Chapter 50
Chapter fifty
Knox
If someone had told me at the start of the season that we’d be standing on the edge of the playoffs, I would’ve laughed.
Not a bitter laugh, just one of those dry, tired ones that you use when the idea sounds more like fiction than fact.
But here we are—Friday night under the lights, the last game before Thanksgiving—and we actually have a shot.
A real, honest chance to make it to the playoffs.
The early November air is the kind of cold that wakes you up, sharp and crisp and electric.
The field is firm beneath my sneakers, and there’s a nervous energy skating just beneath the surface.
People in the stands know what’s at stake.
Cedar Falls hasn’t been to the playoffs in nearly a decade.
Tonight’s the night we might change that.
And for the first time all season, we’re not scrambling to make up for early mistakes.
We come out of the gate strong. Confident.
Sharp. The boys play like they believe in themselves—not in a cocky way, but with the kind of quiet certainty that comes from grinding through losses and long practices and film sessions that dragged late into the night.
Every snap, every pass, every block—it’s clean. Solid. Unshakable.
By halftime, we’re up by ten. The other team is fighting, sure, but we’ve got control. And we’re not letting it go.
As I pace the sideline during a timeout, my eyes drift to the stands and catch on something that makes me pause.
Brynn’s there, bundled in one of my old scarves, the deep navy blue one she “borrowed” and conveniently never returned.
She’s seated between our parents, laughing at something my mom says, her cheeks pink from the cold and her eyes lit up in a way that cuts through the noise around me.
It’s a strange feeling, watching her there, part of this world again, but not quite mine in the way I want everyone to know.
She looks down just then and catches me staring. Her lips curl into a slow, knowing smile, and she lifts her coffee cup in a mock toast. I shake my head, biting back a grin, and shoot her a small salute in return. It’s nothing obvious.
My assistant, Coach Nelson, claps me on the back as the players reset. “They’re locked in. This one’s ours to lose.”
“Not tonight,” I say, still feeling the buzz of that quiet moment.
And they don’t lose it.
The second half is disciplined and clean.
We don’t slip. We don’t stumble. Riley plays like a kid who’s figured out how to carry the weight without letting it crush him.
The defense holds fast. We don’t give up any ground.
We push until the final seconds tick down, and when the scoreboard locks in a 24–10 win, it’s like the world explodes.
Helmets fly. Boys shout. There’s joy that doesn’t come from luck or a miracle—it’s the kind you build, brick by brick, play by play.
I let it happen around me for a minute. Just breathe it in. This kind of pride doesn’t show up often, and it damn well doesn’t come easy.
Eventually, the celebration spills toward the sidelines where parents and fans have started trickling down to the field. I find myself walking toward them, not with any real plan, just... drawn there.
Brynn steps away from the bleachers as I approach, her gloved hands tucked into her coat pockets, that little smile still tugging at her mouth like she’s keeping a secret. She sidles up beside me, close enough that I can feel her warmth.
“Nice win, Coach Dalton,” she says, eyes twinkling.
“Thanks,” I murmur, leaning in just enough to let our shoulders brush. “Are you wearing my scarf again?”
She smirks. “Your scarf? Pretty sure possession is nine-tenths of the law.”
“I’m gonna need it back.”
“Guess you’ll have to come claim it.”
My laugh is low and quiet. I glance down at her, and for a second, it’s just us in this crowded, noisy field, two people circling what we really want.
And then I see Haddie Carmichael.
She’s standing off to the side of the field near the concession stand, cup of cider in one hand, cell phone in the other, and her eyes locked straight on us. Her expression is somewhere between thrilled and scandalized. The exact sweet spot she lives for.
Brynn follows my gaze and exhales. “Oh no. Is that—”
“Haddie,” I confirm. “Phone in hand.”
“She’s already drafting the Facebook caption, isn’t she?”
“God help us.”
Brynn groans and buries her face in my shoulder for one brief second. I slide my arm around her waist automatically—then catch myself and drop it before anyone else notices.
“Guess we’ll find out tomorrow if we made the morning gossip roundup,” I say.
Brynn lifts her head and grins up at me. “If we’re going down, at least we’re going down victorious.”
“District playoffs,” I say, still not quite believing it.
She grins wider. “And possibly a scandalous soft launch.”
We stand there together, laughing under the stadium lights, the scent of turf and cold night air all around us. The world is shifting under our feet, in all the right ways.
The house is warm when we step inside, but she’s still got her arms wrapped tight around herself, holding in the chill from the night air. Her cheeks are flushed, lips pink, and there’s this quiet hum under her skin—the kind of energy that always lingers after a win. After something earned.
“You want the first shower?” I ask, though I’m already peeling off my jacket and toeing off my sneakers.
She shrugs out of her coat, eyes flicking to mine like she knows something I haven’t said yet. “Depends. Are you planning to keep me company?”
I pause for a beat, taking in the playful smirk that curls at the edge of her mouth. It’s not cocky. It’s confident. Safe. Like she knows I’ll say yes.
And she’s right. I follow her up the stairs without another word.
The bathroom fills with steam fast, the glass fogging over, the sound of the water echoing softly off the tile. I step in first, letting the heat soak into my shoulders, the weight of the night slowly easing from my muscles. A moment later, the curtain shifts, and Brynn slips in behind me.
Her fingers skim across my back, featherlight at first, then firmer as she trails along my spine.
I turn and watch her tilt her face up toward the spray, eyes closed, wet strands of hair clinging to her shoulders.
She’s breathtaking like this—unguarded, luminous, standing inches from me with nothing between us.
I reach for the shampoo without thinking.
“Turn around,” I tell her, and she does, slowly, tucking her wet hair over one shoulder as I lather the shampoo in my palms.
Her head tips back, and I gently rake my fingers through her scalp, massaging slow circles. Her soft sigh makes something in my chest catch.
There’s nothing rushed in this. No agenda. Just her in front of me and my hands in her hair, and the sudden, fierce realization that I never want to stop taking care of her.
Not just in moments like this, but always. In small, quiet ways. Rubbing her back when she’s sick. Picking up her favorite coffee. Holding her when she needs grounding. I want to be her rock. Her peace. Her person.
She leans back into me slightly, and I trail my hands down her neck, rinsing the suds away. Her skin is warm beneath my palms, slick with water. I kiss the spot just behind her ear, and she makes a soft sound in the back of her throat, like she’s unraveling already.
“Knox…” she whispers.
I don’t answer. I just turn her toward me and kneel.
She braces her hand on the wall, hips arching slightly as I press a kiss to her stomach, then lower.
The water cascades over both of us, but I’m grounded in the heat of her, the way she gasps when I first touch her with my mouth.
There’s nothing hurried in the way I move—no need to race toward anything.
I know her now. The way her breath hitches when she’s close, the tremble in her thighs when she’s trying to hold on.
She’s everything. And I want her undone.
When she finally cries out my name, soft and sharp and aching all at once, I hold her steady, pressing kisses to her hip as she comes down. There’s no victory like this—making her fall apart and knowing I was the one who will build her back up.
After, she looks in my eyes, dazed and breathless, and threads her fingers through my hair. “That was…very not about shampoo.”
I grin, water streaming between us. “You started it.”
We step out into the steam-heavy air, drying off slowly. She pulls on her pajamas, her skin still flushed. I toss on sweats and a hoodie, running a towel through my hair as we head downstairs.
She settles onto the couch first, curling her legs beneath her, eyes bright and lazy from contentment. I flip on the TV and queue up game film—because, well, old habits—and she gives me a look that says she knows I’m pretending to focus.
“Are you watching plays?” she teases, curling into my side.
“Trying to. You’re very distracting.”
Her hand skims under the hem of my hoodie. “You started it upstairs…”
I raise a brow. “Thinking of evening the score?”
“Thinking,” she says, eyes dark with mischief, “that you like it when I tease.”
“Not wrong,” I say as I lean back against the cushions.
Brynn moves, pulling my sweats down, and I lift my hips to help. Then she straddles my lap, warm thighs bracketing mine, her core pressed right against the hard line of my cock. My hands grip her hips—firm, reverent, but barely holding on.
She leans in, her lips brushing my ear, voice low and teasing. “Just sit back. Let me take care of you.”
I’d burn cities for her. “You have no idea what those words do to me.”
She shifts, one hand curling around me to guide me to her entrance. No teasing. No warning. Just slow, sure confidence. Her panties are still pushed aside, and when she sinks down on me—inch by inch—my head hits the back of the couch like I’ve been knocked out.