12
Dyl an
Then
The referee’s whistle cuts through the air, signaling the start of the game. The kicker launches the ball high, spiraling end over end as Miles sprints into position. He catches it cleanly at the ten-yard line, tucking it under his arm and surging forward. The field comes alive as players collide, bodies jostling for position. He weaves through a gap, pushing past the twenty, the thirty—until a Montclair defender lunges, taking him down just past midfield.
The roar of the crowd swells as the offense takes the field. I hold my breath as Beckett jogs into position, Brooks and Miles flanking him. He’s locked in, riding the momentum without a second thought, as if the field was made for him. He’s not just playing—he’s proving something, and it’s impossible to look away.
The ball snaps, and the game explodes into motion. Voices boom around me, but all I hear is the rush of adrenaline, my own heartbeat thudding in time with the play. Beckett drops back, eyes scanning the field. A defender breaks through the line, but Beckett shifts his weight, sidesteps, and rifles the ball downfield.
“That’s my brother!” I yell, the volume of it shocking even my own ears.
The whistle blows moments later, signaling a timeout. One last play remains, the tension thick as the players jog toward the sideline, some gulping down water, others catching their breath. I sink deeper into my seat, my eyes locking onto Brooks as he tugs off his helmet. The floodlights skim over his sweat-dampened golden brown hair, casting a gilded glow around him, sending a flurry of wings loose beneath my ribs.
I reach into my hoodie pocket, fingers curling around my phone. The moment Brooks’ name flashes on the screen, I straighten as a flutter stirs deep in my chest, climbing higher while a delicate pink blush blooms across my cheeks.
Brooks: You at the game?
Dylan: Obvi. Where else would I be? :)
Brooks: No clue. ;) Glad tho! Wouldn’t wanna play w/o my good luck charm.
My cheeks flush a deep pink, revealing me before I can mask it.
Dylan: If that’s the case, you better show out lol
Brooks: You got it boss!!
A new wave of cheers crashes over the stadium, pulling me back into the game. The scoreboard flashes—Rockport 21, Montclair 7—but my focus is locked on my brother. A white-hot thrill tears through my body like a live wire as he rifles a pass toward Brooks, who snatches it midair without breaking stride.
“C’mon,” I whisper, holding my breath as he dodges a defender, sprinting toward the end zone. Montclair’s safety closes in, but Brooks cuts right, then left, sending the defender stumbling.
“Go!” I scream, jumping to my feet. “Go, go, GO!”
He crosses the line, the ball secured in his hands, and the stadium erupts. The referee’s arms shoot up, signaling the touchdown. The scoreboard flashes—final seconds drained, no time left. Game over.
“YES! Six more on the board!”
The stadium vibrates with a tidal wave of cheers, the sheer force shaking the ground. Brooks rips off his helmet, his chest rising with each breath as he scans the stands, his gaze jumping from face to face before locking onto mine. The noise dulls, the night sharpens. A shift, almost imperceptible, settles across his face.
The field warps, a mass of bodies crashing together in celebration. But Brooks doesn’t move. His helmet slips from his grip, thudding against the turf. Sluggishly, his fingertips drag against his temple, as if he’s trying to find the source of something unraveling inside him. His breath hitches, shoulders lifting like it’s taking all his strength to stay upright.
One drawn-out blink. Another. Then, suddenly, he crumples to the ground, his body going limp as the color drains from his face.
My feet barely feel the ground as I push forward, my body moving before my mind catches up. The crowd is a blur, their voices nothing but white noise behind the single thought clawing through my skill.
Brooks.
He’s still on the ground when I reach him. The people around are useless, shifting in place like they can’t decide whether to step forward or back. His chest rises, falls—too slow. Too shallow.
“Somebody help him!” My voice rips from my throat, but no one reacts fast enough. “Is he okay? Did someone call for help?”
Graham, one of the other players, rubs the back of his neck. “I—uh—he just collapsed. I think he’s…tired?” His words trail off, unsure, and something inside me snaps. What’s with everyone dragging their fucking feet?
“Dill, breathe.” Beckett’s grip is firm on my arm, holding me in place before I can reach him. But it might as well be a brand, burning against my skin while Brooks is on the ground.
“Breathe? You’ve got to be kidding me!” I rip my arm free, shoving past him, but I barely make it a step before I’m yanked back to a stop.
“Clear a path!” A firm voice rises over the murmuring crowd. The shifting bodies finally give way as a man in uniform—EMT, maybe—pushes forward, Coach Tyler right on his heels.
“I’m fine,” Brooks mutters, his voice so faint it barely reaches us—almost as if speaking is a battle.
No one buys it.
Not Miles, whose jaw locks tight. Not Colton, whose leg bounces with agitation. Not Beckett, whose stare pins Brooks in place, searching for the cracks. And definitely not me—because if he were fine, I wouldn’t feel like my own lungs were shrinking with every passing second.
Brooks drags a shaky hand over his face. “Look, I just haven’t drank any water today—” He moves to stand, but his body betrays him, his legs folding as though gravity itself just doubled.
“Hey, just stay down for a second kid. You’re not fine,” the medic says, kneeling beside him, a steady hand on his shoulder.
“I was just dizzy. It’s nothing.”
The medic doesn’t look convinced. “Lightheaded? Nauseous? Headache?”
Brooks stalls, jaw tightening. “Just a little dizzy.”
The medic studies him a second longer before pulling out a blood pressure cuff, securing it around Brooks’ arm. The soft hiss of air fills the space as it inflates. Brooks doesn’t react, but I catch the tension in his posture—the slight way his fingers curl into his palms.
A moment later, the medic releases the valve and checks the reading. “Your pressure’s a little low. You’re probably just dehydrated.” He shifts back slightly but keeps his voice even. “You need fluids—water and electrolytes. Sip, don’t chug. And you’re done for the night.”
Coach Tyler levels Brooks with a look. “I know your parents are out of town tonight. You got someone to keep an eye on you?”
Colt doesn’t miss a beat. “Dylan’s got him.” He tips his head toward me, the implication clear and heat rises to my face as every pair of eyes turns in my direction.
Brooks’ lips part as if he might argue, but instead, he simply mouths, “Please.”
It lands like a loaded question, even though it isn’t—a responsibility I hadn’t expected but can’t refuse.
“Yeah, we’ve got him,” Beckett says, his voice composed as he glances down at me.
I steel myself with a quick nod, my heart pounding as I move forward. “Yeah…yeah, of course.” The words leave my mouth before I even realize I’ve moved.
“Hydration and rest,” the medic says, his eyes hardening. “If he gets worse, get him to a hospital.”
“Got it.” The words leave my mouth before I fully convinced myself I do. I school my expression into something passably confident, but in all reality, I’m cracking open. A wildfire of uncertainty ignites in my chest.
Dylan, it’s just dehydration. Not life or death. Chill. But the what-ifs still consume my thoughts. Brooks pushes himself to his feet, offering me a wink that borders on cocky, as if this is all just some big misunderstanding. What have I gotten myself into?
Colt and Miles trade glances, and whatever passes between them sets my nerves on edge. They’re seeing something I haven’t caught up to yet.
Brooks stretches, his jersey clinging to his skin as he swipes a damp curl from his forehead. “I’m hitting the showers. I’m soaked, and I’m about five seconds from setting this uniform on fire.” Then, he cuts his eyes toward me. “Seems you’re stuck with me, Dylan. I’ll meet you at my truck when I’m done.”
My hands tighten into fists, then relax, as if my body can’t decide what to do with itself. I should say something else—ask a question, make a joke—but all that comes out is, “Sounds good.”
Beckett rubs his knuckles against his jaw, glancing between me and Brooks before settling his focus on me. “He’s fine, Dill,” he says, eyes narrowing like he’s cataloging every micro-expression. “Just pushed himself too hard. Now you’ve got the perfect excuse to spend more time with him.” His smirk is infuriating, but there’s an undercurrent of reassurance in his tone.
I huff out a breath, aiming for exasperation, but the blush creeping up my neck betrays me. “Shut up, KitKat.”
He chuckles, giving my shoulder a quick squeeze before jogging off after the team.
The guys disappear into the locker room, leaving me on the field, my thoughts spiraling. I rub my arms, suddenly aware of the chill pressing in around me. I force my feet to move, slowly crossing the empty stretch of turf.
Brooks’ truck sits where it always does, and I make my way over to it, pressing my hip against the cool metal of the passenger door. The medic’s warning loops in my head—a song stuck on repeat. With a measured breath, I tip my head back, eyes tracing the stars for any sign that everything really is okay.
It doesn’t take long for him to come out of the locker room, and the moment he steps into view, I can’t stop myself from staring. He flashes a half-smile—the kind that makes the butterflies swarm a little faster. His damp hair falls across his forehead, a bit unruly but gracefully composed. The cotton of his shirt hugs his frame, highlighting the lean power beneath, each movement exuding control without effort. As he steps closer, my anxiety dissolves, pressing down on the nerves that had been thrumming moments before.
“How’s my good luck charm doing?” Brooks asks, mimicking my stance and leaning casually against his truck.
I chew the edge of my bottom lip before replying, “Worried about you.”
He shrugs, his laid-back demeanor unshaken. “Hey, I told you, I’m fine. Promise.” He slings an arm around my neck, a steady certainty in his touch. “Now, let’s go. Colt is throwing a party to celebrate the win, and I’m not about to miss out.”
I eye him skeptically. “Oh. A party? You sure you’re up for that?”
His fingers graze my collarbone as he leans into me just a little more. “Dill, I’m good, but if you’re that worried, you’re welcome to keep a close eye on me all night.” He pats the side of the truck. “Now, c’mon. Let’s go have a good time.”
I hesitate, torn between curiosity and caution. “You know what? Sure. But how about I drive? Give you a break for a bit.”
“Tempting, but I’d rather let you sit there and look pretty while I handle the road.”
“So, you just like being in control, huh?”
He slides a hand behind me, fingers curling around the door handle as he leans in, his breath warm against my ear. “You can call it control, but she’s a little temperamental. You’re better off letting me wrestle with her.”
The truck’s frame is solid against my back as he swings the door open, the motion erasing the last sliver of space between us. His chest brushes mine, heat radiating from him and seeping through my clothes.
His retreat is slow, measured—like he’s making sure I notice. The truck creaks beneath me as I settle in, the scent of worn leather and engine grease curling around me. Brooks hovers just outside, his grip curled loosely around the top of the door.
I bite the inside of my cheek before glancing his way. “You getting in, or are we just gonna stay here all night?”
“Just enjoying the scenery,” he says with a tilt of his head, pushing the door shut with a soft, purposeful click before rounding the front of the truck.
As he settles into the driver’s seat, the flirty glint in his eye deepens into something more genuine. “I’m glad you came tonight.”
“Yeah, me too.”
The truck rumbles softly as we pull away, one of Brooks’ hands steady on the wheel, the other draped casually over the center console. My attention drifts to his fingers for a moment, a thought sparking in the back of my mind—what would it feel like to touch him, even just for a second? I push it away and settle my head against the window, letting out a long breath as I watch the streetlights zip past.
It’s going to be a long night.
An hour later, we roll up to Colt’s house, the scent of burgers and milkshakes clinging to our clothes. I shoot a glance at Brooks, who—despite his earlier complaints—begrudgingly downed the bottle of water I all but forced on him before we even left Ruby’s.
The party is already in full swing. People are sprawled across the front lawn, red Solo cups in every hand, while music blasts loud enough for the bass to rattle the dash.
Brooks parks the truck with a quick maneuver and jumps out, making his way to my side to open the door.
“After you. Let’s see if that luck holds up, Rivers,” he teases.
I step out, a breath of laughter slipping free. “Dangerous game you’re playing, setting expectations like this, Holland.”
The distant murmur of voices turns into a full-blown roar as we close in on the house, the music growing louder with every step. Miles appears in the doorway and wastes no time pushing past people, like he’s been waiting for us all night.
“Dude, you seriously freaked me out back there,” Miles says, thumping Brooks on the back a little too hard. “I thought we were about to lose our star player.”
“‘Star player’ is a bit of a stretch, dude. We all know Beckett takes that title. I probably just needed water or some shit. It’s no big deal.”
“Yeah, well, maybe next time, don’t give us all a heart attack,” Miles says, his shoulders shaking with a silent laugh. He throws an awkward side hug around Brooks before his gaze shifts to me.
“Hey, Dylan.”
“Hi, Miles,” I reply, tugging my hand from the back pocket of my jeans and lifting it in a half-hearted wave.
The three of us step inside, the music crashing into us, each note shaking the windows. The air carries a sharp blend of cheap beer and overly sweet perfume, and someone is already yelling above the noise. In the living room, a guy is on the couch, arms raised in victory, holding a ping-pong ball like it’s a trophy.
Brooks’ hand finds the small of my back, guiding me toward the kitchen without a word. The counters are a chaotic spread of Solo cups, half-empty snack bags, and bottles of booze—some tipped over, pooling onto the sticky surface. By the refrigerator, Beckett leans casually, his attention fully on a girl with sleek red hair and a laugh that cuts through the noise.
When Beckett notices me, his entire face lights up. “Dill Pickle,” he calls out, abandoning the girl by the fridge without a second thought. Before I can dodge, he catches the edge of my sleeve between his fingers, dragging me into him. “Look at you! Did hell freeze over, or did Brooks finally drag you out of your hermit hole?”
I skim my palm down my thigh, resisting the urge to fold into myself as voices blur together around me. Every instinct is screaming for me to bolt, but I force myself to hold my ground. “Blame your boy,” I grumble, jerking my chin toward Brooks.
“I think you mean thank my boy,” Beckett counters, giving my shoulder a playful shake. “Lighten up, Dilly. You might actually survive this and have a good time for once.”
He shoots me a wink before striding back toward the girl, his attention already redirected, leaving me to wrestle with the noise, the perfume-clouded air, and my own creeping discomfort. Too late for second-guessing now.
Brooks is watching me, his expression relaxed, but carrying that undeniable charm that always seems to throw me off balance. I grab a water bottle from the counter and toss it his way. “Here. Hydrate, star player. We’re not dragging you off the field twice in one night.”
He catches it with an easy motion, twisting off the cap and taking a deliberate sip. “Anything for my personal medic.” The bottle meets granite with a soft clink, forgotten the second his gaze latches onto me—unhurried, intentional, peeling me back layer by layer.
From the living room, the party erupts into a loud, drunken chant. “Shots! Shots! Shots!”
Miles lets out a sharp whistle, conversations halt, a few heads turning his way as he smirks, clearly pleased with himself. “Dylan,” he shouts, trying to be heard over the music. “First party, first shot. You’re not skipping this.”
The moment snags, catching on my discomfort. This isn’t my scene, and every instinct is telling me to stay on the sidelines. My focus shifts to Brooks, who tilts his head, a subtle challenge in his expression.
“Fine,” I say, the word coming out uneven as I push myself to play along. It feels like stepping off a cliff, but at least I’m trying.
Miles grabs a bottle of vodka and a carton of orange juice, moving with the confidence of someone who’s done this a hundred times. He pours shots into red Solo cups then raises his own triumphantly. “To crushing Montclair!”
Brooks lifts his cup in solidarity, his movements unshaken, and the others follow suit. I join in, stifling the urge to back out.
The alcohol scorches a path to my stomach, liquid fire curling in its wake. I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, chasing away the acrid after shock that refuses to fade. Miles slaps me on the back, laughing at my reaction, but I can only hold my breath and wait. The hairs on my arms stand stiff as I fight the rising wave of nausea.
“Should you even be drinking if you’re dehydrated?” I choke, crossing my arms in what I hope comes across as disapproval.
“They said fluids,” Brooks counters. “Never specified which kind.” His tone melts, slipping into something softer. “You’re kind of adorable when you worry, you know that?”
Embers ignite under my skin, catching faster than my thoughts. Before I can grasp for a response Colt barrels into the kitchen like a human tornado. He grabs my wrist without hesitation, his energy pulling me into his orbit. “Dylan, you’re up! Beer pong. I need a partner. Let’s go!”
“Wait, I don’t even know how to—” Before I can dig my heels in, Colton has already swept me along, his unshakeable momentum making my resistance pointless. I stumble after him, half-annoyed, half-intrigued, and entirely uncertain of what I’ve just been roped into.
The beer pong table is sticky with a layer of spilled beer, and my shoes make an annoying squelch every time I shift my weight. Awesome.
“We’ve got next!” Colt announces, draping his arm around me like we’ve been lifelong teammates.
“You’re gonna regret this,” I caution, letting my head drop with a knowing sigh. “I’ve never played before.”
“Relax, rookie. It’s just beer pong, not brain surgery,” he fires back, lightly tapping my arm to reinforce his point.
To my surprise, he’s right—it’s not complicated. Somehow, I start landing more shots than I miss, and by the second game, we’re on a roll. The crowd around the table grows louder with every win, their cheers blending with the steady hum of music.
“You’re killing it!” Colt says, shoving another beer into my hand as if it’s my trophy. “Didn’t expect anything less from Beckett’s sister.” His excitement feels contagious, but I offer a distracted response. My focus fractured, scanning the room for something—or someone—I haven’t seen in a while.
“Have you seen Brooks?”
Colt downs a mouthful of beer, then tilts the bottom of his drink toward the stairs. “Pretty sure he went up with Chloe.”
“Chloe?”
“Vance,” he says, as if that makes it better. “His ex. He dated her last year. Things were messy for a while, but he tolerated her—well, until you showed up, anyway.”
The realization hits, like stepping off a curb I didn’t see coming. Chloe is his ex? Of course, she is. How did I miss that? The party hums around me, but it’s meaningless. Every shared moment with Brooks plays back in my head, only now the colors feel different—faded. Was I only seeing what I wanted? Is she in the picture? Was she ever really gone?
“Oh.” The syllable barely makes it past my lips, drowned out by the bass rattling the walls.
The bottle sweats in my grip, slick against my palm. I don’t hesitate. I knock it back, the liquid rushing past my lips, my throat working fast to keep up. One down. I don’t stop to think before grabbing another. The burn of alcohol doesn’t dull the ache in my chest like I’d hoped—it only seems to stir it up more. Or maybe it’s the buzz amplifying everything, turning a twinge into a full blown ache.
Colt’s words flicker around me, and it’s predictable enough to fake my part. I tilt my head just enough to feign presence, but my focus dissolves before it can land. Our winning streak finally breaks, but instead of celebrating or groaning with the rest of them, I slip away. The press of people, the noise…it’s too much. I weave through the crowded house, my only goal to find the one person who feels real in the haze of uncertainty.
The next thing I know, I’m stepping onto the patio. The damp air bites at my skin, but it barely makes a dent in the uncertainty curling around me. KitKat and Miles sit by the fire pit, shadows shifting over their faces, their heads tipped toward each other—sharing a quiet joke or a secret I can’t hear. My brother notices me first, his posture swaying slightly before he catches himself.
“Dilly, I saw you playing beer pong. The apocalypse must be near!” He drags a finger through the air, pointing at me as if I’ve just rewritten the laws of the universe.
I slump into a chair, shedding the last hour off my back. “Colt had the enthusiasm of a golden retriever. I never stood a chance.”
Beckett’s attempt at a nudge turns into more of a slow-motion lean, his balance questionable but his grin intact. “Regardless, you stuck it out and you didn’t bail—real MVP move, sis.”
“Uh-huh,” I mutter, eyeing him wearily, as if he just tried to sell me a broken-down car. “On a scale of one to regretting this tomorrow, where are we at?”
He waves off the question, his movements uncoordinated. “Enough to regret all of it tomorrow.” His tone carries the kind of certainty only a drunk person can manage.
The liquid in my beer shifts as I tip it to my lips, my attention settling on the yard. A football cuts a smooth arc under the dim glow of string lights, rising, falling, caught. I watch the easy repetition losing myself in the motion, something predictable when everything feels off kilter.
Miles pops up from his seat, as though someone randomly hit fast-forward on him. “Who’s up for a game?”
I lift a palm. “Absolutely not. I’ve had enough games for one night.”
But it doesn’t matter. Beckett swoops in, hauling me up with a grip loose enough to escape but determined enough to make resistance pointless.
“You’re playing.”
I huff. “And you’re exhausting.”
My steps lag, half a step behind, but the momentum is inevitable, drawn into the loose perimeter forming near the pool’s edge. The game kicks off quickly, and I’m instantly aware of one glaring problem—I have no idea what’s going on. Flip, Sip, or Strip, apparently, isn’t just a clever name. As the rules unfold, I realize I’ve walked straight into a minefield of potential embarrassment.