40. Dylan

Chapter 40

Dylan

T he stadium lights are blinding as we rush out onto the field, the familiar smell of fresh-cut grass filling my lungs. The crowd roars in excitement, and my heart races with a mix of nerves and adrenaline. It's just a scrimmage, I remind myself, nothing more. But the energy in the air says otherwise. For some of us, tonight feels bigger than any regular game.

I glance up at the stands, taking in the sea of Summerview Falcons fans across the field. They're loud and obnoxious. My eyes flick back to our side, where the coach is yelling something I can't quite make out. My chest tightens. I try to steady my breathing, but it's no use—I'm too nervous about this game.

And then I see him.

Brock Johnson.

My body goes rigid, the confidence I'd been holding on to slipping away as if someone yanked it right out of my grasp. There he is, standing with his helmet tucked under his arm, looking as smug as ever. His face barely registers with the casual onlooker, but to me, it's a punch to the gut. Everything from that night comes rushing back in vivid, horrible flashes. His hands. His voice. The way he walked around afterward like nothing had happened.

My breath catches, and I force myself to stay still, forcing my feet not to turn and bolt in the opposite direction. You can do this, Dylan. He doesn't get to have power over you anymore. This is your field, your game. He may have gotten away that night, but tonight? You're going to take him down.

The words echo in my mind, but I don't quite believe them yet. My hands tremble at my sides, and I squeeze them into fists, hoping no one notices. Breathe, just breathe.

"Dylan!" Ford's voice pulls me back to the present. I turn just as he jogs up, concern written all over his face. His broad shoulders are tense, and I know him well enough to sense that he's picking up on my energy.

"You okay?" he asks, his voice low enough that no one around us hears. His eyes search mine, and I feel my stomach flip. Ford has always been able to read me like a damn book.

I force a smile, even though it feels weak. "Yeah, I'm good. Just... nervous."

His eyes narrow a bit, like he doesn't quite buy it, but he doesn't push. Instead, he nods, giving me a reassuring look. "You've got this, Kitty. I'm right here, okay?"

I nod, grateful for the momentary distraction. Ford has this grounding presence, this quiet strength that makes me feel like I can handle anything, even when the walls are closing in. But not even he can stop the flood of memories from resurfacing. Brock's face, the way he looked at me that night, the way he twisted everything to make me out to be the bad guy.

I shake my head, trying to pull myself together as Ford jogs back toward the huddle. Focus, Dylan. You can't let him get to you like this. Not now. But it's easier said than done. Every time I glance in Brock's direction, I feel the familiar anger creeping back up my throat.

"Let's go, Dylan!" Jacob's voice calls out from the field, snapping me out of my thoughts. I take a deep breath and run over to join him, keeping my head down as much as possible. Jacob is all smiles as usual, his hand resting on my lower back for a second, offering a comforting squeeze. I lean into it for just a heartbeat, letting the warmth of his touch soothe the anxiety swirling inside me.

"You sure you're good?" Jacob asks, his tone softer now, more serious. He tilts his head, his green eyes full of concern. Jacob's always been the one who checks in on me, even when I don't realize I need it. There's something so disarming about the way he cares—it makes it harder to hide from him.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I lie, flashing another smile. "It's just this whole scrimmage thing, you know? Feels more intense than it should."

He doesn't look convinced, but he lets it go, nudging me with his shoulder. "We'll crush it. You always step up when it counts."

I try to believe him, try to channel his confidence, but Brock's presence is like a weight I can't shake. And it's not just him. It's everything he represents. The memories, the shame, the anger. The fact that I never told Ford or Jacob—or Matthew—what happened that night. And now it feels like this huge secret, a wall between me and them.

My stomach twists with guilt. How can I look any of them in the eye after this? I've been keeping it all in, pretending like everything's fine, but it's not. I can't do this much longer. I need to tell them the truth—about Brock, about that night. But if I do it now, in the middle of this game, they'll go after him. And while I could care less about what happens to Brock, the last thing I want is to see my guys in trouble, or worse—get kicked off the team.

I bite my lip, glancing over at Ford again. He's watching me, always watching me. And then there's Matthew, leaning against the bench, his sharp eyes flicking between me and Ford, already picking up on the tension. Matthew never misses a thing.

I should have told them sooner. I should have told them everything.

The whistle blows, signaling the start of the game, and we all get into position. I'm running on autopilot now, my body moving through the motions without really thinking. Ford, Jacob, and Matthew are all close by, their presence usually enough to make me feel invincible. But tonight, it's not enough. Not with Brock so close.

The Falcons win the faceoff, and the game kicks into high gear. My stick is firm in my hands, the weight of the lacrosse ball resting in the pocket as I sprint into position. I throw myself into the action, trying to block out everything else, but it's no use. Brock's there, always in the corner of my eye, like a shadow I can't escape.

Ford's voice cuts through the chaos, barking orders from his position in midfield, his presence as commanding as ever. I glance at him, catching the sweat glistening on his brow, the determination in his eyes, and my chest tightens. He's counting on me. They all are. And tonight I might let them down.

Jacob catches a pass from Henry and, without hesitation, sends it my way. The ball settles in my stick, and I take off down the field, weaving through the Falcons' defense, my feet pounding the grass. But my heart's not in it. My body feels heavy, my mind clouded. I can't focus.

Suddenly, I'm checked hard by another player, an elbow driving into my side, and the force sends me sprawling to the ground. The stick slips from my grasp, and I hit the turf with a painful thud, the wind knocked out of me. I gasp for breath, but the world spins around me. The stadium noises fade, everything muffled, and through the blur of my vision, I see Brock on the sideline, smirking. His face, that damn smirk—it makes my blood boil.

"Dylan!" Ford's at my side in an instant, pulling me up, his hands steady and strong. His face is a mix of concern and intensity. "You okay?"

I nod quickly, but it's a lie. I'm not okay. I'm not okay at all.

Jacob and Henry are there too, closing in, their expressions mirroring Ford's. I can't meet their eyes. The guilt is suffocating. I want to tell them. I want to spill everything, to let it all out—the truth about Brock, about that night—but the words don't come. Not here. Not now.

I grit my teeth, forcing myself to stand. "I'm fine. Let's finish this."

They exchange a look—Ford, Jacob, both of them sensing something's off, but they know me too well to push when I'm like this. I can see the worry in their eyes, and it makes the guilt twist even deeper.

As the game drags on, I can feel myself unraveling. Each minute that passes with Brock on the field is a minute too long. I catch Ford's eye as we head off the field for halftime, his brow furrowed with unspoken questions. I know he's going to ask me what's really going on. I know I can't lie to him anymore—to any of them. It's time to come clean.

But the thought of saying it out loud—of reliving that night, of seeing the rage in their eyes when they realize what Brock did—it scares me. Because I know them. I know how protective they are. And I know what they'll do if they find out the truth.

And as much as I want Brock to pay for what he did, I can't risk losing them. Not now.