The November rain turns the stadium lights into halos, each droplet a prism fragmenting white into rainbow as it falls. Nate Brooks tastes copper on his tongue - blood from where he bit his cheek during that last hit - mixed with the metallic tang of adrenaline that comes with being down six points in the fourth quarter. Brookswood 27, Riverside 21. One minute and twelve seconds left on a clock that seems to pulse like a heartbeat through the gathering mist.
Steam rises from the artificial turf in ghostly tendrils, creating a surreal landscape of light and shadow. His cleats sink slightly into the wet field with each step, the familiar grip-and-release that comes from ten years of playing in every kind of weather. But tonight feels different. Electric. Like the air before lightning strikes.
His right knee throbs where Brookswood's cornerback - Roberts, number 23, known for playing dirty when the refs aren't looking - caught him with a late hit in the third quarter. The impact had sent white-hot pain shooting through his leg, but Nate had popped right back up. You don't stay down, not when there might be Stanford scouts in the stands, not when your girlfriend is watching from her usual spot in the front row, not when your best friend needs his favorite target for the game-winning drive.
As if his thoughts summon her, his eyes find Amber automatically. Front row, center section, exactly where she's been for every game since freshman year when she first wore his practice jersey to a JV match. Even through the rain and growing darkness, she glows like something ethereal - blonde hair catching stadium lights in a way that makes his chest ache, blue eyes visible even at this distance because he's memorized their exact shade. His old jersey - BROOKS 67 - clings to her curves, the white letters stark against royal blue, and for a moment he forgets about everything else. About his throbbing knee, about the score, about the weight of expectations that comes with being Nate Brooks, star receiver, future business major, perfect boyfriend, loyal friend.
"Wide Trips Right! Eagle Cross on two!"
Jake's voice snaps him back to reality, the familiar quarterback cadence carrying layers of meaning that only come from thousands of hours of practice together. Nate lines up wide right, settling into his stance with the kind of fluid grace that makes college scouts reach for their notebooks. He can read Jake's intention in the play call - they've been doing this dance since Pop Warner, back when Jake's passes barely spiraled and Nate was all skinny legs and uncertain hands.
The defense shifts in response, their free safety cheating toward Nate's side. Amateur move. They've been setting this up for three plays now, making them think the cross route is coming, when really...
"Red 27! Red 27! HUT!"
The ball snaps and the world explodes into controlled chaos. Nate drives hard off the line, his first three steps exactly like the cross route they've been running all quarter. Roberts - that bastard with the late hit - flips his hips early, expecting the inside cut. But Nate plants his good leg and breaks toward the sideline instead, a perfect out route that leaves Roberts grasping at air.
The pass from Jake is absolute perfection - a tight spiral that cuts through the rain like it was designed specifically for this moment. Time slows as Nate tracks the ball, everything else falling away. Not the roar of the crowd, not his screaming knee, not even Amber matters in this split second of pure focus. His hands rise of their own accord, fingers spread wide, meeting the ball at exactly the right moment. The impact sends shocks through his palms as he pulls it into his body, tucking it away before Roberts can recover.
His cleats find purchase on the slick turf as he turns upfield. One defender to beat. He throws a stiff arm that would make his father proud - former Dartmouth wide receiver James Brooks, whose championship ring sits in a display case in their living room like a constant reminder of legacy. The defender goes down and Nate streaks toward the sideline, pushed out at the thirty-yard line as the crowd erupts.
His cleats find purchase on the slick turf as he turns upfield. One defender to beat. He throws a stiff arm that would make his father proud - former Dartmouth wide receiver James Brooks, whose championship ring sits in a display case in their living room like a constant reminder of legacy. The defender goes down and Nate streaks toward the sideline, pushed out at the thirty-yard line as the crowd erupts.
Coach Martinez signals for their hurry-up offense, no time to celebrate the big gain. Jake's already barking out the next play call, his voice carrying that razor-sharp focus that makes him the best quarterback in the conference. They've practiced this scenario countless times - less than a minute left, no timeouts, needing a touchdown to win. Time to make it count.
That's when Nate sees it happen.
Later, he'll replay this moment a thousand times in his head, wondering if he could have prevented what came next. But in real time, it unfolds like a car crash in slow motion. A Brookswood player - tall, blonde, wearing number 85 - deliberately steps into Jake's path as they walk back toward the sideline. It's subtle, the kind of move that looks like an accident to anyone not paying attention. But Nate sees the intent in it, the calculated malice.
Jake goes down hard, his cleats sliding on the wet turf. His helmet bounces once with a sound that carries across the sudden quiet that's fallen over the stadium. But it's what happens next that makes Nate's blood crystallize in his veins.
The Brookswood player - 85 - towers over Jake's fallen form, rain dripping from his facemask as he leans down. His voice carries in the unnatural silence, each word distinct and deliberate: "Fuck you, rapist!"
Two words. Just two words, but they hit Nate like a physical blow. Because he knows. Dear god, he's always known, hasn't he? About Hampton. About all the carefully buried stories that haunt the edges of their perfect lives like ghosts at a feast.
The rage comes faster than thought, faster than memory, faster than the countless times he's chosen loyalty over justice. His body moves on pure instinct as he launches himself at player 85, all carefully maintained control evaporating like steam off the turf. His shoulder connects with 85's midsection, driving them both onto the wet field in a tangle of limbs and curses.
He feels rather than sees Jeff and Justin joining the fray, their bodies forming a protective wall around Jake even as fists fly and helmets clash. Someone's elbow catches him in the ribs. He tastes blood again, fresher this time. Through the chaos, he hears the ref’s whistle, sharp and desperate, trying to restore order to a situation rapidly spinning out of control.
The field erupts into chaos. Nate's fist connects with 85's jaw as bodies pile around them. Jeff Thompson's massive frame barrels through, scattering Brookswood players like bowling pins. Justin Moore has someone in a headlock. Through the melee, Nate catches glimpses of Jake - his best friend since kindergarten - being restrained by Morris as he thrashes and screams, all quarterback poise evaporated like morning dew.
Whistles pierce the air. Referees in black and white stripes wade into the brawl, pulling apart tangled bodies. Coach Martinez's voice booms across the field: "BREAK IT UP! NOW!"
Nate shakes off the hands trying to restrain him, searching for Jake through the dissipating chaos. He finds him at the sideline, face contorted with a rage that makes him almost unrecognizable.
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
"I'll fucking kill him!" Jake's voice cracks with fury and something else - fear maybe, or shame. "Let me go! I'll—"
Nate grabs Jake's facemask, forcing his friend to look at him. "Listen to me!" He punctuates each word by shaking the helmet. "This is exactly what they want! They're trying to get in your head, make you lose focus!"
Through the bars of the facemask, Nate sees tears mixing with rain on Jake's cheeks. His voice drops lower, meant for Jake's ears only: "We've got one minute. One chance. You want to give them the satisfaction of breaking you? Or you want to show them what Jake fucking Woodland can do?"
The scoreboard's red digits mock them: 27-21. They need six points. They need a miracle.
Jake's breathing steadies gradually, his quarterback's mind visibly clicking back into gear. "Deep post," he says finally, voice rough but controlled. "You and Jeff split wide. Just like we practiced."
Nate nods, relief flooding his system. This is the Jake he knows - the tactical genius who can read defenses like books, who turns chaos into opportunity. "That's my quarterback."
The teams line up for what could be their final play. Jake stands in shotgun formation, his stance deceptively casual. Nate positions himself wide right, coiled like a spring. The snap comes.
Forty-seven seconds left. Jake calls the play with ice in his veins: "Dragon Right, X-Fly on one!"
Jake drops back, his eyes scanning the field with practiced precision. Jeff breaks across the middle, drawing both safeties' attention. The offensive line holds, giving Jake the pocket he needs. Nate explodes off the line, feeling the defender's eyes locked on his every move.
Time slows. Nate sees the coverage break down just as Jake releases the ball, a perfect spiral cutting through the rain. The safety bites on Jeff's route, leaving just enough space. But the throw needs to be perfect. The catch needs to be perfect. Everything needs to be perfect.
Nate plants his right foot - pain be damned - and breaks toward the corner. Jake's pass is already in the air, a perfect rainbow arcing through the rain. Time stretches like taffy as Nate tracks the ball, everything else falling away. Not the screaming crowd, not his trembling legs, not even the memory of 85's words. Just him and the ball and destiny.
His hands reach up, finding the football like they were created for this single purpose. Two steps to get his feet down. One foot hits inside the endline. Then the other.
Nate fell, arms outstretched, cradling the football like a newborn, as his body skidded into the endzone. Time slowed, every sound muffled by the roar of blood in his ears. The ball crossed the plane, and for a split second, he thought he might have imagined it.
Then the stands erupted.
Touchdown.
Riverside: 30. Brookswood: 27. Time: 0:00.
The rest of the team rushed toward him, a tidal wave of jerseys and adrenaline. Nate barely got to his feet before Jeff tackled him in a bear hug, lifting him off the ground and shaking him like a rag doll.
“Bro, you did it!” Jeff’s voice cracked, the sheer joy breaking through his usual bravado.
The huddle engulfed him, the team jumping and shouting like kids in a candy store. Amid the chaos, Nate spotted Jake through the crowd, and they locked eyes. For a brief moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them. No words were needed—they’d been through too many games, too many plays, too many moments like this. Jake’s nod said everything.
“We did it, man,” Nate mouthed, his voice lost in the cacophony.
Coach Martinez barreled through the group, his whistle dangling uselessly from his neck, tears glinting in his eyes. “Hell of a game, Brooks. Hell of a game. Proud of you. Proud of all of you!”
The stands spilled onto the field as students, parents, and alumni rushed to join the celebration. Nate tried to take it all in, but his eyes caught on one person. Amber. She stood at the edge of the mob, her golden hair catching the stadium lights, her smile brighter than the scoreboard. She was already running toward him, her arms open wide.
He ripped off his helmet and let it drop to the ground. “Amber,” he whispered, though the roar around them swallowed the sound. She jumped into his arms, her legs wrapping around his waist, and he caught her effortlessly. Their lips met, and for one perfect moment, the world disappeared.
“My champion,” she murmured against his mouth, her hands tangling in his hair.
“Anything for you, princess.”
The spell broke as reality seeped back in. Over Amber’s shoulder, Nate saw Jake slipping away from the crowd, his shoulders hunched, his pace quick.
Nate’s stomach dropped. He knew his best friend better than anyone. He’d heard what that Brookswood linebacker had said during the game, the kind of taunt that aimed for something deeper than pride. He saw the way Jake had clenched his jaw, the way he’d thrown himself into every tackle after that like he was trying to outrun the words.
“Jake,” Nate muttered, gently lowering Amber to the ground.
“Where are you going?” Amber’s voice was sharp with surprise and a hint of hurt. “You just won!”
“I’ll be right back,” he promised, but he didn’t stop to explain. Jake needed him.
He sprinted past the crowd, weaving through the chaos until he found Jake behind the stands, sitting on the cold metal bleachers. His best friend’s chest was heaving, his hands gripping his knees so tightly his knuckles were white.
“Jake.” Nate’s voice was soft but firm as he approached. He crouched in front of him, careful not to invade the fragile space Jake had carved out. “Hey, man, it’s me.”
Jake didn’t respond, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. His eyes were wide, unfocused, darting around like a cornered animal’s. Nate’s heart ached at the sight.
“Okay, okay,” Nate said gently, sitting on the ground so they were at eye level. “You’re having a panic attack. That’s all it is. I’m here. Just focus on me.”
He reached out, resting a hand on Jake’s arm. Jake flinched but didn’t pull away.
“Breathe with me,” Nate said, taking an exaggerated inhale. “In through the nose, real slow. Hold it. Now out through the mouth.”
Jake’s breathing was still erratic, but he tried to follow Nate’s lead.
“Good,” Nate encouraged. “Just like that. In and out. You’ve got this.”
After a few minutes, Jake’s breaths started to even out, the wild look in his eyes fading. He leaned back, pressing the heels of his hands against his temples. “God, I’m a mess.”
“Nah, you’re human,” Nate said, his tone light but sincere. “Even quarterbacks get to have bad nights.”
Jake let out a bitter laugh. “What he said...”
“Doesn’t matter,” Nate cut in. “You’re Jake Woodland. Best damn QB in the league. One jerk on a losing team doesn’t get to define you.”
“Yeah?” Jake looked at him, his expression vulnerable in a way Nate rarely saw. “And what if he’s right?”
Nate’s jaw tightened. “He’s not. I know you. Better than anyone. You’re my brother, Jake. You’re enough. Always have been, always will be.”
Nate watched helplessly as Jake dissolved into sobs, his whole body shaking. "Oh god, they know... I'm fucked, Nate. Completely fucked!"
Nate seized Jake's shoulders, his grip fierce. "Listen to me. No one knows shit. And if they did? We'd bury them. Just like we always do."
Jake shook his head wildly,. "You don't understand! If this gets out--"
SMACK! Nate's palm cracked across Jake's cheek. "Get it together, man! Remember our oath? We swore we'd always have each other's backs, no matter what. Woodland and Brooks against the world, just like it's been since we were six years old and you pissed yourself on the playground."
Jake’s shoulders sagged, and for the first time that night, he let himself lean on Nate. “Thanks, man.”
“Anytime.” Nate clapped him on the back. “But if you tell anyone I said all this sentimental crap, I’ll deny it.”
Jake managed a weak smile. “Deal.”
He hauled Jake to his feet. "Now c'mon. We're the fucking kings of Riverside High. No one can touch us."
As they walked back toward the lights and cheers, Nate spotted Lisa Chen and Hannah Marshall watching them intently. His stomach clenched. What had they seen? What did they know?
Shoving the thought aside, he jogged to catch up with Jake. He'd deal with those two later if he had to. But tonight? Tonight was for celebrating their invincibility, even as the shadows of their secrets threatened to swallow them whole.