Chapter Ten Hudson
CHAPTER TEN
Hudson
Ella Davies is driving me up the goddamn wall. It’s not often I meet someone who can throw me off balance, and Ella does exactly that, effortlessly.
Maybe that’s why I can’t help but push her buttons.
It’s nice to know I can elicit such a reaction from her, and that she’s not afraid to stick up for herself.
It’s a quality that challenges me, attracts me, makes me want to spend more time figuring out exactly what makes her tick.
That’s the most frustrating part of it all.
But it’s just physical, right? Must be, considering the dry spell I’ve been on lately. It’s nothing more than pent-up frustration. Fraternization rule or not, I could probably get her out of my system if things were different.
It must just be the fact that I can’t , that I’m not allowed to. That we’re stuck in this limbo where nothing can happen, and, like Levi suggested, it’s making me obsess over being denied.
We make our way back to our makeshift spot on the grass, drinks in hand. I’m wrestling with what to say next without crossing another invisible line. It’s disconcerting, this push and pull between us.
Ella settles down first, carefully avoiding the wet patches of dew on the ground, and I follow, ensuring there’s just enough space between us to keep things decidedly neutral. Yet, as we sink back into the quiet of the movie’s second half, that space feels more charged than empty.
I try to search for the right words to smooth over any rough edges. “You know,” I say, “I don’t like to talk about my exes much either.”
The words slip out before I can reel them back in. It’s supposed to be light, a bit of a joke, but as soon as I say it, I realize it’s none of those things. It’s presumptuous, maybe even a little dismissive, as if I think five years with someone is the same as a few quick flings.
She gives me a sideways glance. “Yeah? You have a lot of those, do you?”
“Only one actual ex I can recall in the last four years. Though, judging by the rumors, you’d think I’ve had a thousand.”
She huffs a laugh. “Not so sure anyone’s keeping count, Fox.”
“Counting or not,” I say, “people like to talk. And I’ve learned that no matter what you do, they always will.”
She’s quiet for a moment, her eyes on the dwindling light above us. “Rumors,” she murmurs, “they can be brutal, can’t they?”
I nod, leaning back on my hands as the movie drones on in front of us. After a long pause, I glance back at the truck bed where our friends have drifted off to sleep. “Look—” I nod toward them, trying to find neutral ground. “They’re out cold.”
Ella turns, her expression softening just a touch as she sees our friends bundled up together. She lets out a low, almost inaudible chuckle.
“Should we wake them?” I ask quietly in an attempt to bridge the gap I’ve so clumsily widened.
She shakes her head, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “No, let them sleep. We’ve all been stretched thin with training. They need the rest.”
“Agreed,” I murmur, relieved to see her thaw a bit. “Let’s just enjoy the peace while it lasts.”
So, we do, sitting side by side in silence as the last half hour of the film plays out. Once the credits roll, we wake the others with soft calls and slight shakes. They stir, blinking against the glare of the outdoor lights as their bodies unfold from their cramped positions in the truck bed.
Our drive home is quiet, the only sounds the low hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of movement from the back where Gabi and Sammy have all but collapsed into sleep again. I keep the truck’s windows down, letting the night air circulate so that I stay alert.
Every so often, I steal a glance at Ella, her profile silhouetted by the passing streetlights. She’s awake, staring out the window past Levi, lost in thought.
We drop Sammy off first, and to no one’s surprise, Levi decides to stay over, a soft mumble of “See you guys later” trailing after him as they head toward her front door together.
He insists they aren’t dating, they aren’t hooking up, and they certainly don’t have anything to hide.
I think it’s all an unnecessary gamble, but Levi’s never been one to listen to reason.
Then it’s on to Ella and Gabi’s place. I pull up to the familiar brick building, the truck idling as I hop out to help them from the cab.
Gabi lingers by the curb, stretching her limbs with a wide yawn.
She throws a teasing look over her shoulder at us.
“I’m getting the impression you two need some privacy. ”
“No, we don’t,” Ella rushes to say, but I gently grasp her wrist, my gaze holding hers, silently asking her to stay a moment longer.
Gabi grins, unaffected by the tension. “Scream if you need me,” she calls over her shoulder as she heads inside, leaving us standing awkwardly by the door.
Ella folds her arms across her chest, her stance defensive but her expression open, curious. “What is it?”
“For the record,” I say in a low voice, “my asking about Jamie earlier wasn’t an attempt to take a shot at you. How many partners you’ve had in the past doesn’t affect me. And I definitely didn’t peg you for inexperienced, not in the slightest.”
She responds with a simple “Oh,” the word hanging awkwardly in the air.
I give her a slow, thoughtful smile. “Goodnight, Ella. See you around.”
Then I turn and head back to my truck. I pause at the driver’s side door, casting a last glance her way to ensure she enters safely.
Even from a distance, she still looks perplexed.
It’s only when she finally steps inside, the door closing with a soft click behind her, that I allow myself to drive away.
The Whitland football lockers are state of the art, a renovation that cost the university a cool six million dollars and a year of construction chaos. Despite being part of this lavish upgrade, it still smells like sweat and cheap cologne—a scent poorly masked by Pine-Sol Lemon.
I walk past rows of lockers painted in our team colors—black, white, and silver—until I reach my own, number seven.
It’s shiny and new, my helmet in a little box on the top, a reclining leather seat in the middle.
I unlock the box to find our motto plastered across the top in silver capital letters: BEAR DOWN.
“Fox!” Levi’s voice breaks through the hum around me. He flashes me a grin, leaning against my locker. “Thought you might need a little pre-game hype.”
“I’m plenty hyped.”
“Yeah, first game of the year.”
“Pre-season. And Alabama Southern isn’t exactly …”
His grin widens. “Hudson Fox, is that your ego I’m smelling?”
“Hey, I’m just being pragmatic,” I retort, pulling on my pads. “They’ve had a rough past season.”
“Ours wasn’t much better.”
I roll my eyes, not bothering to contradict him. Last season was a minor disaster, no doubt about it. But Alabama Southern? They didn’t even qualify for the playoffs.
“Yeah, well,” I say, lacing up my cleats. “Let’s just make sure we don’t repeat it.”
“As long as I get some good footage this season, I’m set.”
He chuckles, clapping me on the shoulder before heading to his own locker.
I cast a quick glance at the clock hanging near the entrance.
There’s still an hour and a half until kickoff.
We don’t need to be on the field for warm-ups for another solid thirty minutes.
That’s just enough time for me to complete my pre-game ritual.
From my bag, I fish out my lucky socks—worn down to the last few threads on the heel—and slip them on.
Then comes a pair of headphones, the wires tangling together in a mess of knots.
After a moment of fruitless untangling, I give up and shove one bud into my right ear, the left one dangling loosely over my chest.
After I open my locker door, I press Play on the first song of my pre-game mix.
“Walking on Sunshine” by Katrina and the Waves.
Inside, a piece of wood with rough, carved letters—saved from the old oak lockers before the renovation—serves as a reminder of past seasons.
Each letter represents an affirmation, a practice I started my freshman year to handle the competitive pressure.
Now, it’s become as crucial to my performance as physical training.
I trace my fingers over the engraving that spells out my old last name.
My given name, the one I was saddled with when I was born.
My dad, Anthony Shaw, was a notorious tight end for the Carolina Rattlers.
A family man with big dreams for himself.
But after my brother was born, a recurring knee injury ended his NFL career.
It was earlier than he wanted or had prepared for.
After that, things quickly deteriorated in our family.
He became an angry, resentful version of his old self.
Spent all our money on gambling and bars.
There were drunken fights with my mom, shouting matches that turned into slammed doors and extended hotel stays. Until eventually, he left us for good.
Even though I was still young, I was well aware of what was going on. It didn’t take long for me to legally change my surname to my mother’s maiden name, Fox. I refused to wear the asshole’s name across my back. The deadbeat who left his family with nothing. The sore loser who abandoned us.
And I’ve never seen or spoken to him again. Not that I want to. That chapter of my life is closed. Shaw was a name that used to mean something. A legacy now stripped of its glory.
Here, in this locker, it’s a part of my history I can’t erase, don’t want to erase; it reminds me of the adversity I’ve faced and overcome. Strive , Hope , Achieve , and Win , because second place was never good enough for the men in the Shaw family.
But there’s an inescapable weight to it, too. A constant reminder of what happens when you lose control, when you let the world get too close, and how easily it can all slip through your fingers.