Page 25 of Small Town Sizzle

The world tilts, and suddenly, I’m staring at the sky. The roar of the crowd fades into a dull hum.

I hear voices, shouting, calling my name. Footsteps pound against the field as trainers rush toward me. My coach kneels beside me, his face tight with worry. “Garrett? Can you hear me?”

I try to answer, but my mouth won’t work. My limbs feel disconnected, like I don’t belong to my own body anymore. A new kind of fear grips me, something I’ve never known before.

A stretcher appears. Hands lift me, strap me down. I want to fight it, to prove I can stand, but I can’t even move my fingers.

And then I see my mom. She’s there, right at the edge of the field, pushing through the chaos, her face pale but steady. The paramedics try to stop her, but she doesn’t listen. She never does when it comes to Ethan and me.

“I’m here, sweetheart,” she says, her voice strong, even as her hands shake. “I’m right here.”

She climbs into the ambulance with me, holding my hand, even when I don’t have the strength to squeeze back.

The next few weeks are a blur of hospitals, doctors, and the slow, crushing realization that football—the game I’ve lived and breathed my whole life—is over for me. I lash out. At the doctors. At my coaches. At her.

She takes it all. Every harsh word, every bitter glare. She never flinches. Never raises her voice. Just stays by my side, patient and calm, like she always has been.

I don’t see it then, too blinded by my own anger and pain. But looking back now, I realize—she tried so hard to keep me from falling apart. I pushed her so far away. I put up a wall. I couldn’t handle not knowing what my future would be any longer. I hated the world for this fate.

My mom was a saint, and she didn’t deserve the way I treated her. I wish I could go back and change the last fifteen years.

I can feel the pain, the guilt, all of it trying to pull me down with them again. I shake my head, knowing that I can’t go back to that place. I can only move forward.

I exhale before I head to the parking lot. It has thinned out to just a handful of cars.

Sliding into the driver’s seat of my rental, I take a deep breath, ready to head back to the quiet of my childhood home. But as I start the engine, movement catches my eye.

A familiar SUV sits under one of the dim parking lot lights; its hood is popped open like a yawning mouth. And, standing in front of it is Maya, looking perplexed. Her daughter is standingnext to her, arms crossed, looking around the parking lot worriedly.

My first instinct is to keep driving. But something tugs at me—a mix of guilt and knowing there’s no one else around to help. I sigh, leaning my head back against the seat. “Of course,” I mutter to myself, killing the engine and stepping out of the car.

As I approach, Alex walks up to them. He holds up his phone flashlight, peering into the engine with a furrowed brow. Maya looks up, her face immediately tightening with annoyance.

“What’s wrong?” I ask casually, shoving my hands into my pockets.

“It’s nothing,” she says quickly, her voice clipped. “We’ve got it under control.”

Alex glances at her, then at me. “I can handle it,” he says, though his tone isn’t quite as convincing as he probably intended.

I nod, crouching slightly to get a better look at the engine. “I’m sure you can. But two heads are better than one, right? Besides, all mechanic jobs go faster with an extra set of hands.”

He hesitates, then sighs, stepping aside slightly. “Fine. It’s just making this weird noise when she tries to start it. I think it’s the alternator or maybe the battery.”

“Let’s take a look,” I say, rolling up my sleeves.

Jazlyn pops up from the passenger seat, her wide eyes darting between Alex and me. “What’s an alternator?” she asks eagerly.

“It’s what keeps the battery charged and powers the electrical systems when the engine’s running,” I explain.

“Cool! So, if it’s broken, does that mean the car dies?” she presses, leaning closer to the hood.

“Pretty much,” I say with a small smile. “But let’s not jump to conclusions. It could just be a loose connection.”

“Or because it’s old as dirt,” Alex mutters, shooting a pointed look at Maya.

“What’s wrong with it being old?” Maya retorts, crossing her arms.

Alex smirks, holding up his flashlight as I fiddle with a connection. “It’s ancient, Aunt Maya. You have a perfectly fine, new working car in the driveway you never drive. Instead, we’re stuck dealing with this turd breaking down all the time.”

---