Chapter 17 Vince #2
I didn’t think I was getting confused. I didn’t think I was changing. I just knew I liked being around him, more than I liked most things. And at the time, I told myself that was enough.
One afternoon, we were tucked behind the heavy curtain backstage, just the two of us, trying to rig a pulley system. The rest of the crew had gone to grab lunch, and the auditorium had that strange, echoing silence. Dust hung in the shafts of light, the air thick with paint fumes and old velvet.
Adrian was talking about something on rope tension and the need to counterweight the drop.
His fingers were quick, deft, looping cord like he’d done it a hundred times.
I wasn’t even really listening. I was watching the way his sleeves were rolled to the elbow, the way the light caught the tiny freckles on his forearms, and the way his brow furrowed when he concentrated.
I stepped up to help, reaching too far to grab a hanging bolt without thinking. My foot caught on a coil of cable, and the floor pitched out from under me. I crashed into him, hard.
We hit the ground in a tangle of limbs and startled breath, the sound of metal clanging somewhere nearby, my hands braced on either side of his head. He landed flat on his back, and I hovered above him, my chest heaving, his hoodie bunched in my fists.
I should have rolled off. I should have said something.
But I didn’t.
He looked up at me with those wide, brown eyes, and for a second, everything locked up inside me. My body froze, my thoughts scattered, every rule I’d been taught forgotten. His breath was warm against my neck. His cheeks were pink from the fall or maybe something else; I couldn’t tell.
Then he tilted his head, barely smiling, voice low and a little breathless.
“Do you always stare like that?”
I opened my mouth, something defensive already forming, but the words never came. Because his hand slid up with quiet certainty, fingers curling behind my neck.
And he kissed me.
It was not rough or hungry. It was just soft and intentional, like he’d been thinking about it for a while and finally decided to act.
My first instinct was panic. My stomach clenched, my brain blanked, but then I felt it. Warmth, stillness, a hum deep in my chest like recognition.
He kissed me like it wasn’t a question, like he knew I’d answer.
And I did. I kissed him back.
Hesitant at first, then surer, my grip tightening in the fabric of his shirt.
The world fell quiet. There were no teammates.
No practices. No pressure. It was just the two of us, caught in that tiny space behind the curtain, like the universe had cracked open and offered us a moment outside the rules.
And in that second, I wasn’t confused. I wasn’t afraid. I just felt right.
For the first time in my life, something made sense in a way that didn’t need explaining. Adrian did that. He made everything feel lighter and clearer, even when he complicated the hell out of me.
When we finally broke apart, our foreheads touched. I didn’t know what to say.
So he said something first.
“Would you go to the prom with me?”
I blinked. “Me?”
He grinned, a little crooked. “Who else would I want to ask?”
I didn’t really have to think. I knew what I wanted. I knew I had to answer him before he changed his mind. “Yes.”
But before he could say anything back, footsteps echoed across the stage, slow at first, then stopping short.
We were still tangled up in the ropes when we heard the laugh.
Clay.
He stepped out from the wing, arms crossed, helmet tucked under one arm, sweat darkening the collar of his team hoodie. “Well, shit,” he said, almost like a joke.
But his smile didn’t reach his eyes.
We broke apart, too late. I scrambled back, heartbeat kicking up like I’d just run drills in full pads. Adrian looked like he’d seen a ghost, hands still braced behind him like he didn’t know where to put them.
Clay just stood there, taking us in. His expression flickered through confusion, recognition, then something harder.
“Coach was looking for you,” he said to me, voice flat. “He said you missed the weight room briefing. He wants to finalize lineups for Saturday.”
I opened my mouth but nothing came out.
Clay didn’t wait for an explanation. He just gave me a look I couldn’t name, something that felt like judgment, and worse, betrayal. Then he turned and walked out.
The moment shattered like glass around us. But I didn’t move, not yet. Not from Adrian.
Because even as the world rushed back in with all its consequences, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Whatever this was, whatever happened next, that kiss was mine. And I didn’t want to forget it.
I went to practice the next day, but everything felt different. Coach had announced that morning that GSU’s head recruiter would be watching our game on Friday, along with scouts from two other schools. This was it, the moment everything had been building toward.
I should have been ready. I’d been handling pressure since middle school, thriving despite high and sometimes unrealistic expectations.
My dad’s constant reminders about scholarships and the scouts watching from the bleachers were nothing new.
Pressure was supposed to make me play harder, focus better.
But that afternoon, something inside me felt fractured.
I couldn’t catch a pass or hear the play calls over the thundering in my chest. Every snap felt like it took twice the effort just to stay upright.
My reflexes, usually razor-sharp, felt dulled. My timing was off. I was off.
Coach pulled me aside after the first hour. “What’s going on with you, Holloway? You’re playing like you’ve never seen a football before.”
I didn’t have an answer. How could I explain that something fundamental had shifted, that the world felt bigger and more complicated than it had twenty-four hours ago? That for the first time in my life, football didn’t feel like the only thing that mattered?
“Just an off day, Coach.”
He studied my face. “You can’t have off days. Not now, especially not with GSU watching. You get your head right, or you get off my field.”
That Friday night, we played East Shore, our last regular-season game before regionals.
It was supposed to be a statement match.
Three recruiters were in the stands, including the one from GSU, along with scouts from Oregon and a smaller school with a strong defensive program in Arizona. All eyes were on me.
We were losing. Badly. And I wasn’t doing much to change it.
The whole team was dragging, but I could feel the burn of every missed tackle like it lived under my skin. At one point, I tripped a step too early on a blitz, and the quarterback got away clean. I heard the collective groan ripple through the stands like a wave of disappointment.
I was on the bench, helmet off, sweat sticking to my neck, when Clay leaned in behind me. He didn’t even bother to lower his voice.
“Jesus, Holloway,” he muttered just loud enough. “You forget how to hit? Or are you too busy sketching out feelings now?”
I didn’t respond. I just stared ahead at the field like I hadn’t heard him.
He chuckled under his breath. “I mean, I get it. All that stage crew shit, the lights, costumes, and cozy little corners behind the curtain. Real intimate, huh?”
Still, I said nothing. My jaw locked tight.
Then he dropped his voice lower, like he couldn’t wait to twist the knife.
“Bet your little artsy whore’s real proud. He’s probably jerking off into his sketchbook while you fall apart out here.”
That’s when I moved.
I stood so fast the bench scraped behind me. I didn’t yell or warn him. I just hit him, full force, fist to jaw. The crack echoed like a whip. He stumbled back, mouth already bleeding, eyes wild with shock.
“What the fuck, man?!”
He didn’t finish. Coaches descended, dragging me off before I could land a second one. Clay was yelling something, holding his face and spitting blood, but it barely registered.
The sidelines erupted. Players were shouting, whistles were blowing, and everything boiled over into noise.
I was benched. No argument. Coach didn’t even look at me when he said it; he just motioned toward the end of the line like I was already gone.
Scouts started leaving midway through the third quarter. I saw the GSU recruiter shake his head and shut his notebook before the final whistle even blew.
That night, my phone rang. I answered, already bracing for it.
“Do you know what you’ve just done?” My father’s voice was low, controlled, the kind of cold that didn’t shout because it didn’t need to. “I heard from two of the scouts myself. Golden State was interested. Invested. And now they’re out, because you couldn’t keep it together on the sidelines.”
I stayed silent.
“You were in, Vince. Full ride. National spotlight. You were supposed to be the next Holloway to make it big. You think anyone wants a hot-headed linebacker with attitude issues and a soft streak?”
The silence stretched.
“I cannot fix everything for you,” he added finally. “I spoke with the boy you punched and his parents. If you want to salvage anything, you walk away from it now.”
That was when I realized he meant something else, everything that was making me feel. He didn’t even acknowledge Adrian, reducing him to “it.”
I told him what Clay said to trigger me, trying to justify what I did.
I told him I loved the game, but not to the point of abandoning someone I really cared about, someone who mattered to me.
I was firm, telling him I would not let anyone disrespect Adrian like that, especially not the boy I was falling for.
There was a pause on the line, then, “So, you think he’s worth it. Let’s see how long that resolve lasts.”
I didn’t know the worst was yet to come, which was three days later.