THIRTY-FIVE
CHASE
The roar of the crowd rises like a storm, crashing against my helmet as I step onto the field. Patches of white cling to the turf, and each breath billows in the frozen air. Snow drifts beneath the stadium lights, while the fans are a sea of red. Men and women. Fathers and sons, mothers and daughters. Families. Friends. Everyone on their feet. Stomping and cheering the final game of the season. I wonder if my mom ever came to one of my games. A face in a crowd. A nobody. My mom.
Focus, Chase.
I block it. Grit my teeth.
I don’t look up to the skybox, where I know Mama’s sitting with Dylan, and Izzy, and Mad, and Harper, and all the other team family members and VIPs including the movie star and his family we had a meet and greet with an hour ago. I don’t want to see the hope on their faces or the pride. I don’t want to glance at the sidelines either, the place where I know Serena will be shouting her praise at the cheer squad as they dance and cartwheel off the field after their opening routine. Somehow, I know if I look at her, if our eyes meet, something inside me will break, and I’ll start thinking of the fact she’s carrying my baby and everything that means. And I can’t break. Not now. Not ever. So, I keep my jaw tight, my helmet fastened, and my eyes on the turf. My world turned upside down the night of the charity ball when I kissed Serena. Nothing has been the same since that moment. It hasn’t turned back yet, but it will. It has to.
Across the field, the Desertraptors line up in their positions in their green-and-white jerseys. They look focused and hungry for the win. Their quarterback stretches his arm across his chest, eyes darting around the field. Our guys are pacing the line, energy bristling through them like live wires. We need this win!
Jake claps me on the shoulder. His voice is loud and sharp, carrying the same adrenaline pounding through my veins. “Let’s go make those playoffs.” He says it like it’s easy. Like he’s suggesting we go out for ice cream. Like the weight of the whole season and the future of the team isn’t pressing down on our backs.
I shove the thought aside. We have a game to win.
The whistle blows, and the field pulls into focus. The first quarter is tight, both sides holding strong. We trade field goals. The Desertraptors snag an interception but cough it up three plays later on a blown handoff. They’re furious at the mistake. It’s messy football on both sides, but it keeps us dead even.
Play starts for the second quarter. Stormhawks have possession. I line up. Jake gives me a nod from his spot; Rob is wide to my right. I call the play, and the ball hits my hands like a jolt of electricity. The line holds as Rob takes off, sprinting downfield. He cuts left, and I let the ball fly. Clean and sharp, the pass arcs through the air. Rob hauls it in and powers through two defense into the end zone.
Touchdown.
The crowd goes wild, but I barely register. Just slap Jake’s helmet and head to the bench, my heart a hammer in my chest. We’ve taken the lead, but the third quarter feels like a war zone. Desertraptors respond with a touchdown. Every inch of ground we gain, every field goal and touchdown, is matched by one of their own.
In the final quarter, Desertraptors take the lead, but it’s close, and now we have possession with three minutes left on the clock. My heart is hammering against my ribs. My breath ragged. I’m focused. Ready. And yet I still feel like something is off. Like something’s missing. That easy rhythm. That fire in my gut I had against the Trailblazers when Serena felt like she belonged to me and me to her.
Focus!
Except I can’t. It’s like the way my legs moved that day in third-grade homeroom when I stepped involuntarily toward Serena and tripped. Like every time since, when I’ve caught sight of her and started moving without hesitation or thought. This time, it’s my eyes that betray me, because suddenly I’m scanning the sideline where the cheer team are finishing a routine, pom-poms glittering beneath the stadium lights, keeping the crowd pumped as they wait for the next play.
It’s the usual chaos. Coaches and staff and players and the cheer squad. But no blonde hair pulled into a ponytail. No sky-blue eyes and wide smile. No Serena. My chest tightens as I scan the sideline again, harder this time, but she’s not there. It doesn’t make sense. It’s game day on the biggest game of the season. I know the cheerleaders have been grinding through rehearsals all week, and Serena’s always right there with them. She doesn’t miss this. Ever. And then I remember the shadows under her eyes last time I saw her, the way she mentioned an appointment with her gynecologist. A cold thought slides in before I can shove it away. What if something’s wrong?
The thought breaks something in me. Cracks it wide open. Suddenly every memory, every thought about her, every emotion I’ve kept locked up tight for weeks—years, even—floods my body. The way she brings me bread for my game day toast ritual. The way she said my name when I touched her body, like I was the only person in the world who existed to her. How I’ve missed her so much these past eight weeks, it feels like I can’t breathe.
And now she’s pregnant. My baby. Our baby. Panic is still whipping through me, but more than that is a dark loathing for how badly I handled things yesterday. Serena was scared and upset and trying to make it OK for me, and all I did was walk away. I left her.
I’ve been telling myself for weeks that I was doing the right thing by walking away. I thought that by keeping my distance, by not letting myself fall too deep, I could stop the cycle. That I could be different from my parents. But in trying so hard not to become them, I ended up doing exactly what my biological parents did to me. I walked away from a shot at love and family and a future.
And yeah, I might be freaking out. Terrified of how badly I will mess this up. And maybe I don’t know what it means yet, but I do know that I’m no coward. Suddenly my heart feels like it’s going to break out of my chest, and it has nothing to do with our final shot at the win tonight and everything to do with Serena and what a fool I’ve been.
“Chase.”
I turn and see Jake calling my name. He’s frowning beneath his helmet. He doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t need to. The message is clear. Get my head in the game. And so, I do.
We’ve fought our way downfield, and now it comes to this—one play, thirty seconds on the clock. The Desertraptors defense crowds the line. I scan the field, feel the weight of the moment, and call the play. The snap hits my hands. I drop back, and a linebacker explodes through the gap. I duck under him and reset my feet.
One breath. One shot. I let it fly. The ball cuts through the air in a tight spiral, tracking toward the end zone. Jake rises to meet it, snatching it clean, before streaking across the goal line.
Touchdown.
The stadium erupts. It’s the kind of sound that should light up my soul, but all I feel is a tightness in my throat. JT’s kick is good. A few seconds still hang on the clock. The Desertraptors get the ball back, but our defense smothers them. The whistle blows. Final score 24-20. We’ve won.
The team swarms. Everyone is shouting. Helmets thrown in the air. Hands hitting backs. Hugs. Cheers. It should feel good. It should feel like victory. But all I can think about is Serena and why she isn’t on the sidelines right now.
Another cheer goes up from the coaching staff. I turn and watch Coach Allen’s fist hit the air. It seems to catch on the wind and hit the crowd, the roar deafening. I hear the words ripple through the air like a drumbeat.
“Wild card!”
“Ironclads lost!”
We’re in. The Stormhawks are in the playoffs. And I feel… nothing.
Jake appears beside me, breathless, sweat streaking his temples. He grins. “Told you we’d do it.”
“Yeah.” I smile back, but it feels forced.
Jake reads me like an open book. Then his arms come up, and he pulls me into a tight hug. “You’re my brother, man. You have been since the second you arrived at Oakwood Ranch. And what I’m about to tell you comes from a place of love and experience.” He pulls back, looks me dead in the eye, checks I’m listening. “It doesn’t mean shit without someone there by your side. You’ve got that person, and you’re fucking it up.”
I swallow, wanting to explain. Wanting to tell Jake about the baby. About how scared I am. But Jake gets there first. “You and I both know you’re better than this.”
A weight drops in my stomach. I don’t know if he means on the field or off it. Both would be accurate.
He holds me tight again. “The playoffs, Chase. I don’t know how many years I’ve got left on the field. Or how long I’ve got left playing for my team. A new owner is coming in. Who knows what will happen next season? But next month, we have our shot at the Super Bowl, and I need you beside me and I need you playing your best. So figure it out!”
He turns away before I can reply. I watch him jog across the field. He hugs Mama, then Dylan, then scoops Harper into his arms and spins her in a circle, smiling as he whispers something in her ear. She laughs, and I swear I hear the sound carrying over the cheers.
I keep telling myself I’ll screw this up for Serena and the baby the way my parents did. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love Serena. Love her with everything I have. And maybe… that can be enough. If I want it to. I don’t know how to be a father. I don’t know if I can be the partner she needs. But I know this: The thought of her raising our baby without me makes my chest feel like it’s caving in. What if staying isn’t the mistake? What if leaving is?
The questions are chased away by another one. I’ve pushed Serena away, walking out on her when she was scared and vulnerable. Shown her I’m not reliable. What if I’m too late?