Page 109 of Hometown Halftime

“Are you staying for dinner?” she asks me while tying her hair into a messy bun.

“Yeah, if there’s enough food left after Jackson stress-eats everything.”

“Science stresses me out,” he says.

Later, once we all settle enough for everybody to sit around the table, the conversation drifts toward school schedules and work gossip from the clinic. Emma’s eyelids grow heavy while she sits in her chair holding a breadstick.

Mom glances toward me while reaching for her water glass. “Have you talked to your coaches lately?”

I nod. “Yeah. They’ve been checking in.”

“How’s that going?”

I shrug slightly. “Good. They keep me updated on draft schedules and training stuff I should work on before spring.”

Mom studies me quietly for a second. “And how are you feeling about all of it?”

“I feel good. I feel like I’ll be ready once I can go back.”

Mom nods slowly, but something thoughtful settles into her expression before she looks back down at her plate.

“I’m interviewing for a promotion. It will mean earlier shifts and a raise.”

I reach and take her hand. “Mom, that’s awesome.”

She smiles. “Keep your fingers crossed for me. If I get it, you can go back to school without having to worry about us.”

“Mom, you know I’m happy to be helping.”

She squeezes my hand. “I know, but you need to be back for the combine and the draft. I will not allow you to stay here and put your dreams on hold any longer than needed.” She smiles softly. “Just know I’m really thankful for everything you’re doing.”

“Of course, Mom.”

We both pick up our silverware and focus on my siblings. And somewhere deep inside me, I realize the clock on this version of my life has officially started ticking down.

Chapter forty-four

Kinsey

One thing about working at Gordy’s is eventually somebody’s going to make you consider committing violence over a condiment.

Tonight’s offender was ranch dressing.

The downstairs lights glow warmly through the front windows when I get home, carrying my bag and keys. Inside, the television plays softly from the living room where Riley’s sitting on his side of the couch wearing plaid pajama pants and a grey T-shirt, one ankle hooked over the opposite knee while football highlights play across the television.

He glances up when I walk in and smiles. God, that stupid smile is one of my favorite sights.

“There you are,” he says, setting his phone down. “How was work?”

I kick my shoes off near the door with a groan. “If I ever hear the phrase ‘can I speak to your manager’ again, I’m moving into the woods and becoming a cottage witch.”

“That bad?”

“One woman sent back mozzarella sticks because they were ‘too cheesy.’”

Riley blinks slowly. “That feels like the point of the stick.”

“Thank you! I swear there was a full moon out tonight.”