Hometown Touchdown (Hearts on the Sidelines #1)

Prologue

Brynn

Seattle

The dress is still in the garment bag by the window.

I haven’t found the courage to unzip it since my last fitting. I’d hung it there to catch the morning light, thinking it would make me feel something—excitement, nerves, joy. But all I feel now is dread.

Henry is pacing.

Not the distracted kind, not restless or anxious. This is controlled. Intentional. Like he’s building up to something—rehearsing the lines of a decision he already made. Every pass across the living room feels like a countdown I can’t stop.

The apartment is quiet in that unbearable, suffocating way.

Thick with the kind of tension that only lives in the wake of a we need to talk text—the one he sent an hour before I left work.

I read it, felt the blood drain from my face, and still came home like a fool hoping it wouldn’t be what I already knew it was.

Outside, the city hums—cars passing, horns in the distance, someone yelling across the street. It should be familiar by now. Comforting, even. But it’s all just noise, echoing around me as my life begins to quietly fall apart.

He stops across from me, hands braced on the back of one of the kitchen chairs. His jaw tightens. I watch the muscle twitch just beneath the skin.

“I can’t do this,” he says. No warning. No softening blow. Just four words and a finality that splits something open in me. “We need to call off the wedding.”

My breath catches. “Are you serious?”

“Yes. I can’t move forward with this.”

I stand in disbelief. “This? Are you saying the wedding or our relationship?”

His eyes don’t quite meet mine. “All of it, Brynn. I can’t—this isn’t what I signed up for.”

I blink, as if not understanding. “We talked about this. You said we’d figure it out together.”

“I didn’t know what it meant then,” he says, voice already hardening. “I didn’t understand what forever looked like when forever means no kids, no family. No future.”

I flinch, the words like glass shattering in my chest. “We talked about adoption,” I snap. “You said you didn’t care how we got there, as long as we did it together. Didn’t you realize what forever was before you put this ring on my finger?”

He shakes his head. “I thought I meant it. But I can’t pretend this is still the life I want. I want kids of my own.”

“So what, you're just walking away? From everything?”

“I don’t want to resent you,” he says quietly. “And I will, Brynn. Eventually, I will.”

The silence that follows is worse than the words. I stare at him like I’m seeing someone I never knew, someone who peeled off his skin and revealed something selfish underneath.

I nod slowly. “Then go.”

He hesitates for half a breath, but there’s nothing left to say. He grabs his coat.

The door clicks shut behind him.

And just like that, I’m alone.

I don’t cry right away.

I just stand there, staring at the door like it might open again.

Like maybe he forgot something—his wallet, his coat…

me. My hands are clenched at my sides, but I can’t feel them.

The apartment is too quiet now. The kind of quiet that wraps around you like a vice, squeezing until it hurts to breathe.

Everything in this place suddenly feels like a lie.

The couch we picked out together during that stupid Presidents’ Day sale.

The framed engagement photo grinning down at me from the bookshelf.

The hooks by the sink where our “his and hers” mugs hang.

It's all still here, but now it just feels fake.

A Broadway production set built on promises he had no intention of keeping.

My eyes land on the dress. Still zipped up. Still hanging by the window like it’s waiting for the version of me who believed in all of this.

I can’t do this.

I feel the heat rising beneath the hurt.

The injustice of it. The way he looked me in the eye and said we’d figure it out—how he let me carry the weight of my diagnosis alone, only to use it as an excuse to walk away.

He bailed. And now I’m left in the ruins of a life he couldn’t be bothered to fight for.

My chest tightens as it all comes crashing in. The future we planned. The finances I now have to untangle. The apartment that no longer feels like mine. I'm standing in the middle of a space I can’t afford on my own, surrounded by furniture we picked out for a marriage he just threw away.

I can’t stay here. Not with these walls mocking me. Not with that damn dress still waiting for a day that’s never coming.

I snatch my keys and purse from the counter and head for the door like it’s the only way to keep from screaming.

I don’t know where I’m going. I just know I can’t sit in that apartment another second.

Not with the ghost of him lingering in every corner.

Not with the walls closing in around a future that doesn’t exist anymore.

I need to move. I need to escape the crushing weight of it all before it swallows me whole.

Somewhere between the front steps and the car, I remember the venue. The one with the wraparound porch and the non-refundable deposit. My fingers are shaking as I unlock my phone and scroll to the contact. When the receptionist picks up, I force my voice to be steady.

“Hi. I need to cancel a wedding reservation. For October first. Under the names Marlow and Foster.”

There’s a pause on the other end. Then a soft, polite voice. “That cancellation was processed yesterday. By Mr. Foster.”

My stomach drops.

Of course he already cancelled it.

He’d already made the decision. Already checked the boxes. Already erased me from the schedule while I was still clinging to the idea of walking down the aisle.

I thank her as nicely as I can and end the call.

The grocery store is only five minutes away, but it feels like a lifetime. I pull into the lot, kill the engine, and just sit there in the driver’s seat. The windshield wipers tick-tick across glass, swiping away the late summer rain, a background rhythm to the chaos building in my chest.

And then the tears come.

They start slow. Silent and creeping, but within seconds they turn into something violent. Guttural. Shaking. I clutch the steering wheel like it might keep me tethered, but it doesn’t help. Nothing does.

My whole body trembles with the weight of it all. The canceled wedding. The diagnosis. The way he walked away like I was disposable. Like I hadn’t spent years building a life around the promise of us.

My phone is still in my lap. I don’t hesitate.

I tap the name without thinking—Mom.

Because she’s the only person I want right now. The only one who knows the whole story. The only one who’s seen all the versions of me—even the broken ones—and loved me anyway.

She answers on the second ring.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Her voice wraps around me like a favorite blanket from home. The moment I hear it, I start to unravel all over again. My lip wobbles. My breath hitches. I grip the phone tighter.

“Oh, honey…” Her tone softens even more, like she can hear the tears before I can speak. “I’m here. Just breathe, okay? Take your time.”

I swallow hard and force the words out, hoarse and broken. “He left. The wedding’s off.”

There’s a beat of silence, just long enough for the truth to settle between us. I imagine her sitting at the kitchen table back home, one hand over her mouth, the other holding her own phone with a death grip.

“Oh, Brynn,” she murmurs. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

I blink, a fresh wave of tears slipping down my cheeks. “He said he couldn’t handle the infertility stuff,” I whisper, barely able to form the words. “He said it changes everything.”

Her breath catches, but she’s quiet for a moment, composing herself the way moms do when they want to stay strong for their children. When she speaks again, her voice is layered with sorrow and steel. “Then he wasn’t your person, sweetheart. Not if that was the dealbreaker.”

My chest tightens.

“I tried so hard,” I say, the frustration breaking through the sadness now. “I built a life here. I showed up for him. I told myself it didn’t matter that I felt so alone, because he was supposed to be the one who made it all worth it. I thought if I just held on long enough, it would all be okay.”

“I know you did,” she says gently. “You’ve always been the strong one, even when you shouldn’t have to be. But no one’s asking you to hold it together anymore. Not for him. Not for anyone.”

I wipe at my face, but the tears keep falling. “I don’t know what to do. I’m just…so tired, Mom. Tired of fighting for something that was never really mine.”

There’s a pause on the other end. And then, her voice, steady as ever, carrying that familiar undercurrent of love that never wavers.

“Come home.”

I freeze.

Two words. So simple. But they land like a lifeline.

I close my eyes, the ache in my chest giving way to something that almost feels like relief. The idea of Cedar Falls, of pulling into the driveway and seeing the porch light on. Of not pretending I’m okay for just one damn minute. It presses into me with the weight of possibility.

I whisper, “I don’t know if I can, what about my job?”

“You can,” she says softly. “Your job will either work with your move or you find a new one. And you don’t have to do it alone. We’ve got you. I’ve got you. Just…come home, Brynn.”

I take a shaky breath, staring through the windshield at the blurred lines of the parking lot lights, tears still wet on my cheeks. “Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll come home.”

Mom’s voice softens even more, if that’s possible. “When?”

I swallow hard, the weight of the decision settling in my chest. “Two weeks? I need time to…sort through everything. Close this chapter.”

“That’s fine, sweetheart. I’ll make sure your room is ready. We’ll figure it all out when you get here.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I say, voice cracking on the words. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. Always.”

There’s a pause. Then her voice shifts—just slightly smug, just slightly dangerous.

“And just say the word—I’ll set that dress on fire in the backyard. I’ll even invite the neighbors. We’ll make s’mores.”

A breathy laugh escapes me—uneven, tear-soaked. “Please don’t. Haddie Carmichael will catch it on camera and post it on the Cedar Falls Facebook page before the flames even die out.”

“Oh, honey. She’s probably preparing the drone now.”

Despite everything, I smile. It’s small, but it reaches places inside me that were starting to feel numb.

“I’ll see you in two weeks,” I whisper.

“We’ll be here,” she says softly. “Come home safe.”

I end the call and let the phone rest in my lap, my head tilted back against the car seat. Seattle has never felt smaller, or lonelier. The apartment. The canceled venue. The dress that will never be worn. It all feels like a life that doesn’t fit anymore, like a skin I’m ready to shed.

Two weeks. Two weeks, and I’ll be back in Cedar Falls—a town I swore I’d outgrown, but maybe it’s the only place that can make me feel whole again.