Chapter 17 Knox
Chapter seventeen
Knox
Thursday practice is a disaster in slow motion.
The kind of afternoon where every single thing that could go wrong does, and somehow manages to do it with flair.
My receivers are running bad routes, the O-line have lazy feet, and half the defense looks like they pre-gamed with NyQuil.
I’ve yelled so much my throat feels raw, and I’m two bad throws away from ripping off my hat and chucking it across the field like a man twice divorced and done with everyone’s shit.
“Williams,” I bark, clipboard smacking against my thigh, “your route tree’s not a damn suggestion. Run it again. This time like you’ve actually seen a football before.”
He jogs back into position like it’s the world’s biggest inconvenience, dragging his cleats like I’ve asked him to run wind sprints through lava. I glance up at the sky, wondering if I pissed off some cosmic force lately. Maybe I shouldn’t have skipped dinner with Mom last week.
Cam ambles over with all the urgency of a man on vacation. He surveys the chaos like it’s mildly entertaining. “They’re looking sharp,” he deadpans.
“They’re looking like a Pop Warner team on juice boxes and sleep deprivation.”
He lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “They’re seventeen. Half their brains are fried from hormone overload. You’ll get ’em back tomorrow.”
I blow the whistle and watch the offense sleepwalk through another play like they’ve just been introduced to the concept of football five minutes ago. “They better shape up,” I mutter. “Because I’m not showing up on a Friday night just to babysit.”
By the time we call it, the sun’s dipping low and my patience is circling the drain. I drive home with my jaw clenched and a headache thudding behind my left eye.
Priscilla hears me coming before I even open the door. She’s up and bounding toward me, nails skittering across the hardwood, tongue hanging out like she was ready to file a missing person report.
“Hey, girl,” I say, my voice finally softening as I kneel and let her maul me with affection. She smells like sunshine and dog food, and she’s the only creature I can count on not to disappoint me today. “You held the fort down while I was gone?”
She gives a little huff and presses her face into my chest. I take it as a yes.
After feeding her and refilling her water, I drag myself upstairs, each step a reminder of muscles I haven’t stretched in a week.
My shirt’s clinging to me like a second skin, damp from hours of heat and frustration, and my legs feel like they’ve been filled with wet cement.
The house is quiet, save for the occasional soft padding of Priscilla settling back down on her bed downstairs.
I strip out of my clothes and toss them into the hamper, flipping on the shower and leaning over the counter as steam curls around the mirror. I roll my neck, trying to release some of the tension camped out in my shoulders, and that’s when I hear it.
A soft sound. Barely audible over the water, but enough to give me pause. I go still, thinking maybe I imagined it. A trick of the pipes or just my brain being fried.
But then it happens again.
A low, feminine moan.
I blink at my own reflection, and for a second, I wonder if I’m finally losing it. Stress-induced auditory hallucinations. Fantastic. But then I hear it again—clearer this time. My name.
Not shouted. Not dramatic. Just whispered, breathy, intimate.
“Knox…”
Everything in me tightens.
The wall between our bathrooms isn’t thick. Maybe it was built to code, but it’s definitely not built to handle this kind of situation. Because that’s Brynn. And she’s...yeah. Doing exactly what it sounds like she’s doing.
And saying my name while she does it.
My stomach drops and heat coils low and tight in my gut, sharp and immediate.
I brace my hands on the edge of the counter and try to breathe, but it’s like all the oxygen’s been sucked out of the room.
I shouldn’t be listening. I know that. But I’m frozen in place, ears tuned to every rustle, every breath, every low moan.
I can picture her too easily—legs tangled in the sheets, her hair fanned across the pillow, one hand sliding over soft, flushed skin, her hips lifting in rhythm, mouth parted and eyes fluttering closed.
I’ve seen it before, years ago, when everything between us still made sense.
When touching her didn’t feel like trespassing on something I no longer had a right to.
My name again. This time a little louder. Like she’s taunting me.
The ache in my chest punches right through the heat simmering under my skin.
I press my palm flat to the wall, like I can feel her through it, like somehow she might be doing the same.
My other hand drifts down, and this time, I don’t stop it.
I close my eyes, the tension breaking loose like a snapped tether.
I stroke myself with slow, deliberate movements, trying not to picture her—but failing, hard.
All I can think about is the way she used to look at me. Like I was hers. Like I was the answer to every question she didn’t want to ask out loud.
Her moan lifts again, soft and high, and I match her rhythm without thinking. My breaths get heavier, chest rising and falling as the pressure builds. I want her. I want us. The way we used to be—before the silence, before all this awkwardness, before the goodbye that’s never really left me alone.
She gasps, her voice catching on the edge of release, and it tears something out of me. I come hard, her name stuck in my throat, hand fisted against the wall.
After, it’s quiet. Just the hiss of the shower and my own breathing slowing in the steam-filled room. A sickening mix of satisfaction and shame starts to creep in.
I stare at the wall, knowing she’s on the other side of it. Probably curled up now, content and soft and unaware of how thoroughly she just wrecked me. And all I can think about is how badly I want to be the one she turns to next time. How easy it would be to close the distance.
But we’ve got a past we never really unpacked. It’s a mess that neither one of us has had the courage to confront. And I’m not sure if we ever will.
The scoreboard buzzes over the field, the crowd erupting in a wave of cheers that cuts through the cool night air. Final whistle. Another win. Our second in a row.
I blow out a breath and scan the field, hands on my hips as players collide in sloppy hugs and helmet slaps. It’s not perfect—plenty to work on—but damn if it doesn’t feel good. These boys are starting to believe. To push. To want it.
I should be riding that high. But I’m not. Not completely.
Because underneath all the noise, all the adrenaline, is Brynn. Still in my head like a song I can’t shut off.
Last night. The sound of her through the wall—soft, breathy, then suddenly wrecked. Afterwards, I turned the water cold and then stood frozen in my bedroom, towel around my neck, fresh from a shower that hadn’t done a damn thing to settle the tight coil in my gut.
At first I wasn’t even sure it was her. Thought maybe the TV was on. But then I heard my name. Quiet. Like a sin. And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. I don’t know if it meant something or nothing at all, and it’s driving me insane.
Cam punches my arm as he jogs by, whooping like an idiot. “Two in a row, Coach! We’re gonna be famous!”
“Try not to pull a hamstring celebrating,” I mutter, but I can’t help the corner of my mouth tugging up.
Parents begin to flood the edge of the field, faces alight with pride and relief.
A few shake my hand, offer claps on the back.
I’m halfway through trying to find our kicker’s mom when I spot them—Brynn’s mom and dad, lingering near the fence.
Not in their usual seats tonight. No Brynn beside them, yelling at the refs.
I make my way over, brushing my hand down the front of my hoodie like it matters what I look like. Why? I don’t know. I just…do.
“Hey,” I say when I reach them. “Glad you came out.”
Mrs. Marlow gives me a polite smile. “We wouldn’t miss it. You’ve got them playing sharp.”
“Thanks. I didn’t see Brynn tonight.”
“She stayed home,” Mr. Marlow says, shifting his weight. “Wasn’t feeling so hot. One of those days.”
“Oh.” I nod slowly. “Hope it’s nothing serious?”
“Just tired, I think,” Mrs. Marlow replies. “She’s been adjusting to being back, you know how it is.”
Yeah. I know how it is.
I also know I couldn't stop picturing her face last night. What I imagined she looked like at that moment.
I push a hand through my hair, guilt riding high in my chest as her parents give me small smiles and walk off.
I should leave it alone.
Back in the locker room, it’s loud and rank and full of teenage chaos. Cam's got music blaring from a speaker that should’ve died five years ago, and kids are chest-bumping like they just won state.
I whistle sharp. “Bring it in!”
They huddle up fast, sweat-stained and breathless, their eyes shining.
“I’m proud of you,” I say. “Every one of you. You played with heart tonight. Discipline. You took hits and gave ‘em right back. That’s how we win. That’s how we build.”
They erupt in cheers. I let them revel in the moment.
But even while they celebrate, my mind drifts to her.
Lying in bed, maybe. Lights off. That crease between her brows. The way she used to tuck her chin into her shoulder when she didn’t feel good, trying to act tougher than she was. I don’t even know if she still does that. I shouldn’t care if she does.
But I do. I press the heel of my hand to my chest like I can smother the thought before it pulls too hard.
She’s probably fine. Probably curled up with tea and a heating pad and that massive blanket she always stole from the den when we watched movies in high school. It’s not my place. She didn’t text. Didn’t ask for anything.
I grab my keys off the desk.
It’s not like I’m going over there to confess something or stir up the past. Hell, I’m not even sure I’ll go inside. Just check on her. That’s it.
She’s just a friend. It’s harmless, right?
That’s what I tell myself as I pull out of the parking lot and point the truck toward our street.