The coffee shop where she met me for tutoring, her hoodie too big for her, sleeves pulled over her fingers as she mumbled about hating math more than life itself. I can still see the way her nose scrunched in frustration, the way she chewed on her bottom lip while deep in concentration. She had no idea I was barely paying attention to the equations because I was too focused on her.
The library where she’d fall asleep in the middle of studying, head propped on her hand, her notes forgotten as exhaustion claimed her. I never woke her up right away, never had the heartto—I just sat there, staring at her, memorizing the soft rise and fall of her breaths, the way her fingers twitched in her sleep.
The nights when I completely lost myself in her, mind, body, and soul. Every single piece of me would always belong to her.
The stadium.
Jesus, the stadium.
Where I found her in the stands after my last regular season game, where I sprinted straight for her like she was the only thing that mattered—because she was. The way she looked at me, the way she kissed me in front of everyone. It was like she wasn’t scared anymore, like maybe, just maybe, she was finally ready.
Except she wasn’t.
And now, I don’t know if she ever will be.
My steps slow as I pass the math building, and I can’t help but shake my head, a soft, bitter laugh escaping my lips.
This is where it started.
The first day I saw her again after all those years.
The first time I realized leaving my old school, transferring here, was the easiest decision I’d ever made—because it led me back to her.
I was so sure we were meant to find our way back to each other.
And maybe we were. Maybe we just weren’t meant to stay.
The thought is a knife to the chest, but I keep walking, each step heavier than the last.
I don’t want to leave here.
Not because of football. Not because of my teammates, my classes, my future.
I don’t want to leave because this is where she is.
But I don’t get a say in that anymore, do I?
I exhale sharply, running a hand through my hair as the athletic building comes into view.
One last meeting with my coach.
One last step toward the next chapter of my life.
And for the first time since I started playing this game, since Iwas a kid dreaming about the NFL—I don’t know if I’m ready for it. No matter how far I go, how many stadiums I play in, how many touchdowns I score, none of it will ever mean as much as she does.
The athletic building is quieter than usual, my footsteps echoing off the tiled floors as I make my way toward Coach Harding’s office. I’ve walked this hallway a hundred times, maybe more—heading to film, to meetings, to pre-game strategy sessions. But this time, it feels different.
This time, it’s the last.
I stop outside his office door, inhaling deeply before knocking twice.
“Come on in,” Coach’s gruff voice calls from the other side.
I push the door open, stepping inside the familiar space. It smells like leather and old coffee, the walls lined with framed team photos, championship plaques, and a few newspaper clippings of the biggest games in the program’s history.
Coach Harding is seated behind his desk, leaning back slightly in his chair, his hands clasped in front of him. He studies me for a moment, his expression unreadable, before nodding toward the chair across from him.
“Take a seat, Montgomery.”
