Things between us have felt solid lately. Strong. Like something real beneath the secret. Even with classes starting, even with him busier than ever—running drills, managing schedules, now adding studying into the mix—we’ve found our rhythm.
Late-night dinners. Morning coffee on his balcony. Quiet kisses before I sneak out.
And sure, it’s not perfect. The whole secrecy thing still bites sometimes. But we had a talk. I told him I want to tell my friends eventually. That I don’t want to hide forever. He didn’t freak out. He just… listened. Told me he understood.
Said we’d get there.
Now it’s game day. And despite the nerves and the pressure and the pounding in my chest, I feel okay.
Actually… I feelgreat.
“Slot fade,” Colton says, pulling his helmet on and flashing a grin. “Coach wants to start strong. You ready?”
I tug my gloves tighter. “Born ready.”
He bumps my shoulder. “Then run it clean, Maddox. First ball’s yours.”
The whistle blows. We break the huddle. And just like that, the season starts.
The crowd roars. The sun beats down. My cleats dig into the turf—and I run like the world’s watching.
No.Like he’swatching.
Every snap. Every yard. Every cut. I run the route sharp and clean, and when the ball arcs through the air, I don’t think. I just move. Leap. Catch.
And when I hit the end zone, breath burning in my lungs, I don’t celebrate big. Just toss the ball to the ref and jog back as if it’s nothing.
Because I know who saw it. Coach Gray. Silas. My secret. My something real.
The next run is supposed to be easy.
That’s what I think as we jog back into position. That’s what the playis—short yardage, low risk, something Coach called to reset the tempo and keep momentum on our side.
I recognize it the second Colton barks it out. Safe. Smart. Controlled. I line up, shake out my hands, and glance toward the sideline without meaning to.
Silas is already watching.
The snap comes fast. I take the handoff and cut inside like I’ve done a thousand times. The lane opens. Clean. Clear.
And then—impact.
It’s not the hit itself that gets me. It’s the sound.
A crack, sharp and wrong, like something snapping too close to my head. My vision whites out for half a second, my feet tangling as the ground rushes up to meet me. I hit hard, breath punching out of my lungs in a way that steals sound and thought all at once.
I try to roll.
My body doesn’t listen.
There’s noise everywhere—whistles screaming, the crowd gasping, players coming to a stop—but it all feels distant, muffled, like I’m underwater.
Hands are on me. Someone’s voice. Colton’s, I think.
“Luke—hey, stay down, man?—”
I blink. Was I trying to stand up? The sky is too bright.The sun fractures into pieces, and my head throbs in time with my heartbeat.
“I’m fine,” I say, or try to. It comes out slurred, thick. “Just—give me a sec.”
