts I didn’t wrap myself and five minutes of pretending I wasn’t already late to wherever I was going next.Because Brielle wanted a picture-perfect Christmas, and the aesthetic of mismatched furniture didn't fit her brand.
Dad’s truck sits with its hood up like it’s taking a deep breath.A wrench lies on the fender in a way that says someone got interrupted.The sun glints off chrome and blinds me for half a second.
Eli steps out of the barn, wiping his hands on a rag.He looks the way hard work looks when it’s honest.Forearms nicked up.Shirt dark at the collar.Calm like a weathered fence post that’s not going anywhere just because the wind’s having a day.He takes in the caravan and the girls and the guys and me, then shakes his head once.
