Page 174 of Hometown Halftime

Kinsey steps around me, reading my face too easily.

“You look nauseous.”

I exhale a rough breath. “I might throw up on national television.”

Kinsey snorts. “That’d definitely make the draft memorable.”

God, I love her. I don’t think there’s a version of my future anymore that doesn’t have Kinsey at the center of it.

She reaches up and smooths one hand along the side of my neck before looking at me more seriously. “But really, are you okay?”

“I’m nervous as hell,” I admit.

Her expression softens. “Well,” she says gently, “it’s either Roanoke or Sacramento.”

It’s the two cities we have discussed and researched over the past couple of weeks because those are the two teams everyone keeps mentioning. After the combine and all the interviews, those are the two possibilities. One keeps us close enough to drive home to Cedar Falls whenever we want, while the other puts half the country between us and the town where our families are.

Kinsey cups my face and forces me to look at her.

“Hey, look at me.” Her eyes hold mine. “You already did the hard part. Surviving Knox Dalton’s football program is not for the faint of heart. This is just a phone call. Just a TV production.”

I nod, leaning into her touch. “You’re right.”

A smile finally breaks free across her face before she rises onto her toes and kisses me softly, and Christ, every time her lips meet mine, my mind stops racing. Like my entire nervous system can rest.

“You’re going to be amazing,” she whispers against my mouth.

Emotion burns painfully at the back of my throat, and before I can figure out how to respond, the cameraman awkwardly pokes his head into the kitchen.

“Uh, Riley? They’re about to start.”

“Okay. Well, here we go.”

The noise in the living room dies down the second I walk back in with Kinsey beside me. Conversations taper off while every pair of eyes in the house focuses on the television. My mom already looks dangerously close to tears, Poppy’s vibrating with nervous energy, and Lee sits forward on the recliner.

Knox walks over to slap my shoulder hard enough to nearly dislocate it. “Proud of you, Weston.”

I nod. “Thanks, Coach.”

I sink onto the couch beside Kinsey while draft coverage fills the room. Her fingers slide through mine while analysts talk through the first overall pick, and for a few minutes the entire house feels stuck in this horrible waiting game.

Pick one goes exactly the way everyone expected.

Then the room grows still, because now it’s Roanoke’s turn.

Trent Bloomberg, the Pride's two-time Champions Bowl-winning quarterback from the eighties, walks onto the stage while commentators talk about the Idaho Rivers quarterback again, and suddenly my brain won’t hold on to a single thought. My pulse pounds harder with every passing second while Trent smiles at the podium.

Beside me, Kinsey squeezes my hand once. Then my phone rings.

Everything stops.

Every single person in the house seems to hold their breath while I stare down at the screen.

Coach Morgan.

Holy shit.

My hand shakes as I lift the phone while Brynn whisper-screams from across the room, “Answer it!”