Chapter Twenty-Nine Ella
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Ella
We’re home in Nashville, back to our weekly routine of classes and practice. Now I understand why Hudson treats the long drive home like a simple jaunt down the street. Why Levi always tags along, acting as though seven-plus hours is next to nothing.
There’s a charm to that laid-back Southern life—the cozy warmth of his mom, the sweet naivety of his younger brother—that affects me long after I’ve left.
It was heartwarming to see a new side of Hudson.
He was more relaxed, more at ease. He could be vulnerable with me out there.
He’s letting me in, little by little, past those self-imposed barriers, and I like the view.
In a way, it’s made me break down some of my own walls, too. Though I can’t forget that I’m not staying here forever. I have a life waiting for me back in England. So, we can’t be anything more serious, no matter how much we let each other in.
We’ve already slipped back into a busy rhythm at Whitland. I only had a quick glimpse of that slow, sweet life, but it makes me savor the time even more. Hudson’s family was genuine. So welcoming and warm.
It’s different from what I’m used to. I didn’t grow up with that close familial love. Holidays that are more about spending moments together rather than a mere obligation. My parents aren’t the kind of people who treat outsiders like one of their own, and it’s always felt a bit cold.
Over the years, I created a small, tight circle of people I knew I could rely on—people who felt like home to me. I’ve never cast my net too wide, always cautious, always guarding myself, never expecting too much from outsiders.
But that weekend was different. And I have to admit, it was nice to have the Fox family blanket wrapped around me, at least for a little while.
And although our time together outside of training has been scarce, it feels like my connection to Hudson is steadily growing.
We’ve only had the chance to spend the night together once since we’ve been back, but the desire is always there, simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment.
It’s a constant undercurrent, an ever-present tension. A pull that’s impossible to ignore, especially during practice—brushing shoulders, catching each other’s eyes, the physical contact that sparks something deeper, something I try to push down but can never fully shake.
Every morning for the past week, I’ve woken up earlier than necessary to slip into my trainers.
Hudson and I have been sharing sunrises at Hadley Park.
We’ve been training when we can, early mornings, in between regular practices, his football schedule, and our classes.
Fall finals are over, and their conference championship is just over a week away.
By the following Thursday, we’ve drilled into the same five stunts a hundred times over. We’re at Skyline now, well past closing time, and the rest of our friends have long since left.
“Fucking hell, I can’t get the dismount right,” I grumble, massaging my aching wrists.
Hudson approaches me, holding out a water bottle. “Take a break, El. We’ve been at it for hours.”
I gratefully accept the water and slump down onto the mats, gulping it down. “We can’t afford to take breaks,” I say stubbornly.
He quirks an eyebrow at me. “Right, well, that sounds like something your coach would say, but I think you’re overdoing it. We’re both exhausted, and it’s showing in our performance.”
I sigh deeply, rubbing my temples. “I know, I just … I want to qualify so badly. You’re headed back to Texas in less than a week. That gives us barely any time.”
“I’ll be back right after the new year.”
“If you win the game this weekend, won’t you be playing again?”
“There are bowl games, but they’ll be one-offs,” he says, swiping a bead of sweat from his brow. “We’ll have a little time to practice before the submission’s due.”
“Are you sure?” I press, my tone hopelessly anxious.
He takes a step towards me and places his rugged, callused hands on my shoulders. “Absolutely,” he answers, a tender smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Would I lie to you?”
“Probably,” I say, an echo of the last time he asked me the very same.
But a shiver of warmth runs through me at his touch, thawing the worry sitting frozen in my veins. Only now, I realize how close he is—how his sweat-drenched shirt clings to his muscular frame, how the scent of pine and spearmint toothpaste fills my senses—and my heart does a little flip.
“I wouldn’t,” he murmurs.
When his head dips, lips coming in for a kiss, I savor it for the briefest of moments. “We need to keep our focus,” I say sternly as I pull back, ignoring the pit of butterflies in my gut. “You promised there’d be no—”
“Canoodling on the mat. I know,” he drawls, frustration and affection flashing in equal measure in his eyes. “Come on, let’s try that dismount again. But for God’s sake, let this be the last time tonight.”
I hold out a pinky, and he loops his through mine. “Promise.”
We practice the second stunt once more. It’s better, but I’m still far from satisfied. Hudson takes one look at the disappointment on my face, pinches the bridge of his nose, and sighs long and deep. In the end, we run it from the top three more times.
It’s the second weekend of December, and Whitland’s team is playing in the conference championship game at Nissan Stadium.
It’s a neutral location for both schools.
A facility so grand it makes Griffin Park look quaint.
Here, the energy is vibrant, a sea of players swarming with the hope of victory.
Hudson is a force to be reckoned with on the field.
His presence is commanding and sure, his eyes never wavering from the goal.
There’s a moment in the third quarter when he breaks through the defensive line, his focus razor-sharp.
Dodging massive linebackers, weaving through them like a seasoned pro, he’s unstoppable.
Everything he does is a display of raw athleticism, the kind of grit that has me swelling with pride. When he’s playing out there, he embodies the spirit of a champion—a driven athlete, a strategic thinker, a passionate leader.
My pride grows with every yard he gains, every pass he completes. When the final whistle blows, the scoreboard confirms our victory. Whitland has officially won the SEC Championship.
The stadium erupts in cheers, and we shout our fight song at the top of our lungs. It was a brilliant game. The kind that makes sideline cheer worth it. The kind that leaves you breathless, reminding you why you’re here in the first place.
Later, the celebration at Sidetrack is like a burst of fireworks—loud, exhilarating, and bright. The football team has rented the whole place out, buzzing over their hard-fought win. The energy is infectious, everyone basking in the glow of victory.
Levi has scooped Sammy onto the dance floor. Cove and Malik have gone to play pool. And Gabi flounced off with a wave, joining a group of football players near the bar. Now it’s just me, alone at our once-crowded table.
I sip my drink and let my mind drift. Today was fun. Game days aren’t usually my favorite thing about cheer, but I’m part of something undeniably bigger here at Whitland. Something more than just an accessory to the team.
It’s different for me back in Oxford, where I sometimes felt I was living inside a beautiful bubble. Beautiful, but isolating. Getting there was a fight I had to take on without my dad’s approval.
“I don’t know why you’d want to be around those kinds of people,” he’d mutter under his breath, his working-class roots making themselves obvious.
Before I even began primary school, he had built his way up as a top property developer, working mostly with footballers and soap stars.
We’d moved to Alderley Edge by then, and I was stuck in private schools all my life.
My father came from a long line of builders in the north-west, born and raised in a small, terraced house crammed with brothers and sisters. He’d scrimped and saved, taken risks to pursue his dream, and made a big success of his life.
But he’d never forgotten his roots. And it felt as though he feared me spending too much time with the privileged elite at university. It was his resentment that forced us apart, creating a rift that deepened over time, until it felt as though we had almost no relationship at all.
Maybe he was right to question my ambition. There are places at Oxford where I never fully fitted in. Cheer was my safe haven, though, the one place where I felt appreciated for who I was, not just because of the privilege that my father’s success had given me.
It’s hard work, sweat, and determination that matters there—not wealth or bloodline.
And now that I’m at Whitland, cheer feels like even more than a safe haven. It feels like family, one I’ll eventually have to leave behind.
I pull on my cardigan, shrugging it over my shoulders. Pushing back from the table, I weave through the clusters of celebrating students and head to the patio. There, standing at the edge, just like he was that first night, is Hudson.
He’s alone, a cup of water in his hand, his gaze lost somewhere in the Nashville city lights. It’s an instant flashback to the night we met.
A surge of emotions floods through me—nostalgia, excitement, a touch of nerves. He looks so effortlessly handsome, so utterly familiar to me now. There’s a lot that’s changed for us in the last six months, and the mere idea of it makes my stomach twist.
“You’re very tall, you know,” I say as I approach, repeating the words I’d first thrown at him.
He glances down at me, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “And you’re very forward,” he says, his voice low and layered with warmth.
“Really, what are you doing out here all alone?”
“Contemplating.”
“Mmm.” I step up beside him, putting my hands on the railing. “Mysterious.”