Page 29 of Promised to the Heir

I thought I’d stopped believing in that kind of look. I have been divorced for two years, and I’m half convinced love was something you grew out of, like bad knees. But when Clara turns to feed Jeremy a bite of her hot dog, and he lets her, I feel that old ache stir. It’s not envy, not exactly, but more a tentative hope stretching after a long nap.

I balance a tray of drinks as I edge down toward them. “You two look disgustingly happy. I should’ve brought a bag, not water.”

Jeremy grins. “Jealous, Doc?”

“Maybe a little.” I hand him a bottle, then glance at Clara. “You sure you need me here? Starting to feel like the third wheel at a honeymoon.”

She laughs, color rising in her cheeks. “You’re family. That gives you a permanent pass.”

“Good answer.” I settle beside them, the bench groaning under our weight. Her attention shifts to me for a heartbeat and she gives me a quick but kind smile but her hand stays on Jeremy’s knee, thumb tracing idle circles over the dark denim. It’s the kind of small, unconscious touch that says everything words don’t.

“Hydrate,” I tell them, because it’s easier to give orders than admitting the warmth in my chest isn’t just from the heat.

Jeremy bumps my shoulder with his. “You’re still playing medic, huh?”

“Someone has to keep you idiots alive.”

Clara laughs again, and for a moment, it’s easy, and the sound, the lights, the feel of the old team gathered in one place feel right.

“We’re fine, Doc.”

“Yeah, well, humor me.”

Behind us, Dylan’s voice rises above the crowd. “Caleb! Quit babying the man and sit your ass down before you block my view!”

“Language!” I call back, though he’s thirty-seven and twice my size.

The Ashford twins sit one row up, both in expensive team jackets that somehow look tailored. Logan’s the calm one, passing popcorn to the kids in the next row. Asher’s yelling at the ref like he’s got money on the play. I glance up, ready to bark a warning but Jeremy beats me to it, just lifting a hand. The twins immediately settle.

Of course they do. He’s got that quiet authority that doesn’t need volume. Even back in high school he had that power.

The band launches into the fight song, brass and drums rolling over the crowd. I feel the vibration through the bench, through my ribs. The noise swells, full of memory: younger versions of us under the same lights, the same cool metal seats, thinking the world started and ended on this field.

Now we’ve traded cleats for boots and suits, game plans for mortgages. But watching them all together — Jeremy with Clara, Dylan cracking jokes, the Ashfords arguing over nothing — I realize the team never really broke apart. We just learned to play a different kind of game.

A cheer goes up as the Bulls score. Jeremy whoops, pulling Clara against him, and she laughs into his shoulder. Her joy is contagious; even the parents behind us clap harder. I hand my extra water to the kid behind me, who’s standing barefoot on the bench to see better.

“Here,” I say. “You’ll need this more than I do.”

His mom thanks me, and I shrug. “Just keep him hydrated.”

Jeremy leans closer. “You can’t stop taking care of people, can you?”

“Someone’s got to.”

He smirks. “You ever think about doing that for yourself once in a while?”

“Don’t start with me, Weston.”

But he just laughs, because he knows I’m not really annoyed, only deflecting.

As the fourth quarter starts, I glance around the stands again. The team’s here. Everyone’s breathing, happy, and whole. The noise washes over me, and for a rare moment, the constant hum of responsibility quiets. Maybe it’s the lights, or the score, or the way love looks when it finds a home again, but something in me settles.

A cheer rolls through the stands, loud enough to rattle the metal beneath my boots. The sound washes over me, but it doesn’t land.

Halfway up the bleachers, a wheelchair holds my attention. An oxygen tank is clipped to the side, tubing running up to a man whose jacket hangs loose on him. His chest lifts and falls in quick, shallow pulls, each breath dragging a fraction longer on the way out.

I lean forward without thinking, counting the rhythm, tracking the rise and fall, the pause between. It’s wrong. Too fast. Too much effort for too little air.