Reece still hasn’t moved.
A medic rushes off the sideline, with two more following.Coaches shout, and players kneel.
And I’m sitting here, waiting for him to get up.For him to shake it off, flash that cocky grin, and go back to being the reckless asshole I can’t stop watching.
But he doesn’t.
He lies there.Still.Silent.
And it fucking guts me.
Get up.
Please get the fuck up.
He finally moves.
Barely.
One slow twitch of his boot against the turf.The crowd holds its breath as if that will help.It doesn’t.
Two teammates lift him up, each slinging an arm over their shoulders.His helmet’s gone, and even from up here, I can see the blood on his lip.
He’s fucked.Broken in ways that make my stomach turn.
But he’s on his feet.He’s standing.
He’s battered, torn open, and held together by sheer fuck-you energy.
But he’s up.
He’s walking, and it costs him everything he has.
From the sidelines, the coaches swarm, holding clipboards and ice packs, panicking.The roar of the crowd swells all around, chaotic and endless, none of them seeing what I see.The shake in his knees.The way his lip is split.How his gaze never lifts from the ground.It’s as if he looks up, the whole world might open up beneath him.
The whistle pierces through the chaos.
Players move and the game picks up again.Reece goes to the bench.
The team is holding the line.Just barely.
Every play now feels desperate, with each movement driven by the momentum Reece left behind.
They push.
They fight, and somehow, they come out on top.
The stadium erupts.
Thunder cracks from the stands.The final score flashes on the screen, forty-two to thirty-four.Students jump out of the bleachers, cheering, arms raised high, jerseys flying as they flood onto the field.It’s chaos.Flags whip in the wind.The band goes wild, drums booming, brass blaring, cymbals crashing so loudly that the sound vibrates in my ribs.
A guy in a letterman jacket slides to his knees on the turf like it’s a damn movie.
It’s a war zone transformed into a victory parade.
But I don’t move.
I can’t.
