Page 6

6

JAXON

T he party replays in my mind over the weekend like a broken record, each skip more painful than the last.

I increase the pace of my run, forcing my legs to stretch even more for the last mile back to my place.

I've faced down linebackers twice my size without flinching, but the thought of losing Madison before I even had a real chance with her?

That shit hits hard.

Turning the corner on my block, I run inside to snag a quick shower before I head to class.

Glancing at the time on my phone, I run a towel over my head before grabbing my keys and my backpack. If I time it right, I have just enough time to make a pit stop before heading to math.

The bell above the door chimes as I push into Java Junction, the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee enveloping me. The shop buzzes with morning energy, students clustered around tables, laptops open, and voices mingling with the hiss of the espresso machine.

I hop in line, my eyes scanning the menu board even though I know exactly what I'm here for.

Then, my mind ends up in the yard of Madison’s old house nine years ago .

She’s barefoot, soaked from the sprinklers, laughing like the world never hurt her.

God, that laugh. It’s loud and messy and hers.

Madison’s got grass stuck to her calves, her ponytail clinging to the back of her neck, and she’s wearing some old t-shirt that hangs halfway down her thighs.

It doesn’t match her neon shorts, but it doesn’t matter.

She’s still the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.

We’re sitting on her driveway, knees sunburnt, popsicles melting fast in the heat.

Mine’s red. Hers is blue.

I used to like blue, but she said it was her favorite, so now, I let her have it.

She flops onto her back, arms out, like she’s trying to hug the sky.

“What do you wanna be when you grow up?”

It catches me off guard.

I lick the sticky red sugar from my fingers.

I’ve loved football since my dad took me to my first game.

“I dunno. NFL player, maybe. Like the ones on the tv.”

“You will be,” she says, like it’s already decided, like the universe sent her here just to believe in me.

I glance over at her.

Her cheeks pressed to the hot pavement, ponytail fanned out behind her.

She’s not looking at me.

“You’re gonna leave this place, be famous, probably forget all about me.”

And just like that, something cracks in my chest.

She’s joking—kind of.

But her voice is too quiet.

She doesn’t believe she’s someone worth remembering, doesn’t know she’s the reason I want to be more in the first place.

“I’d never forget you,” I say.

Too fast. Too real.

She turns to face me, eyes wide.

They’re honest, brave in a way I don’t know how to be yet.

“Promise?”

The air shifts.

I’m not sure if it’s the heat or the fact that everything suddenly feels different.

I hold out my pinky.

“Promise.”

She links hers with mine, and just like that, it’s sealed.

"Next!" calls the barista, a petite girl with vibrant blue hair, bringing me back to the present.

I step up to the counter.

"Two peppermint mochas, please. One with an extra shot. "

"That'll be $9.50," the barista says. Handing her my card, I pay for the drinks before I hear another voice.

“You’re Jaxon Montgomery, right? The new football player?”

I turn to find a brunette standing beside me, the table of her friends behind her watching our interaction closely.

“Hey, yeah, that’s me.” I give her a small grin. “What’s up?”

“My friends and I were just wondering about your status?” A confident smirk settles on her face, and I get the feeling this must be a common conversation for her.

My status? “Well, hopefully a starter.”

She laughs, placing a hand on my bicep. “Not that status. Like, your relationship status?”

Oh. Ooohhh, I see what this is. Letting out a chuckle, my hand moves to rub the back of my neck while simultaneously getting her hand off me. I hate awkward situations.

“Single, but I’m not really looking for anything right now,” I tell her, really hoping my drinks are ready so I can leave this encounter stat. “Just here to play football.”

“Well, if you change your mind,” she pulls a piece of paper out of her pocket, “here’s my number.”

I plaster on my best fake smile, really just wanting this to end. “Thanks.”

“Order for Jaxon?” the barista calls my name, right on cue. I grab the drinks and head out the door.

As I make my way across campus, I see a few of the guys from the team and give them a nod. The math building looms ahead, and my steps slow as I push open the door, the scent of coffee mingling with the sterile smell of chalk and whiteboard markers. It's time to face the music and hope this small peace offering is enough so Mads at least doesn’t bite my head off. First step is just to get my best friend back, to get her to let me back in.

I slide into my seat in the back, my leg bouncing restlessly as I check my watch for the hundredth time. I drum my fingers on the desk, willing her to walk through the door.

Students trickle in, their chatter a dull roar in my ears. I barely register their presence, my gaze fixed on the entrance. Then, suddenly, there she is.

Madison steps into the room, her dark hair falling in loose waves around her face. My breath catches in my throat. Her expression is carefully neutral, her movements measured as she scans the room. When her hazel eyes land on mine, I feel a jolt of electricity course through my body.

She hesitates for a moment, then walks up and takes her seat next to me.

"Morning," I say, earning a sideways look from her. “I, uh, got you a coffee."

“Jaxon…” she sighs. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know, but I wanted to. Consider it a small peace offering.” I hand her the cup. “Peppermint mocha with an extra shot.”

She looks over at me, her hazel eyes looking almost gold today, scanning my face for something she can’t seem to find.

"You remembered," she breathes, her voice barely above a whisper. Her fingers brush mine as she takes the cup, and I feel that familiar spark of electricity. "Thank you.”

I watch as she takes a small sip, her eyes closing briefly. When she opens them again, there's a softness there that wasn't present before.

"So freaking good," Madison murmurs, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

I feel my own lips curving upward in response. "I'm glad," I say, fighting the urge to reach out and tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Listen, Madison, about the other night?—"

But before I can finish, the professor strides in, calling the class to order. Madison's walls seem to go back up, but not quite as high as before. As she turns her attention to the front of the room, I catch her sneaking a glance at me from the corner of her eye.

It's not much, but it's a start. And for now, that's enough.

The professor clears her throat, commanding the attention of the class. "Alright, everyone. I expect you all read through the syllabus and understand we will be moving fast through the material this semester. If you fall behind, I suggest you drop before the cut off, as I do not grade easily or on a curve of any sort.”

Madison slinks down farther into her seat. I swear, I hear her curse under her breath.

“Are you behind? It’s only week two,” I whisper.

“In case you don’t remember, math hates me more than I hate it.” She bites back. “Not all of us enjoy numbers.”

“Easy there, Mads. Why don’t I help you study?” I ask, shrugging it off like it’s no big deal. “Just like old times.”

Madison pauses, her pen hovering over her notebook. For a moment, I think she might refuse, but then, she gives a small nod. "Fine. Text me when you're done with practice, and we can set something up.”

I nod, trying to hide my excitement. "Sounds good. I'll let you know."

As I turn back to face the front of the lecture hall, I can't help but steal another glance at Madison. Her brow is furrowed in concentration as she scribbles notes, a strand of dark hair falling across her face. I resist the urge to tuck it behind her ear.

The rest of class drags by, my mind wandering to thoughts of our upcoming study session. When the professor finally dismisses us, I stand and stretch, my muscles still sore from yesterday's practice.

"See you later, Mads," I say, slinging my backpack over my shoulder.

She looks up, those hazel eyes catching the light. "Yeah, later."

I head out of the lecture hall, my mind already racing ahead to practice. As I push through the heavy doors into the sunny afternoon, I catch sight of my teammates gathered near the fountain in the quad. They wave me over, and I join them.

"Hey, Montgomery!" calls out Derek, one of our tight ends. "Ready to run some new plays today?"

I nod, falling into step beside him as we make our way towards the athletic complex. "Always. Coach mentioned he's got some tricks up his sleeve for the game against Nor Cal next week."

The conversation flows easily as we walk, discussing upcoming assignments and weekend plans, but my thoughts keep drifting back to Madison. It's been years since we've spent any real time together, and I can't help but wonder if she's still the same girl I knew back then.

As we near the locker rooms, I pull out my phone and quickly type out a text to Madison. Guess we’ll see if this one breaks the streak of it being a one way thread.

Practice ends at 6:30. Library at 7?

I hit send before I can overthink it, then shove my phone into my locker. As I change into my practice gear, I try to focus on the plays we'll be running today, but my mind keeps wandering back to those hazel eyes that have haunted many of my late nights.

Coach runs us hard, drilling new formations and testing our conditioning. By the time we finish, my muscles are screaming and sweat is dripping down my back. Running a towel over my face, I check my phone as soon as I'm back in the locker room. Five unread messages, but only one I want to open:

Mads

Seven works. Don’t be late.

“Solid work today, Michigan.”

I smirk. “Finally adjusting to your timing.”

“Don’t get cocky,” Carter fires back, grinning. “We’ll see if you can do it again tomorrow.”

From across the aisle, Logan drops onto the bench, sweat-slick and irritated. He’s been quiet since the last round of red zone drills—probably still pissed I ran clean past him on that corner route Coach replayed three times on the tablet.

“You looked a little gassed out there, Brooks,” Beck calls, smirking .

“Field was slick,” Logan mutters, ripping off his jersey.

“Sure thing. Michigan State must’ve been running on a different field then,” Carter says casually. “He made you look like you were in slow motion.”

I stay quiet. I don’t need to throw fuel on the fire.

Logan’s eyes flick to me, narrowed. “We’ll see who the starter is when the season hits.”

No one says anything for a beat. Carter and Beck exchange a look, but I just keep drying off, unbothered.

Then, Logan adds, “Maybe your girl will help you study the playbook. What was her name again? Madison?”

The towel in my hands stills.

Carter looks up from tying his shoes. “Don’t start, man.”

Logan grins, leaning back against the lockers. “Relax. Just an observation. She seems like she’s got a thing for athletes. Wouldn’t be the first time she went after a wide receiver.”

My jaw tightens. Slowly, I turn toward him. “She’s not going after anyone,” I say, voice low but steady. “Least of all someone who can’t hold onto a ball, let alone a conversation.”

“Oof,” Beck mutters under his breath as Carter lets out a low whistle.

Logan’s smile thins. “Didn’t realize she was off-limits.”

“She’s not property,” I say. “But you talk about her like that again, and we’re gonna have a problem.”

For a moment, Logan looks like he might push it—maybe he even wants to—but then he just scoffs, standing and grabbing his towel.

“Whatever, man. Just thought she had a type.”

“She does,” Carter says, standing too. “And it’s not you.”

Logan stalks off toward the showers without another word.

The locker room stays silent for a beat, the air thick enough to choke on.

Carter turns back to me, one eyebrow raised. “Little fast on the draw there, Michigan State. ”

I rake a hand through my hair, trying to burn off the adrenaline still crackling under my skin. “Yeah. Well.”

He lets it hang, but the knowing look doesn’t leave his face.

When I finally sit back down, heart still pounding, I know I didn’t give anything away with words, but actions?

Actions speak loud as hell.