Slow It Down

Part 9 •REWRITTEN•

At him.

Jackson.

The boy I'd missed more than I'd ever admit out loud, even to myself. Two years of silence from someone who had once been impossible to get out of my life. Kayce still saw him weekly, but I hadn't gotten so much as a text. Not even a birthday message.

And yet, watching him out there made it painfully clear—my crush had never gone anywhere. If anything, it had only...simmered. Quietly. Constantly.

It didn't help that he hardly looked like the same boy I'd known. He'd always been athletic, but now, his shoulders were wider, his biceps and forearms thick and defined beneath the sleeves of his jersey. Even from the stands, it was obvious he'd put in hours—years—of work. He stood taller than almost everyone else on the field. Confident in a way that made the air around him feel charged.

A prickle crawled up my spine, tugging me away from the sight of him. I knew before I even looked.

Scarlett.

Standing near the track with her cheer squad, hands on her hips, posture perfect, chin tilted. She was staring at me—not past me, not around me—at me. Her glare was cold enough to make my lungs tighten. She hadn't changed at all. Not the perfect uniform ponytail, not the practiced superiority in her expression, not the way she could make me feel fourteen again with a single look.

I snapped my gaze forward immediately, my pulse jumping. Jackson's back was to me, like always. Like the last two years. Like nothing had changed.

But Scarlett's stare followed me for several long, suffocating seconds.

The game unfolded in a blur of motion after that, but I couldn't tear my eyes from Jackson. Normally, I didn't care for sports—football least of all—but watching him play was different. Every spin, every dodge, every effortless leap felt like watching a highlight reel only I had access to. When he tackled someone, the sound cracked across the field, and I caught myself leaning forward, anticipating the next move before it even happened.

Every time he jogged off the field, helmet low, shoulders relaxed, I could picture the exact cocky smirk he was hiding.

The final quarter arrived with the pressure of a tightened fist. Our team was down by three. Ten seconds left. The huddle snapped apart and players scattered like startled birds.

My stomach sank when Luke—of all people—ran past the stands. If Scarlett was my most strategic bully, Luke had been the most hands-on. Homework harassment turned into "accidental" shoves, then comments, then the moment he grabbed me in the hallway and said I was "too flat to feel anyway."

I shivered, more from memory than the cold wind threading through the stands.

I dragged my eyes back to the play just in time to see the ball arcing through the air, straight toward Jackson. He caught it cleanly, barely breaking stride before shooting down the field like gravity didn't apply to him.

Kayce was muttering "go—go—go—GO" under his breath with increasing aggression, as if sheer willpower might propel Jackson forward. The ridiculous part was...it kind of looked like it was working. Jackson moved faster, cutting right, spinning away from a tackle that sent the other guy slamming into the turf.

The crowd roared. People were on their feet. My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might bruise my ribs.

At the twenty-yard line, another opponent came barreling from the side, but Jackson's strides were too long, too quick that he pulled ahead effortlessly. When the gap widened, the bleachers erupted with noise.

I found myself standing before I realized it, cheering louder than I meant to, the sound ripped straight from my chest. I glanced at Natalie, smiling politely, clapping, more entertained by my reaction than the game itself. Then at Kayce, arms thrown up, yelling like he'd just watched his own child win an Olympic medal. That same proud, fierce look was on his face—the one he'd get whenever I stood up for myself.

My heart tugged.

I turned back to the field just in time to see Jackson cross the line. Touchdown. Game over.

The team swarmed him, helmets bumping, arms tugging him into their celebration. And there he was, right in the center—this boy who somehow felt like a permanent part of my life even after years of silence. The boy who had hurt me by disappearing, yet still managed to make my chest swell with pride.

I couldn't stop smiling. As much as I had tried to forget him, distance myself from the ache of missing him... this moment made it impossible.

He had no idea I was even here. But I was proud of him. I always had been. And now I had a new memory to add to the pile. One I'd never expected, one that cracked open something soft and familiar inside me.

And I knew, deep down, that forgetting him was only going to get harder.

The roar of the high school crowd faded in my ears, replaced by the hum of the college stadium around me. For a second, I wasn't sure where I was, my mind still caught in that old memory, still hearing Kayce yelling in triumph, still watching Jackson shoved into the center of the celebration.

But then my phone buzzed in my hand.

Once.

Then again.

The noise of the present game blurred, the cold metal bleachers under me becoming solid and real again as I blinked the past away. The field in front of me wasn't the one I'd grown up watching. The players weren't the boys I used to know. The smell wasn't the same mix of cheap hotdogs and fall leaves. Everything was different.

Except the feeling in my chest—the tight, complicated sting the flashback always left behind. I exhaled slowly and looked down at my screen.

Nate: Hey, you still at the game? Didn't see you on the walk in. Hope you're having fun 😊

A smile tugged at my lips before I could stop it.

Another buzz.

Nate: Wish I was there with you.

The warmth washed through me instantly, soft and distracting. The lingering heaviness from the flashback—the ache, the old fear of being seen, the ghost of Jackson's jersey on that field—faded just enough for me to breathe.

Nate liked talking to me. He always sounded genuine, even when I struggled to believe sincerity from anyone. His messages never made me tense or guarded. And right now, after remembering a night I'd spent two years trying to bury, his sweetness felt like a small anchor.

I typed back quickly, almost instinctively.

I'm here with Nat. It's cold, but it's fun.

My finger hovered over the send button, a blush warming my cheeks as I bit my lip in contemplation. At the last moment, I added to my message.

Wish you were here too.

Before I could get embarrassed and take it back, my thumb hit send. When I hit send, another cheer broke out around us. The college team must've scored, but the sound barely registered. The game didn't matter anymore. The noise didn't matter. The past didn't matter.

Not when my phone lit up again, and that flutter in my stomach, warm and uncomplicated, told me something I hadn't wanted to admit until now.

...I liked him.