Chapter 9 Knox
Chapter nine
Knox
It’s Wednesday afternoon, and the air is thick with sun and sweat. My guys are halfway through warm-up drills. Agility ladders, cone footwork, and a rotation of shuttle sprints. Helmets off, cleats kicking up turf, voices bouncing across the field.
My mind drifts to my new neighbor. She’s not backing down. She’s not moving.
I thought maybe it could turn temporary. That she’d crash here for a week or two, realize it was a mistake, and bolt back to the city where she left me behind. But no. She’s unpacking boxes. Decorating. Laughing through the wall like she’s planning to stick around.
And it’s wrecking me more than I want to admit.
I try not to think about the little things.
The soft scrape of her blinds in the morning.
The smell of cinnamon that drifts out her door when she leaves.
The way Priscilla trots straight to her porch every time we go outside, wagging her tail like she’s already picked a favorite human—and spoiler alert, it’s not me.
I tell myself it’s fine. That I can handle this. That I’ve grown up, moved on, let go.
But then I lie awake at night listening for her footsteps. I find myself pausing in the driveway when I see her car. I replay conversations we haven’t even had yet.
So yeah. I throw myself into the team. Into practice. Into drills and film study and anything else that makes me feel useful. Because the alternative? It’s thinking about the fact that the only woman I’ve ever loved now lives ten feet from my bed—and I still have no idea what to do with that.
We’ve got our second away game Friday night against Mountain Top—number one in our district. Their QB’s got an arm like a cannon, and their defensive line eats sophomores for breakfast.
To say I’m not confident would be the understatement of the season.
“Tate!” I shout. “Watch your plant foot—you're cutting too shallow. Drive through the hip and dig in!”
He adjusts and runs the drill again, cleaner this time. Minor stuff, but it’s the details that get you beat.
I jot a quick note on my clipboard just as I catch a familiar figure wandering up the sideline in khakis and a Cedar Falls Athletics quarter-zip.
“Hey, Cam,” I say without looking up.
“Hey, Coach Grumble.” He stops beside me, squinting toward the far end zone. “Came to see how practice is shaping up.”
I blow the whistle and wave the receivers and DB’s into 7-on-7 periods. “They look good. Just like they always do until Friday night.”
Cam nods, hands on his hips like he’s about to drop some unsolicited wisdom. “Well, they do look good. Sharp, even. I’ve got an idea for Friday.”
I side-eye him. “Let me guess—smudge the bus with sage and pray to the football gods?”
“No, but now that you mention it, that did work for our state run in 2019.”
I grunt. “What’s the idea?”
“How about I ride out with you guys to Mountain Top,” he says, “and I give the pregame pep talk.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You think I need help firing up my team?”
“Didn’t say that. But sometimes it helps hearing it from someone who’s not the guy who just made ‘em run gassers for twenty minutes.”
I chew the inside of my cheek. He’s not wrong. I’ve been riding them hard this week. Too hard, maybe.
“You think it’ll help?”
He shrugs. “Helped my team a couple years back. Sometimes an outside voice reminds them what they’re fighting for. Plus, I give a hell of a speech.”
I huff, nod slowly. “Fine. But if you start quoting Remember the Titans, I’m pulling the bus over and leaving you at a Waffle House.”
Cam slaps my shoulder, grinning. “Deal. But I’m definitely using the ‘left side, strong side’ line.”
I shake my head and drop my clipboard to my side, letting the silence settle as the boys run another rep.
Cam leans over, voice lower now. “So...I heard about your new neighbor.”
I close my eyes for a second. “Goddamn Facebook group.”
He laughs. “To be fair, it was posted right between the lost cat flyer and a rant about parking at the grocery store.”
“So what?” I mutter. “She’s next door. We made it clear we’re staying out of each other’s way.”
“Uh-huh.” Cam doesn’t even try to hide the amusement in his voice. “And how’s that working out for you?”
I glance toward the field and blow the whistle again, a little harder than necessary. “Practice, Cam. We’re talking about practice.”
“Fine, Coach.” He smirks. “But I give it two weeks before you start accidentally mowing her lawn or borrowing sugar you don’t need.”
I ignore him and yell, “Alright! Let’s switch to red zone reps—first team offense on the 20. Defense, line up and don’t embarrass me!”
Cam chuckles, standing there like a man who knows damn well he’s agitating me.
By the time I pull into the driveway, my shirt’s stuck to my back, my knee is barking like an old hound, and I’m pretty sure my right cleat has fused with the gas pedal.
All I want is a shower, leftovers, and to ice my soul. I slam the truck door shut and instantly regret it. My guys didn’t suck today. Which means Friday will either be miraculous or a public execution.
I’m halfway to my front door when I hear her call out, “Coach Grumpypants! You’re leaking.”
I pause, turning my head and my eyes finding Brynn.
She’s sitting on her little front stoop like a damn Instagram post. Legs tucked under her, her hair falling in waves over her shoulders, holding a half-melted popsicle that she’s licking a little too slowly.
Orange. The worst flavor, but damn if she doesn’t fucking make it look good right now.
Brynn Marlow had always been a walking contradiction—sweet as pie and sexy as sin.
Blonde hair that hit the middle of her back and always smelled like something soft and girly, even when she’d just rolled out of bed.
Blue eyes that could freeze a man in his tracks, especially when they narrowed in confusion and her nose scrunched up in that way that earned her the nickname Bunny years ago—because hell if I didn’t want to kiss the confusion right off her face every time she made it.
She has the kind of body that can cause a room to fall silent.
Toned, tight, made for trouble. Perky tits, firm ass, and those legs that went on for miles and looked even longer in the heels she wears like armor.
Every time I see her, it’s like my body remembers before my brain can catch up.
What she felt like under me. Around me. The sounds she made, the way she’d arch into my touch like her body was made for mine.
I used to think I’d burn the world down to get back inside her.
Now I’m just trying to survive breathing the same air.
She snaps me out of my inappropriate thoughts when she points the popsicle at me like it’s a sword. “Your water bottle is dripping all over your shorts. Looks suspicious.”
I glance down. Sure enough, my insulated bottle is wedged under my arm, sweating all over me. And yeah—looks like I’ve peed myself. Fantastic.
“Appreciate the heads-up,” I mutter.
She licks the popsicle—slowly—and grins. “Anytime, Coach.”
I debate walking away. I should walk away. But instead, I take a step in her direction.
“What are you doing out here?” I ask, tone dry.
“Enjoying the rare warm evening,” she says, gesturing grandly. “Getting to know the neighborhood. I met a corgi named Meatball.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“Oh, he is. He tried to eat a butterfly.”
Despite myself, a laugh almost escapes. Almost.
Instead, I look away. Because this is exactly how it used to start. Me giving her a hard time. Her giving it right back, with dimples and sass and no regard for my emotional safety.
She hums suddenly and says, “You always came home cranky after Wednesday practice. Even in high school.”
I stiffen.
She goes on, oblivious or cruel—I can’t tell. “You’d text me and say ‘Today was Hell Wednesday’ and I’d bring you a Mr. Goodbar and a Coke.”
I glance up, and she’s not smiling now. Just watching me. Like she remembers too much.
So do I.
Because I’d eat the Mr. Goodbar in the cab of my truck with my cleats still on and her legs on my lap. And she’d make dumb playlists titled things like Knox Is A Tired Beefcake and read off random horoscopes while we shared the Coke. She never made me share my Mr. Goodbar, but I always offered.
I clear my throat. “Yeah, well. Practice hasn’t gotten any kinder.”
“Nope,” she says. “But you’re still standing. That’s something.”
I nod once. “Goodnight, Brynn.”
I turn before I can say something stupid like, you still remember that? Before I ask if she ever thinks about gummy bears and my old truck and how her laugh used to undo me.
I get halfway to my door when she calls after me.
“Oh—and hey, Coach?”
I glance back.
She winks. “You’ve got a grass stain on your butt.”
I don’t check. I don’t respond.
But when I get inside, I find myself smirking—and then immediately hate myself for it.