“Marcus’s parents have season tickets,” he said, still typing. “They always have an extra seat. His mom loves me.”
“Does Marcus know?” The question slipped out before I could stop it. “About us, I mean.”
Seth glanced up from his phone, something careful in his expression. “No. Not yet. I want to tell him before anyone else finds out though. I just wanted to make sure we were good before I did. Otherwise, he’d probably give me shit for fucking things up.” He went back to typing. “He’s a good guy. He’ll be cool with it. He was super supportive of Hunter when he and John got together.”
I nodded, filing that away for later. One thing at a time.
His phone buzzed almost immediately. He grinned at the screen.
“Done. She says she’ll meet you at the east gate, section 12. Marcus told her you’re coming. She’s excited to finally meet the roommate I won’t shut up about.”
“You talk about me to Marcus’s mom?”
“I talk about you to everyone.” He pocketed his phone and kissed me again, quick and certain. “She’ll take care of you. And I’ll know where to look.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll see you there.” He said it with a weight that made my chest tighten, his eyes holding mine a beat longer than necessary. Something unspoken passed between us, something neither of us was ready to name.
Then he was gone, and I was alone with the decision I’d made and the hours stretching before me like a gauntlet.
The stadium was worsethan I remembered.
Not physically—it was just a building, concrete and steel and too-green turf under lights that turned the afternoon into something artificial. But the noise hit me like a wall the moment I walked through the gates. Sixty thousand people screaming, the marching band’s brass section punching through the chaos, the rumble of feet on bleachers that I could feel in my teeth.
Marcus's mom was a small woman with kind eyes and the sort of easy warmth my mother hadn't been able to manage since Dad died. I'd seen glimpses of it returning at Thanksgiving—especially around Frank—but something in me still ached for it. Mrs. Thompson offered it freely, and I let myself soak it in.
“You must be Tanner.” She pulled me into a hug before I could protest. “Seth talks about you constantly. I’m so glad you could make it.”
“Thank you for the ticket,” I managed.
She waved a hand dismissively and guided me toward our section, one hand light on my elbow. “Please. We always have an extra seat in case our daughter comes home for the weekend, and Marcus mentioned you hadn’t been to a game yet this season.” She glanced at me sideways, something careful in her expression. “He also mentioned this might be hard for you. Your dad played, didn’t he?”
My throat tightened. “Yeah. He did.”
She didn’t push, just squeezed my arm gently. “Well, you’re sitting with us. And if it gets to be too much, you just say the word, and we’ll go get overpriced nachos until you feel better. Deal?”
I found my seat next to her and gripped the armrests hard enough to leave indents in the plastic. Breathe. This was just sound. Just people watching a game, the same way millions of people watched games every weekend. It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t hurt me.
“There’s our boys,” Mrs. Thompson said, pointing as the team took the field for warm-ups. I spotted Seth immediately—number fifty-four, moving through stretches with the easy grace that had first caught my attention months ago. He looked up toward the stands, scanning, and I raised my hand. Even from a distance, I saw his smile.
“He’s been different lately,” Mrs. Thompson said, not looking at me. “Happier. Marcus noticed it too.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I said nothing.
That helped. Remembering why I was here, who I was here for.
The first quarter was fine. I focused on Seth, tracked his movements, let the game fade into background noise. He made a tackle on a third down that drew a roar from the crowd, and I found myself cheering with them, surprised by the sound of my own voice.
This was okay. I could do this.
The second quarter got harder. One of the opposing players took a hit that snapped his head back, and even though he got up a moment later, I couldn’t stop seeing the trajectory. The angle of impact. The way his neck had bent. I knew, from my research, exactly what forces were being applied to his brain in that moment. Knew how many more hits like that it would take before the damage became permanent.
I closed my eyes and counted my breaths. When I opened them, Seth was looking up at the stands again, checking on me. I forced a smile and a thumbs-up, even though it was unlikely he could pick me out in the crowd.
Halftime came as a relief. I bought a coffee I didn’t want just to have something to do with my hands, let the liquid burn my tongue, reminded myself I was choosing to be here. That I could leave whenever I wanted.
The third quarter started, and I made myself watch. Really watch, not just track Seth’s jersey. The game was close—tied at seventeen, both teams fighting for every yard. Seth was everywhere, it seemed, making stops, calling adjustments, moving with a confidence that made my chest ache. This was his world. The version of him that existed on this field was someone I rarely got to see—focused, commanding, alive in a way that felt almost foreign.
