Chapter Twenty-Four Hudson
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Hudson
“Come On Eileen” by Dexys Midnight Runners blares into my headphones as I duck my head, tapping the carved letters that make up my old last name. The Whitland locker room has emptied, and I’m the last man standing. The last player to make his way to the field for our game against Southern Tech.
Once I’m done, I blow out a breath, interlock my fingers behind my head, and let the music lift my spirits. This game, this day, it feels momentous—like all the threads of the season are converging into one definitive point.
I shake off any last traces of doubt and make my way outside. The Trojans are formidable, no doubt about that, but we’ve been on a hot streak, and there’s no way I’m letting it end here on our home turf.
My cleats dig into the soft grass as I join the rest of the team, slapping hands and bumping shoulders. We do a few practice drills, huddle up, and then we’re shouting “Bear Down!” as we break and jog onto the field.
Coach Wallace is at the sidelines, his face all grim determination as he bellows last-minute advice. “Stay sharp, Fox! And watch twenty-four—he’s quick on the intercept!”
And then we’re on. The game kicks off, and we dominate from the first whistle. Our defense is a brick wall, impenetrable. Our offense, a well-oiled machine, churning out plays that leave the Trojans scrambling to keep up.
By halftime, we’re leading by a clear twenty points, and the crowd’s going wild.
It’s not an interesting game, but it’s fun to dominate every once in a while.
Our cheer squad is making the most of the lead, their routines full of extra stunts, difficult tumbling routines that rile up the stands even more.
My helmet comes off and I wipe the sweat off my brow with a towel. I’m on the sidelines guzzling some water when the entire stadium gasps. It’s a sound so sharp it slices through the commotion and drills straight into my gut. Frantically, I whip my head around, scanning the field.
Time seems to distort, stretching out seconds as I try to pinpoint where the emergency is. It’s somewhere among the lineup of cheerleaders, and it takes me too damn long to spot that familiar flash of dark hair.
My heart pounds against my ribcage, thoughts of an injured Ella flooding in—dropped from a height that could cause irreversible damage. Panic has a tight grip, and it’s cold and merciless. But when I finally spot her, safe and secure on the outskirts of the group, I can breathe again.
It’s not Ella who’s hurt, but when I spot the person sprawled out on the floor, I wince.
It’s Ash. He’s clutching his arm, his face contorted in pain as he’s supported by two of their coaches, who help him off the field.
His blond hair is all I can focus on, the way it sticks to his forehead, damp with sweat.
Ella must be panicking. But injuries are part of the game, and Ash is tough; he’ll probably recover quickly. I watch him as he’s taken away for medical evaluation, just as Coach calls us back to get ready for the second half.
The game resumes, but the atmosphere has shifted. The earlier focus dims, replaced by a tense undercurrent as we all push to stay focused despite our massive lead. The crowd seems to sense the change too, their cheers now mixed with anxious murmurs.
When a break finally hits, I glance over at the cheerleaders, searching for Ella.
She’s not performing now but standing at the edge, her eyes locked on the tunnel leading to the locker rooms. Her face is etched with concern—she’s obviously struggling, worried not just for Ash, but about the fact that her stunt partner might have just sidelined himself for the season.
By the time the final whistle blows, it’s a landslide victory for Whitland, but the celebration is muted. The cheer squad’s spirits are dampened, and the elation that usually follows a win feels restrained.
As the stadium clears, I linger on the field while the cheer squad gathers in their version of a huddle. Levi taps me on the shoulder, and I shake myself out of it, rejoining my own team for a lackluster debrief.
Coach Wallace doesn’t waste a moment before diving in. His voice is sharp, cutting through the lingering noise of the locker room.
“Southern Tech should be embarrassed by that display out there,” he starts, pacing in front of us.
“But you all slacked off in the second half. Just because we’re leading doesn’t mean we stop hustling.
It doesn’t mean we let our guard down and our performance slip.
That’s when errors happen. That’s when they take the lead from you because you’re complacent. ”
Frustration builds in my chest and I chime in, unable to keep my peace, “All due respect, sir, the focus shifted with Ash’s injury. We were well ahead, and we stayed ahead.”
Coach Wallace takes that about as well as a cat takes to water. His eyes narrow, and his voice grows colder. “If you give a damn about this game, you’re not gonna lose your head over some cheerleader spraining their wrist. This isn’t playtime at kindergarten, Fox. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I mutter, the words sticking in my throat. His dismissal of Ash’s pain, reducing it to triviality, spikes my irritation, but I keep it under control. Now’s not the time.
The room gradually clears, the rest of the team eager to leave the charged air behind. And I’m left there, standing alone, the echo of Coach’s words gnawing at me.
The showers are empty, so I strip off my damp jersey and step under the hot spray, letting it wash over me. It’s scalding, almost painful, but I let it beat down on my back, hoping it’ll wash away the tension beneath my skin.
As steam fills the room, my thoughts drift back to Ella. We’re not together, far from it, just two people who are fiercely attracted to each other. But seeing the panic on her face today, how she looked when Ash went down, I feel rattled.
I turn off the shower and grab a towel, the rough fabric scratching against my skin not enough to distract me. I need to check on her. It’s not about crossing lines or pushing boundaries this time. It’s about giving a damn, about making sure she’s alright.
It’s late, way past the decent hour for social calls, and the dim glow from the hallway light flickers as I stand at her apartment door. I knock, a sound that seems too loud in the quiet of the night.
The door swings open, and it’s Gabi who greets me, leaning against the frame with that all-knowing smirk. “I don’t think our girl is in the mood tonight,” she says, eyeing me like she can read my every intention.
“That’s not why I’m here,” I reply quickly, my hands shoved in my pockets. “Just want to check in, make sure she’s okay.”
She raises a skeptical brow. “Shouldn’t you be checking on Ash, then? He’s the injured one.”
“He isn’t my concern.” It’s not that I don’t care about him being injured, but Ash’s well-being isn’t my priority. He’s not the reason I can’t think straight lately. He’s not the person occupying my every thought.
“And Ella is?”
I press my lips together, rubbing the back of my neck. “Is she here, Gabs?”
“Oh, fine,” she says, her sigh dripping with mock disappointment. “I can see that you truly do care about her. I’ll go grab her for you.”
Gabi disappears, leaving me alone with the sound of my own uneven breathing. Minutes crawl by before Ella appears. She pads out in pajamas and slippers, her eyes rimmed red, cheeks puffy. There’s a stinging sensation behind my eyes, a tightness in my chest I hadn’t anticipated.
“Why are you here?” she asks, voice brittle, arms wrapped tightly around herself like a shield.
“How are you?” I ask, my voice low.
“Just peachy, Hudson. Really.” Her sarcasm slices through the tension, but her voice breaks just enough to show her facade is cracking.
I step closer, lowering my voice even more. “It’s serious, isn’t it?”
“Broken wrist,” she confirms, each word seeming to cost her.
“I’m so sorry.”
“I’ll pass along your condolences.”
I hesitate, the words heavy on my tongue. How do I tell her I understand her disappointment without dismissing her pain?
“I’m sorry for you , El. I’m sorry your partner got injured, and that you may have lost your shot at qualifying for the Nationals together.” My words tumble out in a rush. “I know how important it was to you. How hard you’ve been working.”
She looks up at me then, her big eyes glossy with unshed tears. When a sniffle escapes her, it’s the final straw for me. She’s trying so hard to keep it together, but I can feel her breaking. Screw the boundaries—I can’t just stand here and watch her crumble.
I wrap an arm around her shoulders and pull her into me. She’s stiff for a moment before melting into the embrace, her body trembling as she cries into my chest. When she pulls back, her voice is thick with emotion. “I’m just wretched, aren’t I?”
“Not at all.”
“I care more about not competing than I do about the fact that Ash is hurt. I mean, God, I’m actually crying for myself right now. What does that say about me?”
Her words strike a chord within me that vibrates with too-familiar pain. It’s not just her words—it’s the self-reproach in her voice. It cuts deeper than I expected, and for a moment I’m back in that old house, listening to the ghosts of past regrets that haunted my father.
How do I explain to her that it’s okay to feel let down just as much as she worries about her friend? That she’s not selfish, just human?
My dad spent years mourning the loss of his own dreams, letting them define and eventually consume him. His grief turned into a shadow that darkened our lives for a long time. But that’s not Ella. It could never be.
I look at her, this beautiful girl with her shoulders hunched in defeat, nose scrunched to hold back the tears.
This isn’t just about a broken wrist or a missed competition.
It’s about every hope and every plan she pinned on this season, on her entire year abroad, now dangling precariously by a thread.
“It says that you’re passionate about your goals,” I tell her. “That you’re ambitious and driven, and that a setback like this would devastate anyone in your position. You can be selfish for a moment, Davies. Allow yourself to feel, and then you can move through it.”
“I know you’re right. But I just … I just really hate feeling .”
“Want me to take your mind off it?”
She rolls her eyes, shoving me gently. “I’m not in the mood. So, no thank you for the offer.”
I snort, a smile tugging at my lips. “Not what I meant. There’s a late-night showing at the Stardust. They’re playing a classic tonight.”
She hesitates, mouth screwed up to one side. “Oh, I don’t know. Aren’t you pretty wrecked from the game?”
“Wide awake, actually.”
She works through a hard swallow. “I’m a little tired myself, though.”
“Good thing I’m driving. You can fall asleep in the back if you’d like.”
She wars with herself a bit longer, then, “And you’ll buy me popcorn?”
“Of course.”
“And a large blue raspberry ICEE?”
“Darlin’, I’ll get you whatever you’d like.”
“Yeah, okay, then. Just let me change.”
I take her in from head to toe. She’s still one of the most stunning girls I know, even when she’s a disheveled, vulnerable version of herself. “I quite like the look you have going on already.”
She finally smiles at me, a genuine one that lights up her face. “Fine,” she says, “we’ll do things your way.”
“Hell, yeah, I like the sound of that.”