Page 85 of Game On
He huffs, the smirk now fully forming. “Come on. I thought you were smarter than that.”
We’re on our sixth hour of the trip, and Sourdough is sound asleep, curled up on my lap in the back seat of Hudson’s truck. Levi’s in the passenger seat, head lolling to one side as he snores while Hudson drives, eyes focused on the road ahead. The radio is playing some country artist I don’t recognize.
I watch the landscape streaming by—an endless expanse of trees, golden fields, and tiny fractured towns. It’s eerilybeautiful, in a kind of desolate way. Not what I’m used to in England, or even Nashville.
I grew up in Alderley Edge in Cheshire. It’s a far cry from rural America. Here, the houses are wide apart, their silhouettes just barely visible over the dry fields. Some have red barns, others vintage silos, all scattered across miles.
Meanwhile, back home, everything is a bit more contained. The small, winding streets are lined with manicured gardens, and while the Edge itself offers stunning views of the plain, it’s a place where every turn feels familiar, every face a neighbor or friend.
As we near the border between Arkansas and Texas, the rolling hills and dense forests slowly fade into a dusty landscape of infinite flatlands.
“Just another hour,” Hudson says, catching my eye in the rearview mirror.
Levi stirs next to him, snorting himself awake. He groggily rubs his eyes. “Are we there yet?” he asks, his voice gritty with sleep.
“Yeah,” Hudson wisecracks without taking his eyes off the road. “We’ve arrived but we decided to stay in the car.”
Levi grunts, clearly unamused. He slumps back in his seat and in no time he’s snoring again. As Hudson chuckles softly, a yawn spreads like wildfire through me, making my eyes water. I’ve been fighting sleep since we crossed the Tennessee state line, but now, as we approach the seventh hour of our trip, the fatigue is harder to fight.
“Do you want me to take over?” I offer, stifling another yawn with the back of my hand.
He arches his eyebrow, meeting my gaze in the rearview. “Do you even know how to drive a manual?”
“Yes, of course. Just … not on the right.”
“Okay. Let’s put a sleepy girl behind the wheel who’s used to driving on the wrong side of the road.”
“It’s not thewrongside,” I correct.
“Of course, it’s the other side.” He grins, winking at me in the mirror. “Save your energy, darlin’. We’re almost there.”
Sourdough twitches in his sleep, nuzzling his head against my folded legs. With a sigh, I stroke his soft fur.
“Just warning you,” he continues in a low voice. “Our house is kind of small. Well loved but cramped. It’s probably not what you’re used to.”
“I’m sure it’s lovely,” I assure him, and his eyes soften at my words.
An hour later, we pull up to a modest one-story house. It’s enveloped by a fading picket fence, the paint peeling off in places. There’s an old oak tree out front. A tattered porch swing sways lazily in the gentle night breeze.
It isn’t grand or ostentatious, but it looks like home. It looks like Hudson.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Hudson
The pullout couch in the living room isn’t exactly a dream, but it’s better than the ground—or an elbow in the ribs from my little brother. I shake out the sleep, stretching, my back cracking in protest. Sourdough stirs at my feet. And then, for a moment, we just lie there, listening to the house breathe in the quiet before everyone else stirs.
We rolled in just before midnight, the house dark and still. Mom was already asleep, which is rare because she’s usually a night owl, thumbing through her novels or scribbling down her thoughts. But I suppose she’s getting older now and has less hustle and bustle to keep her occupied.
I set up Ella in my old bedroom, wanting her to have some peace after the long drive. Carter insisted—to no one’s surprise—that he didn’t want his routine disturbed by his older brother, so he and Levi bunked together. I don’t blame him.
I’m known for my early-morning pacing, my late-night restlessness, and I probably would’ve lectured him for keeping his phone plugged in all night.
Carter’s a senior in high school now: tired, overworked, and a little moodier these days. But he’s still the best kid I know. He’s applied to a few in-state colleges so far, though he hasn’t committed to anything yet. He doesn’t have a major in mind, nor does he have a list of his top three schools. Unlike me, he’s planning to figure those things out along the way.
That’s not the only way we differ. Carter never cared much for competitive sports, either. It was always more about having fun for him. When I gave up football as a kid, he did, too, but he never went back to it. He’s always been more laid-back, taking life as it comes and finding his own path.
I swing my legs off the makeshift bed and pad into the kitchen, Sourdough sauntering around my feet. The quiet of the morning gives me time to think, to breathe, to take my mind off everything I strive to be and do. It’s part of why I like coming home so much. It’s a comfort that allows me some space to finally decompress.
