Chapter 7
Caleb
The roar of the crowd lifts in one sharp wave, a collective breath sucked in and held, then released all at once when the left quarterback reads the gap, plants, and cleanly intercepts the attack.
Helmets collide, bodies churn, and for a heartbeat everything on the field looks chaotic before the Bulls snap back into formation with the calm precision of a well-drilled machine.
Around me, the stands deflate in relief.
Jeremy drops back onto the bleachers with a low huff, Clara’s hand landing on his knee as she exhales like she’s been holding the game in her lungs.
Asher laughs under his breath, Dylan already leaning forward again, hands cutting through the air as he argues angles and lanes that haven’t even happened yet.
I sink down beside them, but my chest doesn’t ease with the rest of the stadium.
My phone vibrates against my sternum.
It’s subtle, insistent, a private interruption in the middle of a public rush. I pull it free of my jacket without looking at anyone, thumb brushing the screen.
Maggie Turner.
The name lands warm in my ribs before anything else.
A quick, almost reflexive lift in my chest, the kind that feels like sunlight breaking through the clouds. Then, just as fast, it tightens.
Because she doesn’t call me unless she has to.
The crowd’s cheer blurs into background noise as I bring the phone to my ear. “Mags.”
Her breath hits me first, thin and uneven, the sound of someone holding herself together by will alone. The moment stretches, fragile, and whatever earlier satisfaction I felt about the game drains out of me like water from a cracked cup.
I rise again without realizing I’ve moved.
“Caleb? C-can you c-come? Dad. H-he's worse. Running a f-fever.”
The small hitch in her breath slices through the roar of the crowd anyway, clean and merciless. For a second I forget where I am, forget the lights, forget the stadium that thrums like a living thing around us. All I can hear is the thin thread of her trying not to cry.
My fingers tighten around the phone.
I lower my voice without thinking, turning my shoulder to the field as if that might build a wall between us and the noise. “I’m on my way, Mags.” The words come out rougher than I intended, edged with something I cannot smooth over. “Hang in there, babygirl.”
There is a beat on the line, the faint scrape of her breath, and then she exhales like she has been holding herself upright by sheer will. We exchange a few words more before she ends the call.
The world crashes back in all at once.
The crowd surges as the Bulls push down the field, the announcer’s voice cracking with excitement over the speakers. Jeremy leans forward in his seat, Clara’s hand planted firmly on his forearm as she argues something I only half register.
“He should have gone wide,” Jeremy mutters, eyes locked on the play. “He’s telegraphing every cut.”
Clara swats his arm. “If you could see the linebackers from here, you’d be on the field instead of in these ridiculous seats.”
Asher laughs, easy and bright, while Dylan shakes his head, already mid-analysis. “They’re stacking the box too tight. If the quarterback fakes the handoff and rolls out, he’s got the tight end open across the middle.”
Logan says nothing.
I feel him before I look at him, that steady, measuring stillness beside me. When I turn, he is watching me the way he watches deals, the way he watches people who think they are hiding something and are not nearly as good at it as they believe.
I slide my phone into my pocket, but my hand does not leave it.
Logan’s gaze flicks toward the field, then back to me, slow and deliberate. He does not smile. He never wastes motion. “Woman friend?” he probes, like he is placing a marker on a map.
My jaw tightens before I can stop it.
The stadium roars again, a collective inhale and exhale that rattles the rail beneath my forearms. I do not answer right away. I do not need to. The truth sits heavy in my chest, lodged just beneath my ribs. I nod.
Logan’s mouth curves, barely. “Good.”
I drag a hand over my face, then push up from my seat. The bleachers creak, loud enough that Jeremy glances back.
“You leaving?” he calls.
I nod once.
Asher claps me on the shoulder as I pass, warm and solid. Dylan lifts two fingers in a quick salute, already arguing strategy again with Logan like I have not just stepped out of their orbit.
The night air hits me the moment I leave the stadium.
Cooler than it was at kickoff, carrying the scent of grass, popcorn, and the distant smoke from someone's backyard grill.
Autumn isn't here yet, but it's close enough to feel waiting at the edges.
My breath ghosts briefly in front of me, then thins, then disappears.
The parking lot lights cast a pale glow over wet asphalt. Puddles shimmer like broken glass. Somewhere, a lone moth circles a buzzing bulb, stubborn and relentless.
I walk faster than I mean to.
The car unlocks with a soft click. I drop into the driver’s seat, hands braced on the wheel for a heartbeat longer than necessary. The leather is cool beneath my palms. I close my eyes and breathe once, slow, deliberate.
The dash brightens around me, soft blue and white coming alive as I press the start button.
The car doesn’t roar, doesn’t even clear its throat, it simply wakes, a quiet, almost weightless readiness beneath my hands.
I shift into drive and roll out of the lot, tires whispering over the painted lines as the stadium lights fall away behind me.
Main Street is almost empty, the kind of quiet that only settles in when the whole town is pressed into bleachers.
The single traffic light at the center of town blinks yellow, then red, then back again, cycling out of habit rather than need.
I slow just enough to glance both ways before rolling through.
The state road opens up ahead of me, the fields stretching out on either side, dark and waiting. My headlights cut a narrow tunnel through the night, and my foot eases heavier on the pedal. Ten minutes. Maybe less. Every second feels louder than the last.
Ten minutes should feel like nothing. Tonight, it feels endless.
My hands tighten on the wheel as I take the turn toward the state road.
The headlights carve a narrow tunnel through the dark, fields rolling out on either side, black and endless.
Open land. Nowhere to hide. My chest feels too tight, breath coming shallow as I replay her voice, the way it thinned on certain words, the pause she didn’t fill.
Maggie doesn’t panic. She doesn’t exaggerate.
If she called me, it’s because she ran out of ways to convince herself things were fine.
The road stretches ahead, empty, and I push a little harder on the gas. Every second feels borrowed. Every mile feels longer than it should. I need to get there. I need to see him. I need to see her.
Every curve in the road tightens something inside me. Every straight stretch makes my foot press a little harder against the pedal. My mind keeps circling the same questions without landing anywhere solid.
Does she know?
Has she let herself see it yet?
The thought of Maggie alone with her father, carrying more than she should, tightens my chest in a way that makes breathing feel deliberate instead of automatic.
The turnoff comes suddenly, gravel crunching beneath my tires. The farmhouse appears at the end of the lane, porch light burning steady and stubborn against the dark. Warm, human, waiting.
The porch light burns steady against the dark, a single square of gold floating above the sagging steps.
Nothing moves in the windows, no curtain stirs, yet the house feels lived in, in a way that has nothing to do with sight.
The glow reaches out across the gravel, softening the edges of the night like someone has intentionally left the world open for me.
The front door stands just a fraction ajar, exactly as I asked, and that thin, deliberate gap speaks without needing to. It tells me she is listening, braced somewhere between fear and hope, keeping the way clear for me without needing to watch for my arrival.
For a moment I simply take it in. The quiet farmhouse seems to hold its breath, the light unwavering, the door waiting.
It is not welcoming so much as faithful, not hopeful so much as steadfast, and in that stillness I know she is inside, somewhere between the kitchen and the living room, counting the seconds until my tires crunched onto the drive.
Only then do I open the car door and get out.
The steps creak under my weight, familiar now, worn by too many years and footsteps. I push the door open without knocking, toeing off my shoes on the worn rug, and line them up neatly.
The house smells like chicken soup and something sweet, butter and sugar and warmth. My chest loosens just a fraction.
I step into the living room, and my attention goes where it always does first. His chair. The oxygen line. The color in his face.
Her father is awake, propped slightly to one side, blanket pulled up to his chest. His breathing is shallow but even, the rise and fall steady enough to ease the worst of the tightness in my ribs.
His skin is too warm when I press my fingers to his wrist, pulse strong despite everything else failing him.
His eyes stay on mine while I check him, sharp and aware.
Then he tips his head toward Maggie.
It is deliberate. Clear. A pointed little gesture that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Despite the weight pressing at my chest, my mouth quirks before I can stop it. The man has always been stubborn. Turns out he’s also observant.
“All right,” I murmur, mostly for him.
Only then do I turn.