March, 2005, after a game
Jesse still had the smell of lavender detergent, bread and the faintest trace of motor oil stuck to him when he rolled into the locker room that afternoon. Mara had been up already before dawn, making breakfast in her old sunflower-print apron, humming Fleetwood Mac in that off-key way she always did when she was focused. A pencil held her messy bun together, paint smudges clinging stubbornly to her fingers from a canvas she’d abandoned the night before.
“You got this, JV,” she’d said, sliding a plate across the counter while he pulled on his worn-out letterman.
“Only the team calls me that,” he grumbled, though the corner of his mouth gave him away.
His sister Avery sat perched on the counter, nursing a cup of coffee like it was the only thing keeping her alive. Senior year hadn’t made her any less effortlessly unimpressed. “He’s nervous,” she’d said, not looking up from the mug, her tone somewhere between teasing and matter-of-fact.
“Nah,” Jesse shot back, mouth full of eggs. It was half true.
Mara just smiled that soft, knowing smile. “You’ll kill it out there.”
——
Jesse had stared at the note on his jersey longer than he meant to. A square of neon yellow stuck to the crisp white number: Play hard. Love you – Mom. A tiny doodle of a ball and a trophy beside it. Mara always left notes, tucked into shirt pockets or inside his lunch bag. Some kids would’ve found it embarrassing. He didn’t.
The game itself was a blur: stadium lights, the crunch of cleats, the weightless moment when the ball left his hands for that perfect spiral to Matt in the end zone. The roar of the crowd hit like a wave, Charlotte’s cheer loud enough to cut through it all. For a second, it felt like the world had shrunk down to him, the field, and her voice.
Now, hours later, Tyler’s house was vibrating with music spilling from overworked speakers. The air stank of sweat, cheap vodka, and the vaguely burnt aroma of pizza rolls someone had abandoned in the oven. Christmas lights drooped like lazy vines across the ceiling, casting the whole crowd in twitching reds and greens.
“JV!” Matt appeared out of nowhere, grinning ear to ear, a red cup in one hand. “The man, the myth, the quarterback! That throw, dude, Coach almost cried.”
Jesse laughed, ducking the slap Matt landed on his back. “You caught it.”
“Yeah, but you threw it,” Matt shot back, grinning ear to ear. “That’s, like, ninety percent of the work. I just had to stand there and look pretty.”
“Pretty sure you almost tripped over your own feet,” Jesse teased, Matt gasped, mock-offended. “Lies. Slander. That was an elite catch. You’re just jealous because everyone’s still talking about your golden arm.”
Charlotte was there, leaning against the counter like she owned the room, damp hair curling around her shoulders from a quick post-game shower, a red cup in her hand. The kind of smile she gave him made the noise in the room fall away, just for a second.
“Hydrate, MVP,” she teased, holding out a drink.
Jesse took a sip, immediately grimacing. “Hydration tastes like battery acid.”
“That’s Tyler’s signature cocktail. Don’t think about it,” Charlotte said, laughing. He rolled his eyes. “You’re trying to kill me.”
“Please, you’ve survived worse.” She tilted her head, that mischievous spark in her eyes. “You played good tonight,” she said, a hint of pride in her voice, her shoulder brushing his.
Jesse shrugged, trying to hide the grin tugging at his lips but failing. “Wouldn’t have happened without the guys” he replied, though his gaze stayed locked on her.
She rolled her eyes, grinning. “Yeah, yeah, Mr. Modest. Keep telling yourself that.” she teased
The music shifted, louder now, and a shout from across the room pulled their attention back to the party. Jesse laughed, savoring the moment, loud, chaotic, and somehow perfect.