11
B ro oks
Then
My cleats press into the turf, leaving shallow imprints as I taper off into a jog toward the sideline. Practice has become my second favorite part of the day—second only to the time I get to spend with Dylan after it’s over.
She’s here again, sitting in the bleachers, just as she’s done every day for the past six weeks. I don’t know how it happened, how we went from two strangers that night at the bonfire to…this. But she’s woven herself into my life so seamlessly it feels like she’s always been here.
Her legs are tucked beneath her, one hand gripping the sketchbook she always brings, the other holding a pencil she twirls absently between her fingers. She doesn’t pay much attention to the drills; it’s clear she’s here for the atmosphere—for me.
It all started after that day we painted the mural in the church. At first, it was just me giving her rides home when I noticed her walking. Then it turned into late nights after her shifts at Ruby’s Diner, sharing fries and milkshakes we could barely afford. On weekends, we traded it for early mornings—pancakes before her shift, both of us watching the clock, knowing it was never enough. Hours blurred, then days, until there wasn’t a clear before or after.
As I unscrew the cap of my water bottle, my eyes catch on her. She’s lost in whatever she’s sketching, her expression momentarily unguarded. Soft around the edges, her breath coming easier for the first time all day.
Coach Tyler yells for us to huddle up, and I force myself to focus. Practice will end soon enough, and then it’ll be just me and her again. Beckett and Miles flank me, their shirts sticking to their backs, but there’s no sign of exhaustion—just that restless charge that keeps them moving, always ready for more.
Becks smacks the back of his hand against my arm. “You’re gonna burn a hole through her with the way you keep staring,” he says, just loud enough for the three of us to hear. Miles, ever the instigator, snickers. “Yeah, bro, it’s giving obsessed. Reel it in.”
I throw him a flat look. “Maybe worry about your own tragic love life before dissecting mine.”
“Love life,” Beckett snorts, cutting in before Miles can defend himself. “Tragic? Nah, tragic has potential. He wouldn’t know what to do even if the girl lived in his house. Hell, even if she was family.”
“Funny,” Miles deadpans.
I risk another look. Dylan is hunched over lost in her sketch, her focus unshaken.
Beckett exhales, his usual teasing edge dulling. “You’re not gonna be the reason she stops smiling, right?”
The question knocks me sideways. “What?”
“My sister,” he responds, and the change in his tone is unmistakable. “You’re not gonna fuck her over, right? Because if you do, I swear I’ll make your life hell. I haven’t seen her smile this much since we were kids.”
“Take it easy, Beckett,” I say, holding his stare. “I wouldn’t do that to her.”
Miles chuckles, nudging Becks with his elbow. “Look at that, Rivers. Your sister has him all domesticated.”
Beckett laughs, though it seems to carry reservation—he’s testing my resolve. “Alright. Just know that if you’re bullshitting me, the smart choice would be to stay in the friendzone.”
Coach Tyler claps, signaling us to fall into formation. Beckett takes off, but Miles hangs back, catching me in the ribs with his elbow.
I exhale sharply, heading for the line of scrimmage. “It’s not like that,” I mumble, even though I know it’s a lie.
It’s exactly like that.
After practice, Dylan hops into my truck, her sketchbook balanced on her lap as she flips through the pages. She’s quiet today, but her presence fills the cab with an intoxicating warmth.
“So, what’s your plan while I’m stuck serving burgers tonight? More football? Brooding? Staring dramatically into the distance?”
“Actually,” I say, adjusting my grip on the steering wheel, “my dad wants me to meet him at a job site. Says it’s time I ‘get serious’ about my future.”
Her smile falters, the lightness dimming into concern. “And do you? Want to, I mean?”
I hesitate. “I don’t know.”
She rubs at a faint smudge of graphite on her palm, a tiny movement of acknowledgement without interrogation. That’s one of the things I’ve come to appreciate most about Dylan—she doesn’t need me to explain everything.
We pull up to Ruby’s, and she grabs her bag, but something holds her in place. “Hey,” her gaze hooks onto mine. “Don’t let him pressure you into it. Whatever you decide, let it be your decision. Not his.”
She doesn’t wait for a response, just gives a small smile, sealing the words between us. Her door swings shut, cutting her off from me. I drum my fingers on the dash, the truck idling like it’s waiting for me to change my mind. I don’t. I throw it into gear and drive toward the future I’ve been avoiding.
Metal bites into wood, a rhythmic clash of hammer and nail underscored by the growl of machinery. A familiar backdrop I’ve heard a thousand times, but it doesn’t make it any easier to walk into. The site is a mess—boards scattered everywhere, half-finished walls, dust in the air. It’s the same every time I come, and each time, I feel myself suffocating. Dad has been at this my entire life. It’s his thing. And he’s always been sure it’d be my thing too. But the older I get, the more I feel it pressing down on me, and the more I want to push back.
I step out of the truck, my boots crunching against the gravel, and make my way toward the crew. I don’t know what to expect today, but I know it won’t be all that different than the last time. Just a lot of heavy lifting and grunt work.
I’m not two steps onto the site when I see her. Chloe. She’s leaning against a beam, her eyes catching mine before she pushes off and walks toward me with that same confident stride I remember all too well—the one that used to make my heart race before I learned who she really was.
She stops just shy of me, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear with an easy flick of her fingers. “Hey, Brooks,” she hums, like gravity never pulls too hard on her shoulders.
“Chloe.” I acknowledge her without offering anything more, my voice flat, controlled. The last thing I need is to get pulled back into whatever game she’s playing.
“So, big game on Friday, huh?” She glances over her shoulder, as if casually checking for her dad. Our parents have been friends for years, and every time my dad needs HVAC work done, he insists on hiring hers…unfortunately.
“Yeah,” I say, rolling my shoulders, wishing I could brush off this conversation. “Should be a good game.”
She studies me—too deliberately, as if she’s mapping out the cracks, looking for a way back into my life. “I’ll be there,” she replies, her tone unnervingly upbeat. “You know, for the game. Knock ‘em dead, Brooks.”
“Uh, thanks…Montclair’s been steamrolling teams all season. We’ll need it.”
“Well, I’ll let you get to work,” she says, her voice still coated in sugar, but there’s a crack in the sweetness now. A fracture. She’s frustrated. “I’ll see you around, Brooks.”
“Mm-hmm, see you,” I mutter, dragging a hand down my face as she turns on her heel, hips swaying slightly with each step. I don’t know what she’s hoping I’ll do—stop her? I won’t.
I shake off the unease, stepping into the controlled chaos of the construction site. The scaffolded pathways twist and tighten around me, forming a maze. Somewhere ahead, my dad is deep in conversation with one of the crew, his posture firm, voice lost in the clang of metal.
For a second, I wonder what it would be like to just turn around, head back to the truck, and go find Dylan—to spend the day with her instead of being here, trying to please him. But I’m not a quitter, and that’s exactly what my dad expects of me.
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, shoving the contempt before it can surface. No point spitting it out now. This isn’t what I wanted, but it’s what I’m unfortunately stuck with.
I clear my throat and close the distance between us. “Hey, Dad.”
He turns, and his eyes light up with that familiar spark of pride. “You’re here,” he notes, wiping his hands on his shirt absentmindedly. “Figured you might’ve bailed on me.”
I glance over at the men working, their hard hats on, heads down. It’s just noise to me now—the sound of something that’s supposed to represent success but only adds more pressure.
“I said I would.” The words slip out flat, drained. I just want to get this over with.
His hand clasps against my back with enough force to make me straighten. “Good. You’re not gonna learn by standing around.”
I acknowledge his words without really absorbing them—they barely register. My mind is already elsewhere—Friday night, the game, the chance to look up and see Dylan there, cheering for me as if I’m worth something.
“Just tell me where you need me.” The words taste like dust, settling with grit before I force them down. I tug my gloves on, my fingers stiff inside them, already itching to be anywhere but here.
A cloud drifts overhead, a lazy escape, and I track it, letting myself pretend for just a moment that I could float away too. But the second passes, and I’m still stuck here.