“Maybe it is.”
He smirks, leaning against a stall. “You look like a man who hasn’t slept since he finally got what he wanted and doesn’t know how to keep it.”
I don’t utter a word because of course my older brother knows exactly how I’m feeling.
He takes a sip, eyes flicking to my shoulder. “How’s the arm?”
“Better.”
“Because of therapy?”
“Because of her.”
He whistles low, shaking his head. “Knew it. Bailey’s got you soft.”
“Or sane,” I counter.
“Same thing,” he mutters, but there’s no bite to it. Only understanding.
We work in silence after that. Grain, stalls, repairs. Every motion muscle-deep, automatic. But my thoughts keep drifting to her laughter, her eyes in the lantern light, and the taste of rain between us. I catch myself smiling once and immediately scowl, which only makes Rowan laugh from across the barn.
“You should tell her,” he calls.
“Tell her what?”
“That you’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The look of a man who finally came home.”
I don’t answer. Because he’s right, and saying it aloud would make it too real.
By midday, the late heat sets in. The kind that sticks to your skin and makes the horizon shimmer like it’s holding secrets. I park the tractor, wipe the sweat from my neck, and sit for a minute in the cab, engine idling low. The ache in my shoulder flares, dull but persistent. I press my thumb against it until it quiets.
That hit—thehit—still lives in my bones. The moment the stadium went silent and the world tilted under me while the medics ran. I’d known pain before. Sprains, bruises, the usual currency of the game. But that day felt different. Like the universe cracked something open that wasn’t supposed to break.
The doctor called it a “partial rotator cuff tear.” The team called it a timeline. The press called it career-defining. No one called it what it was: grief.
I stare out at the fields stretching wide, green, and unbothered. The same land that raised me and waited for me to come back when I swore I wouldn’t. Bailey once said the lighthouse was built for sailors who lost their way. Maybe the farm has been doing the same thing all along.
I shut off the tractor and head inside.
Mom waits on the porch with lemonade and that look that always means she’s about to say something important and gently ruin me.
“Long day?” she asks.
“Not really.”
“You’re thinking about something.”
I huff out a laugh. “Do all mothers come with GPS for their sons’ emotional lives?”
“Only the good ones.”
She hands me a glass. The condensation slides cold down my fingers. “You’ve always run toward things, Crew. The next play, the next win, the next fix. Maybe this time you let something run toward you.”
Her words stick. “What if I mess it up?”
