Page 26

He didn’t use the cane often, but I was glad he’d brought it along tonight, even if he kept tapping it on things like it was a wand, making me want to temporarily confiscate it. He’d demanded popcorn no less than three times, so that had been our first stop before finding a seat. I wasn’t sure I could survive a touchdown if it involved Jace getting tackled.

Down on the field, helmets flashed beneath the lights. Pads thudded as the players bumped against each other in excitement for the first game of the season. Whistles pierced the breezy September air. The band warmed up in uneven bursts of brass and snare. The whole town seemed to breathe in sync with the excitement on the field. Friday night lights and high school football were the lifeblood of Kennedy, Kansas. The only thing they were more passionate about was the rivalry between Kansas State University and the University of Kansas.

I scanned the players’ numbers, finding Jace. Twenty-three. He stood near the forty-yard line, helmet tucked beneath his arm, chin lifted as he searched the stands. He was trying to look calm. Casual. Like this was just another practice.

His fingers flexed around the helmet. His shoulders rolled once, twice. Bracing.

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, because my stomach wanted to hurl at the possibility of him getting hurt.

“Which one’s ours?” Grandpa asked.

“The one pretending he’s not nervous,” I said, nodding toward Jace.

Grandpa squinted. “Ah. That one. Good kid. Bad farmer.” A giggle burst out.

A whistle blew, sharp and commanding. Players snapped into motion, lining up. Across the field, the visiting team clustered in red and white. Kennedy navy and orange stretched wide and bright beneath the lights.

Scanning the field again, Lane stood near the sideline, headset crooked over one ear, clipboard tucked beneath his arm. He moved with contained energy, pacing once, stopping to lean in close to a player. His hand clapped on a player’s shoulder, grounding. Coaching seemed to fit him in the way breathing did; he was direct but not forceful. I looked away before he caught me watching.

The announcer’s voice boomed overhead, names rolling across the speakers. When he said Jace Walton, something in my lungs seemed to contract. The kickoff sailed high, spiraling against the darkening sky. The crowd cheered in a wave, noise swelling instantly from a hum to a roar. Pads collided with hollow thuds that echoed up into the bleachers. Cleats tore into grass. The quarterback barked commands. Jace moved as if he belonged there—quick off the line, reading plays before they fully formed.

He caught his first pass mid-stride.

For a split second, the world narrowed to the arc of the ball and the stretch of his hands. Impact. The ball smacked into his palms. He tucked it in securely against his ribs, turned his shoulder, and cut left. A defender lunged. Jace slipped past him, legs churning, face set in fierce concentration. The bleachers shook beneath us.

“Go!” Grandpa shouted, half rising.

An opponent tackled Jace ten yards later, and he crashed heavily into the grass. The sound of bodies colliding carried all the way up to me. My heart stopped. He rolled to his feet, handed the ball to the referee, and flashed a grin that finally let me breathe.

The lead seesawed between the two teams. The first quarter slipped into the second. Sweat darkened jerseys. Helmets knocked. The scoreboard ticked up slowly and stubbornly, with each team pressing to get enough of a lead to take a deep breath.

And then it happened.

Midway through the third quarter, a run up the middle collapsed into chaos. Players tangled in a sudden knot of blue and red. A whistle shrieked. The pile untangled, but one body stayed down, not moving. The noise shifted. Roars dulled into murmurs of concern. A ripple of unease rolled through the stands.

Jace stood a few yards back in shock before dropping to a knee, helmet falling to the ground where a boy lay motionless. Lane was already moving across the field, immediately kneeling beside the player. Staff rushed in from the sidelines. The stadium lights glared too bright against the stillness on the field as every player looked on, concern marring their expressions. The panic vanished as training took over.

Grandpa’s hand brushed my arm. “Cali.”

I was already standing because muscle memory didn’t ask permission. I moved down the bleachers fast, metal steps clanging beneath my shoes. Voices blurred around me. Someone said my name, but I didn’t stop. At the gate near the end of the stands, a security volunteer automatically lifted a hand.

“Ma’am—”

“I work at the hospital,” I said, already ducking under the rope.

The field felt different from down here. Larger and louder. The grass was damp against my shoes. The staff had stabilized the boy’s neck with a brace. His helmet was off, resting beside him. His eyes were open but unfocused, blinking slowly against the lights.

“Hey,” I said as I approached, kneeling opposite Lane.

His head snapped up at the sound of my voice. For half a breath, the noise of the stadium disappeared.

Stormy green eyes locked onto mine.

“Cali.” His voice was strained.

“What do we have?” I asked.

“Helmet to helmet,” one of the staff said. “He’s responsive. Says his neck hurts. Tingling in his right arm.”