Chapter 6
Six
Kane
Igrip the ball, fingers tight on the laces. The sun’s brutal, helmet heavy, pads biting into my shoulders.
“Trips right, X slant, Z go,” I call out. My voice cuts through the noise. The guys snap to attention.
I’m the captain.
The quarterback.
The one they follow.
I read the defense. Watch the safeties shift. I know this drill. I’ve run it a hundred times. But today, it’s muscle memory. Because my mind’s not here.
I’m thinking about her.
Blair.
The way she walks—fast, precise, like she’s trying to outrun something no one else can see. The way her fingers twitch when she’s anxious. The way she counts.
I saw her do it again today. Steps to the stairwell. Tiles on the floor. Breaths.
She thinks it keeps her safe.
She’s wrong.
I watch her because she doesn’t know how to hide. Not really.
She folds herself into routines like armor, but I see the cracks.
The way her eyes flick to the exits. The way she flinches when someone gets too close. The way she looked at me, like she wanted to run and stay at the same time.
“Earth to Fischer!” I blink. The ball’s flying toward me. I catch it late, fingers fumbling.
Coach glares. “Focus, son. The season opener isn’t going to be a walk in the park.”
I nod, but I don’t mean it, because I’m already focused. Just not on football.
“Blue eighty—set!”
I drop back, my feet light, eyes scanning.
A receiver breaks free, and I release.
The perfect spiral lands in his hands as he turns and takes off toward the endzone.
Coach nods approvingly, and my teammates clap. It’s all background noise, because I’m thinking about how she smells. Like sweet vanilla and something sharp underneath. How her voice caught when she asked why I was watching.
I run the next play and call the cadence, command the field.
Every movement feels distant.
I’m supposed to be leading. Supposed to be locked in, but all I want is to see her again. To watch her count her steps. To hear her breath hitch when I get too close.
She’s not just in my head.
She’s under my skin.
And I don’t know how to play without her here.
It all came on so suddenly that if I’m anywhere she’s not, then I can’t concentrate, but I won’t do anything about it because I want her.
Practice ends with a whistle and a curse.
Coach isn’t happy. I missed two reads, underthrew a pass, and spaced out during the huddle.
I can hear my father chewing me out–Focus, Kane.
Don’t be soft. Don’t be stupid. I’ve got to get my head in the game somehow before I blow everything I’ve worked for.
Scholarship, captaincy, and reputation all earned but blood and sweat.
I chased pussy before. Hookups, distractions, easy wins.
Never has it come between me and football. Never until my little sunflower bloomed right under me—quiet, strange, perfect—and stole every ounce of focus I had.
I’m toweling off in the locker room when Rhett drops onto the bench beside me, helmet still in his lap, sweat streaking down his neck.
He doesn’t speak right away. Just sits there, elbows on knees, watching me like he’s waiting for me to admit something.
“You were off today,” he says finally.
I grunt. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.” He turns toward me. “You missed two reads, underthrew the slant, and spaced out during the huddle. That’s not you, man.”
I rub the towel over my face, hard. “Coach already gave me hell. I don’t need it from you either.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not Coach.” His voice is steady, low. “I’m your best friend. And I’m telling you—whatever’s going on in your head, you need to lock it down.”
I don’t respond.
He leans in, pulling his jersey over his head. “First game’s in two weeks. You’re the captain. You set the tone. If you’re off, we’re all off.”
I clench my jaw. “I know.”
“Then act like it.” He stands, claps my shoulder once—firm, not angry. “Whatever it is, deal with it. Fast.”
He walks off, leaving me alone with the echo of his words. Rhett’s been like a brother to me since I can remember. Both of us got accepted to play football at Northern Tennessee University, which has the best sports program in the country.
I stare at the floor, heart ticking hard.
He doesn’t know about her. About how deep she’s already in. About how I can’t stop watching her.
I’ve chased distractions before, but this isn’t that. This is something else. Something I don’t know how to walk away from.
I step out of the locker room, the door slamming shut behind me.
Left takes me to the athlete dorms. To my room. To the place with the blackout curtains, the soundproof walls, the fridge stocked with protein, and silence.
I don’t go left, I go right toward Meadow View Hall. Toward her.
I’ve got an apartment off-campus. A top-floor suite with a private elevator that was paid for in full before the semester started.
I barely sleep there, though, because Blair doesn’t live off-campus.
She lives here. Fourth floor. Corner room.
So I keep the dorm room.
Technically, just in case. In case she needs me. In case something happens. In case she spirals and no one else sees it.
She doesn’t know I’m close, but I am. Always.
I walk past Meadow View slowly, hoodie pulled up, hands in pockets.
Her light’s on. She’s in there, bent over her desk. Focused.
The lamp casts a soft glow across her cheekbones, catching the curve of her jaw, the slope of her neck.
I wonder if she’s counting. If she’s organizing something or meticulously doing her school work. If she’s thinking about me.
I keep walking, but I’ll be back.
Being near her isn’t a choice anymore.
It’s a need.
I loop back after dark, long after the locker room’s emptied and the weight of practice has settled into my shoulders like a second skin.
The air is cooler now, the sky bruised with the last traces of sunset, and the campus has quieted into something softer, less laughter, fewer footsteps, more shadows stretching long across the pavement.
Meadow View Hall rises ahead of me, its brick facade glowing faintly under the amber wash of the streetlights. It’s not the kind of place I should be near. Not at this hour. Not like this. But I keep walking, hands in my pockets, hood up, head down just enough to blend in without disappearing.
I know exactly where I’m going.
Her dorm is tucked in the back corner, fourth floor, left side.
I memorized the window the first time I saw her silhouette framed in it—head bent, hair pulled back, posture rigid with focus.
She always leaves the blinds cracked just enough to let the light spill out, like she doesn’t realize she’s offering pieces of herself to anyone who knows where to look.
I don’t glance up this time. I don’t need to. I already know she’s there.
Instead, I head for the mailboxes—those narrow metal slots lined up like confessionals just inside the front alcove. I move quietly, deliberately, the way I do when I’m running a two-minute drill and the whole field is watching. But no one’s watching now. No one sees me.
Her box is near the bottom. Number 412.
I pull the folded paper from my pocket—no envelope, no name, just one clean line written in black ink, the letters sharp and deliberate, like a whisper carved into skin.
You’re not invisible.
That’s all. That’s enough.
I slide it into the slot, the metal lip clicking shut with a soft finality that feels louder than it should. Then I step back, hands still in my pockets, heart steady.
She’ll find it. Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow morning, when she checks her mail like she always does—same time, same rhythm, same routine she clings to like it’s armor.
She’ll read it. She’ll feel it. She’ll wonder.
And she’ll know.
Someone sees her.
Someone’s watching.
Someone’s close.
Me.