I dropped the phone onto the couch and leaned back, closing my eyes.
You’re an idiot, I told myself. You said distance. You meant it.
But the truth was already there, heavy and unshakable: the plan had failed before it even started. Because no amount of distance could make me stop wanting her.
The weekend scrimmage wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Just a drop-off. A favor. I told myself I’d swing by, hand over the extra jerseys, and get out before anyone noticed.
Except she was there.
The second I stepped out of the truck, I saw her across the field—hair pulled back, clipboard in hand, sunlight cutting across her shoulders. She was talking to a group of kids, smiling in that way that made the whole damn place feel warmer.
And then she saw me.
“Hey, stranger,” she called, waving like we hadn’t gone weeks pretending to be fine.
For a second, I just stood there, caught between running and walking straight to her. I chose the middle—kept my pace steady, casual, like it didn’t mess with my head just hearing her voice.
“Didn’t know you’d be here,” I said when I got close enough.
She grinned, that soft, knowing curve of her mouth. “You say that like you didn’t bring half the equipment.”
“Force of habit.”
“Right,” she said, arching a brow. “Totally not because you miss this chaos.”
I snorted, shaking my head, but I couldn’t help smiling. The kids were already running circles around us, shouting about teams and who got to be goalie. Without even thinking about it, we fell back into rhythm—handing out jerseys, corralling kids, joking between the noise.
It was too easy. Too normal.
Every time she laughed, something in my chest loosened. Every time her shoulder brushed mine, something else pulled tighter.
We moved like we always had—like two halves of a pattern we didn’t have to think about. She handled the sign-ups; I managed the field setup. She teased me about being bossy; I told her she had a clipboard addiction.
Hours slipped by before I even noticed the sun starting to drop. The crowd began thinning, parents calling their kids, volunteers packing up gear. I was folding the last few jerseys when she walked over, her hair escaping its tie, cheeks flushed.
“Thanks for coming,” she said softly.
“No problem,” I managed, focusing on the fabric in my hands like it mattered.
But she didn’t walk away.
When I finally looked up, she was watching me—expression open, a little sad, a little brave. “I missed having you around,” she said.
The words hit harder than I expected. Simple, honest, unguarded.
And I couldn’t say a damn thing back.
Because everything that came to mind sounded wrong—too much, too heavy, too close to the truth. I missed you too. You never really left my head. I’m trying to stay away, but I don’t want to anymore.
So instead, I just nodded, throat tight, pretending to focus on packing up cones.
She gave me a small, understanding smile before turning to wave goodbye to the kids. I watched her for one more moment, sunlight catching in her hair, before I looked away.
I told myself I’d come for the jerseys. But as I walked back to the truck, I knew better.
I hadn’t come for the gear. I’d come because staying away had finally stopped feeling possible.
Back in the truck, I sat for a long time before turning the key. My hands were still on the wheel, knuckles pale against the leather. The sound of the field lingered behind me—kids laughing, Ellery’s voice calling out instructions, that quiet laugh she made when she was tired but happy.
