37 hilltoppers
Game days start quietly.
Not calm exactly, just tense in a quieter way.
By eight in the morning, the entire hotel feels different than it did yesterday. Nobody's yelling anymore. Nobody's blasting music. Even Scott's talking at half volume while we eat breakfast downstairs surrounded by coaches pretending not to monitor every single thing we put on our plates.
Outside, Bowling Green looks cold and gray through the restaurant windows.
November football weather.
Perfect.
I should feel more locked in than this.
Instead my head feels crowded.
Meetings blur together after breakfast. Walkthroughs. Position groups. Last-minute adjustments from coaches. Logan barely says two words to anybody the entire morning, sitting stiffly through film review with his jaw tight.
Everybody can feel the pressure today.
-
Western Kentucky's stadium is loud before we even finish warmups.
The student section's already screaming.
Music pounds through the speakers hard enough to shake the bleachers while cold wind cuts across the field and turns everybody's breath visible.
Scott jogs backward beside me during stretches. "If I die today, delete my internet history."
"You say that every game."
"One day it'll be relevant."
Coach yells at him before I can answer.
Kickoff comes fast after that.
And at first?
We look good.
The offense moves cleanly downfield during the first quarter. Defense forces an early stop. The sideline energy stays high, helmets knocking together after plays while everybody screams over the crowd noise.
For a little while, football finally drowns everything else out.
Then the game starts slipping.
One bad drive turns into another.
A missed assignment.
Dropped pass.
Penalty.
Momentum swings hard, and suddenly the entire stadium feels louder than before.
By halftime everybody's pissed off already.
Coach Daniels tears into us inside the locker room while steam rises off shoulder pads and everybody stares at the floor pretending not to look frustrated.
"We are beating ourselves," he snaps. "Wake up."
The second half somehow feels worse. Nothing clicks the way it should.
The Hilltoppers feed off the crowd, and every mistake feels heavier after the last one. Logan nearly gets into a fight after a late hit near the sideline. Scott slams his helmet onto the bench after an overthrown ball.
And me?
I'm already mentally exhausted before the game even ends.
So when the final score flashes across the stadium and we officially lose, the disappointment hits harder than usual.
Hard enough that for one stupid second, my first thought isn't football.
It's Everly.
Not wanting distraction.
Not wanting a party after.
Just her.
Her sitting beside me making sarcastic comments until I stop feeling like somebody hollowed my chest out with a spoon.
The realization lands weirdly hard. Because I don't even hesitate before thinking it.
The locker room afterward feels awful.
Nobody talks much while pads hit the floor heavily and showers run in the background. Coach looks more disappointed than angry now, which honestly feels worse.
Logan's furious at basically everyone.
Scott's unusually quiet.
I sit at my locker staring at the floor for a long time before finally grabbing my phone.
No new messages.
That shouldn't bother me.
It does anyway.
-
The bus leaves Sunday around four in the afternoon after meetings, recovery, and the longest morning imaginable.
The atmosphere is completely different than the ride down.
Nobody's loud anymore.
Music stays low.
Half the team sleeps immediately.
The other half stares blankly at phones or out windows while rain streaks softly against the glass again.
Scott's across the aisle this time with headphones on, occasionally muttering angry things about missed plays in his sleep.
I'm sitting alone near the back staring out the window when my phone buzzes unexpectedly in my hand.
And my heart does something genuinely embarrassing the second I see her name.
I stare at the message for a second too long before answering.
Three dots appear almost immediately.
A laugh escapes me quietly before I can stop it.
It feels strange after the weekend we just had.
Good strange.
I lean back slightly in my seat, exhaustion still heavy in my bones, but somehow lighter now too.
Maybe because this is the most normal we've felt in weeks.
Even through a screen.
And there it is.
That dry sarcasm that always hits me right in the ribs.
I stare at the text longer than necessary.
I shake my head slightly, smiling before I can stop myself.
Across the aisle, Scott slowly lowers his headphones.
His eyes narrow immediately.
"Oh my God," he whispers dramatically. "It's Coleman."
"Shut up."
"YOU'RE SMILING."
"I literally am not."
"You literally are."
A couple guys nearby glance over while Scott points at me like he's exposing government corruption.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he announces quietly, "he's mentally ill."
I throw a hoodie at his face.
He catches it while grinning victoriously. "Tell your girlfriend I said hi."
"She's not my girlfriend."
Scott gasps loudly. "Tragic."
I ignore him and look back down at my phone instead.
Another text from Everly waits there already.
Something in my chest tightens painfully at that.
Because she still knows me that well.
Even now.
The conversation slows after that, softer and easier than anything between us has felt in weeks.
Still guarded.
Still careful.
But trying.
And honestly?
That feels like more than I deserve right now.
Hours later, somewhere in the dark between Kentucky and Illinois, the bus nearly silent around me, I fall asleep with my phone still in my hand like a complete idiot.