“Dude,” one of them whispers—not quietly enough. “What he said?”
“Crazy,” another says. “I never imagined being a pro was that hard.”
“Not just on you physically, but mentally.”
“Did you ever watch when he played pro?”
“Yeah. He was the best.”
Their footsteps fade down the hall, their voices trailing off into something like awe. I stay there a second longer, heart pounding in a way I don’t recognize. Because Brennan chose to expose himself in front of these kids, not exploit the glory. He didn’t just talk with them about medical concerns, but their overall wellness.
It came from what we lost. It came from not wanting even one of the students of Willow Creek to go through something similar.
It melts all of my worries away as if they’re nothing but steam on the ice.
Stepping into the gym, I catch Brennan just as he turns from the bleachers, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off the weight of what he just said. His face shows he’s grounded.
A surge of emotion flows through me when I realize what we’re building is real. Solid.
He spots me and grins. “Hey, didn’t know you were here.”
“I got there in time to hear most of it.”
Something flickers across his face—vulnerability, maybe—but he doesn’t retreat from it. “Yeah?”
“I wish I heard the whole thing because what I listened to was incredible,” I say simply.
He exhales like he’s releasing a heavy weight on his shoulders since he started talking. “That’s good to hear,” he says. “I wasn’t sure how they took it.”
“It resonated. The kids were talking about it when they left.” I cup the side of his cheek. “I promise.”
He smiles bashfully before asking me. “You okay with what I talked about at the end?”
My heart melts. Of course he checks in. “I am,” I say. “Actually, I came by to see if you were still in the building.”
He wraps his arms around me. “Oh? Why?”
“Well…” I draw the word out. “I was wondering how you felt about Mexican food tonight.”
A grin spreads slowly across his face, unguarded and surprised. “Are you sitting across from me?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then I’m all in.”
“There’s a Mexican place in Ridgeview,” I say. “Nothing fancy. Good margaritas. Excellent chips.”
“You had my stomach at chips.”
We head to the parking lot together, but the air between us feels different. “I liked hearing what you said today,” I tell him quietly.
He nods, a thoughtful crease forming between his brows. “I want to do right by them.”
The sincerity in his voice does something dangerous to my insides. I reach for his hand. “You already are, Bren.”
He inhales sharply and I swivel in his direction. His eyes are shining. “You called me ‘Bren.’ You gave that back to me. I never expected to hear that again.”
Holding his eyes, I whisper, “Bren.”
