“Oh, I heard your quarterback needed to work on his running game, so I thought I’d offer up my coaching services.”
He chuckles. “Milo’s on the field.”
“Perfect,” I say, smiling.
“He’s doing his thing. Is he expecting you?”
“Depends on your definition of expecting.”
“Does he know you’re here?” he clarifies with a grin.
I shake my head. “No, he doesn’t.”
“Well, this’ll cause a stir.” He laughs.
“I’m counting on it.”
“Follow me,” he says as he turns.
We walk in silence for a while, the echo of the vastness of empty space following our footsteps. I can hear the grunts, whistles, and yells before we reach the tunnel. The loud smack of gear slamming up against each other. I hear another whistle, and I wonder if it’s Milo.
Caleb gestures at the tunnel. “I’ll leave you here, Sadie. This seems like something you need to do yourself.”
I nod. “Thanks, Caleb.”
“For the record, I’m real glad Milo’s back and you didn’t bake me cookies.”
I laugh. “I am, too. Although I make a mean chocolate chip. It’s won awards.”
“I believe it. Good luck, although I don’t think you need any.” He winks as he leaves.
I take a deep breath before I walk through the tunnel. Somehow it doesn’t feel too big. It feels as if I belong.
When I emerge, the noises sharpen—vibrant and real, men in uniforms and helmets moving all around me. My eyes search for the smile I know best.
Seconds pass, then minutes, and my presence begins to attract some attention.
I see a familiar face—Emmitt. He throws a football and I follow its trajectory, watching as Milo catches it and whips his head around to glare at Emmitt.
Emmitt laughs and nods his head toward me.
Milo turns around and there it is. That wide, warm grin.
He starts to walk toward me, and I let him close the distance. My heart beats in cadence with his stride, quickening as his steps turn to a jog.
“I got your note,” I say when he reaches me. “Ornotes.”
“Oh, you did?” His eyebrows arch up playfully.
“You know it doesn’t cost much to buy a stamp.”
His grin dents further into his cheeks. “Thought if there were enough words you could make yourself a book.”
“I do love my books.”
We stand there, the silence light as we take each other in, savoring the smile in this moment. I put my hand in my pocket, pulling out my own note.
“I wrote you something,” I say, but I don’t hand it over. “I’m going to read it out loud, if you don’t mind. I don’t want these words to be silent.”
