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Chapter eighteen

Hudson

Sometimes on game day, you wake up and you just know the win is yours. Your body feels lighter, sharper, like it was built for this moment. And sometimes, like today, before the game even really gets started, you can feel the universe tilting the wrong way.

The first ten minutes against Washington felt like that tilt. Sloppy passes, missed assignments, their defense moving like they knew the playbook better than we did.

I’m pacing the sideline, my helmet tucked under my arm, already sweating beneath the rare winter sun. I’m supposed to be locked in, focused, but instead, I’m thinking about how their quarterback, some hotshot freshman, is shredding us with short, clean passes like he’s been doing it his whole life. Fucking rookies, man.

Seb jogs off the field after another stalled drive, yanking his chin strap loose. His jaw is tight, and he doesn’t look at anyone as he grabs a water bottle. I slap him on the shoulder as he passes me.

“Don’t let them in your head, Captain,” I say as he sits, squirting water into his mouth.

Seb swallows the water, then spits it out into the grass like it tastes as bad as this game feels. “They’re not in my head,” he snaps, though his clenched jaw and the way he grips the bottle says otherwise.

I sit next to him on the bench, resting my helmet on my knees. “Yeah, well, tell your face that.” I keep my voice low enough that Coach doesn’t hear.

Seb shoots me a look, but there’s no real heat in it. He’s frustrated, same as the rest of us, but he’s carrying it harder. He always does. Being quarterback isn’t just about throwing the ball; it’s about keeping the team together when shit hits the fan. And right now, the fan is working overtime.

“You think I don’t see it?” Seb says after a moment, voice sharp but quieter now. “We’re getting smoked, man.”

I glance at the scoreboard. He’s not wrong. We’re down two touchdowns, and the second quarter isn’t even over yet. The hotshot freshman has been lighting up our defense like a Fourth of July sparkler, and our offense can’t seem to find a rhythm. It’s a bad day to be wearing our jersey.

“We’ve been here before,” I say calmly, like I believe the words. “It’s just a slow start. We’ll turn it around.”

Seb doesn’t look at me, but his shoulders relax just a fraction. “You better be right, Hudson. Don’t let that kid get the fucking ball.”

Before I can reply, Coach’s voice cuts through the noise like a whip. “Defense! Get your asses in gear! You’re making this kid look like Tom damn Brady!” He squares his body to face me, eyes focused. “I’m counting on you. Show them what for out there.”

The weight of his words pushes me onto the field.

When I reach the huddle, Nate, our cornerback, is already gesturing wildly, his helmet tucked under his arm. “We’ve got to start pressing harder on the outside,” he says. “That rookie’s too damn fast.”

“No shit,” I mutter. “But if we blow the coverage, he’ll torch us for thirty instead of ten.”

Nate scowls but nods. “Fine. So what’s the call, Hudson?”

I glance at the field, watching Washington’s offense lining up again. My gut is screaming at me to do something, to make a play, but I’m steady with my direction. “We keep it tight. Focus on short-yardage stops. Make them earn every inch.”

The huddle breaks, and I jog into position, feeling the tension in my shoulders tighten more with every step. Nate claps me on the back as he lines up on the outside, his eyes locked on their star wide receiver. “I’ll keep him busy,” he mutters, his jaw tight. “You just make sure that rookie feels it when he holds on too long.”

Settling into my stance, I nod. “Oh, he’s gonna feel it.”

The WSU quarterback scans the field with that cocky freshman swagger. The ball is snapped, and their line surges forward, but I’m already moving, reading the play as the QB drops back. Nate jams his receiver at the line, forcing him off his route, and I see the hesitation in the rookie’s eyes, just a split-second delay, but it’s enough.

I shoot through the gap, the tackle too slow to react, and close the distance in three quick steps. The quarterback barely has time to set his feet before I slam into him, driving him into the turf with a satisfying thud. As the ball pops loose, the sideline erupts.

“Ball!” someone yells, and I see one of our linemen dive on it, cradling it like his life depends on it. The ref blows the whistle, signaling the fumble recovery, and the stadium explodes with noise.

I push myself up, adrenaline coursing through me as I glance down at the rookie. He’s flat on his back, staring up at the sky like he just got introduced to gravity. Leaning down, I can’t resist. “Welcome to college football, kid.”

Jogging off the field, my teammates swarm around me, slapping my helmet and shouting as we regroup on the sideline. Seb’s already waiting, helmet in hand, his expression lighter than it’s been all game.

“Nice hit, Hudson,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder before running onto the field.

My chest heaves with deep breaths as I watch the offense line up. The scoreboard hasn’t changed yet, but something feels different. The tilt is shifting.

For the first time all day, it feels like this game is ours to take.

***

The game wasn’t ours. But we fought until the score was less of a failure. We walked away with our heads held high, even if we lost the game tonight. We’ve been on a winning streak, so it was bound to happen. We’re still in good standings, though. One loss doesn’t mean the end for us.

“That fucking kid is trouble on the field,” Miles says as he passes me an ice pack for my knee. I went down awkwardly during the game. Nothing serious, but I need a little TLC.

“He’s talented,” I reply, earning a glare from Seb. He doesn’t do well with losing, and if we lose our next game, we’re out for getting into the championships.

“Talented?” Seb snaps, his glare sharp. He’s sitting with an ice pack strapped to his throwing shoulder, his jaw clenched even tighter than it was on the field. “You want to send him a thank-you note too, Hudson?”

Adjusting the ice on my knee, I shrug. “Just calling it like I see it. Doesn’t mean I like the kid.”

Seb mutters something under his breath, and Benny elbows him lightly. “Relax, man. We’re still in it. One game at a time.”

“Yeah, and we need to win the next one,” Seb grumbles, but he doesn’t argue further. He leans back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.

Miles moves between us, handing out ice packs and muttering instructions about compression and elevation. “No partying tonight, boys.” His voice brooks no argument. “Coach would murder us if he saw half of you limping into conditioning tomorrow.”

“Who said anything about partying?” Benny replies, though his grin suggests it was a fleeting thought.

“You did,” Miles shoots back, tossing him a cold pack for his hamstring. Benny catches it and holds his hands up in surrender.

The room falls quiet, the kind of silence that settles after a hard loss, everyone too drained to do more than sit and exist. One by one, the guys start to peel off, mumbling goodnights and heading back to their dorms or apartments.

I’m the last to leave, waiting until my knee feels less stiff and the ice pack has done its job. When I finally head out, the campus is eerily calm, the energy of game night dissipated into the cold winter air. My breath puffs out in front of me as I walk, the faint crunch of my sneakers on the frost-covered sidewalk the only sound.

Something ahead catches my eye, a flash of blonde, and I blink a few times, wondering if my head’s still in the clouds after the game. It’s stupid, but I can’t help it. Every blonde I see now, I hope it’s her. Wish it’s her, despite my best friend’s warning.

I drift closer without thinking, staying just far enough back that she won’t notice me right away. I need a second to get my head straight before I know for sure.

And then…yeah, I see her side profile, and there’s no doubt in my mind. It’s her. Was she at the game? Did she watch me, knowing it was me? My mind spirals.

She’s walking ahead of me, phone pressed to her ear, her free hand gesturing as she talks. Her head’s tilted slightly, ponytail swaying behind her.

I slow down. Daphne doesn’t see me, too engrossed in her conversation, but something about the sight of her makes my body hypersensitive. It’s like my brain short-circuits for a second, all the frustrations of the game slipping to the back of my mind in favor of being around her. This is my moment to talk to her, finally.

But what the hell do I do? Do I call out to her? Does that feel weird when it’s dark? She’ll probably be freaked out.

Would she even want to see me? My grip tightens on my bag strap, and I almost keep walking, but my feet have other ideas, pulling me a step closer.

That’s when I notice her phone isn’t pressed to her ear anymore. It’s angled in front of her, the faint glow of a video call lighting her face.

“I haven’t told Dad, so you can’t say anything,” she says, her voice carrying in the still night air.

I stop, my stomach twisting. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be hearing this. But just as I slip back a little, a guy’s voice comes through, deep and raspy.

“Just tell me, Daph.”

A sharp edge slices through my gut, and I falter. Who the hell is she talking to? I feel the jealousy flare before I can stop it, like a match striking within my chest. Some guy casually calling her “Daph,” like he knows her.

Does she have a boyfriend? Damn, I should’ve done some recon first.

My jaw clenches as my fingers curl into a fist by my side.

“Finn, I’m serious. Only Liv knows so far.”

I freeze. Finn. Oh shit. That’s her brother. I exhale as relief washes over me, only to be replaced by a gnawing guilt for jumping to conclusions. But before I can process that, he speaks again.

“Spit it out, Daph.”

She releases a long sigh, and I turn to walk away, but then she says, “I’m pregnant.”

Wait, what?