Page 89 of Game On
“Far from it.” She clears her throat and resumes dryingthe plate. “But let’s save that conversation for another time. Don’t want to ruin a perfect day.”
“Sure, El,” I say, squeezing the crook of her elbow. “Whenever you’re ready. I know you’ve got your trophies, too.”
“Yeah.” She bumps my hip with hers. “Plenty of them.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Ella
We’re home in Nashville, back to our weekly routine of classes and practice. Now I understand why Hudson treats the long drive home like a simple jaunt down the street. Why Levi always tags along, acting as though seven-plus hours is next to nothing.
There’s a charm to that laid-back Southern life—the cozy warmth of his mom, the sweet naivety of his younger brother—that affects me long after I’ve left. It was heartwarming to see a new side of Hudson. He was more relaxed, more at ease. He could be vulnerable with me out there. He’s letting me in, little by little, past those self-imposed barriers, and I like the view.
In a way, it’s made me break down some of my own walls, too. Though I can’t forget that I’m not staying here forever. I have a life waiting for me back in England. So, we can’t be anything more serious, no matter how much we let each other in.
We’ve already slipped back into a busy rhythm at Whitland. I only had a quick glimpse of that slow, sweet life, butit makes me savor the time even more. Hudson’s family was genuine. So welcoming and warm.
It’s different from what I’m used to. I didn’t grow up with that close familial love. Holidays that are more about spending moments together rather than a mere obligation. My parents aren’t the kind of people who treat outsiders like one of their own, and it’s always felt a bit cold.
Over the years, I created a small, tight circle of people I knew I could rely on—people who felt like home to me. I’ve never cast my net too wide, always cautious, always guarding myself, never expecting too much from outsiders.
But that weekend was different. And I have to admit, it was nice to have the Fox family blanket wrapped around me, at least for a little while.
And although our time together outside of training has been scarce, it feels like my connection to Hudson is steadily growing. We’ve only had the chance to spend the night together once since we’ve been back, but the desire is always there, simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment.
It’s a constant undercurrent, an ever-present tension. A pull that’s impossible to ignore, especially during practice—brushing shoulders, catching each other’s eyes, the physical contact that sparks something deeper, something I try to push down but can never fully shake.
Every morning for the past week, I’ve woken up earlier than necessary to slip into my trainers. Hudson and I have been sharing sunrises at Hadley Park. We’ve been training when we can, early mornings, in between regular practices,his football schedule, and our classes. Fall finals are over, and their conference championship is just over a week away.
By the following Thursday, we’ve drilled into the same five stunts a hundred times over. We’re at Skyline now, well past closing time, and the rest of our friends have long since left.
“Fucking hell, I can’t get the dismount right,” I grumble, massaging my aching wrists.
Hudson approaches me, holding out a water bottle. “Take a break, El. We’ve been at it for hours.”
I gratefully accept the water and slump down onto the mats, gulping it down. “We can’t afford to take breaks,” I say stubbornly.
He quirks an eyebrow at me. “Right, well, that sounds like something your coach would say, but I think you’re overdoing it. We’re both exhausted, and it’s showing in our performance.”
I sigh deeply, rubbing my temples. “I know, I just … I want to qualify so badly. You’re headed back to Texas in less than a week. That gives us barely any time.”
“I’ll be back right after the new year.”
“If you win the game this weekend, won’t you be playing again?”
“There are bowl games, but they’ll be one-offs,” he says, swiping a bead of sweat from his brow. “We’ll have a little time to practice before the submission’s due.”
“Are you sure?” I press, my tone hopelessly anxious.
He takes a step towards me and places his rugged, callused hands on my shoulders. “Absolutely,” he answers, atender smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Would I lie to you?”
“Probably,” I say, an echo of the last time he asked me the very same.
But a shiver of warmth runs through me at his touch, thawing the worry sitting frozen in my veins. Only now, I realize how close he is—how his sweat-drenched shirt clings to his muscular frame, how the scent of pine and spearmint toothpaste fills my senses—and my heart does a little flip.
“I wouldn’t,” he murmurs.
When his head dips, lips coming in for a kiss, I savor it for the briefest of moments. “We need to keep our focus,” I say sternly as I pull back, ignoring the pit of butterflies in my gut. “You promised there’d be no—”
