Page 90 of Game On
“Canoodling on the mat. I know,” he drawls, frustration and affection flashing in equal measure in his eyes. “Come on, let’s try that dismount again. But for God’s sake, let this be the last time tonight.”
I hold out a pinky, and he loops his through mine. “Promise.”
We practice the second stunt once more. It’s better, but I’m still far from satisfied. Hudson takes one look at the disappointment on my face, pinches the bridge of his nose, and sighs long and deep. In the end, we run it from the top three more times.
It’s the second weekend of December, and Whitland’s team is playing in the conference championship game at NissanStadium. It’s a neutral location for both schools. A facility so grand it makes Griffin Park look quaint. Here, the energy is vibrant, a sea of players swarming with the hope of victory.
Hudson is a force to be reckoned with on the field. His presence is commanding and sure, his eyes never wavering from the goal. There’s a moment in the third quarter when he breaks through the defensive line, his focus razor-sharp. Dodging massive linebackers, weaving through them like a seasoned pro, he’s unstoppable.
Everything he does is a display of raw athleticism, the kind of grit that has me swelling with pride. When he’s playing out there, he embodies the spirit of a champion—a driven athlete, a strategic thinker, a passionate leader.
My pride grows with every yard he gains, every pass he completes. When the final whistle blows, the scoreboard confirms our victory. Whitland has officially won the SEC Championship.
The stadium erupts in cheers, and we shout our fight song at the top of our lungs. It was a brilliant game. The kind that makes sideline cheer worth it. The kind that leaves you breathless, reminding you why you’re here in the first place.
Later, the celebration at Sidetrack is like a burst of fireworks—loud, exhilarating, and bright. The football team has rented the whole place out, buzzing over their hard-fought win. The energy is infectious, everyone basking in the glow of victory.
Levi has scooped Sammy onto the dance floor. Cove andMalik have gone to play pool. And Gabi flounced off with a wave, joining a group of football players near the bar. Now it’s just me, alone at our once-crowded table.
I sip my drink and let my mind drift. Today was fun. Game days aren’t usually my favorite thing about cheer, but I’m part of something undeniably bigger here at Whitland. Something more than just an accessory to the team.
It’s different for me back in Oxford, where I sometimes felt I was living inside a beautiful bubble. Beautiful, but isolating. Getting there was a fight I had to take on without my dad’s approval.
“I don’t know why you’d want to be around those kinds of people,” he’d mutter under his breath, his working-class roots making themselves obvious. Before I even began primary school, he had built his way up as a top property developer, working mostly with footballers and soap stars. We’d moved to Alderley Edge by then, and I was stuck in private schools all my life.
My father came from a long line of builders in the north-west, born and raised in a small, terraced house crammed with brothers and sisters. He’d scrimped and saved, taken risks to pursue his dream, and made a big success of his life.
But he’d never forgotten his roots. And it felt as though he feared me spending too much time with the privileged elite at university. It was his resentment that forced us apart, creating a rift that deepened over time, until it felt as though we had almost no relationship at all.
Maybe he was right to question my ambition. There are places at Oxford where I never fully fitted in. Cheer was my safe haven, though, the one place where I felt appreciated for who I was, not just because of the privilege that my father’s success had given me.
It’s hard work, sweat, and determination that matters there—not wealth or bloodline.
And now that I’m at Whitland, cheer feels like even more than a safe haven. It feels like family, one I’ll eventually have to leave behind.
I pull on my cardigan, shrugging it over my shoulders. Pushing back from the table, I weave through the clusters of celebrating students and head to the patio. There, standing at the edge, just like he was that first night, is Hudson.
He’s alone, a cup of water in his hand, his gaze lost somewhere in the Nashville city lights. It’s an instant flashback to the night we met.
A surge of emotions floods through me—nostalgia, excitement, a touch of nerves. He looks so effortlessly handsome, so utterly familiar to me now. There’s a lot that’s changed for us in the last six months, and the mere idea of it makes my stomach twist.
“You’re very tall, you know,” I say as I approach, repeating the words I’d first thrown at him.
He glances down at me, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “And you’re very forward,” he says, his voice low and layered with warmth.
“Really, what are you doing out here all alone?”
“Contemplating.”
“Mmm.” I step up beside him, putting my hands on the railing. “Mysterious.”
“You know, the night we met, I was out here because I was overwhelmed. Panicking about applications, letters of rec, a fledgling grade that my professor had just agreed to round up from spring term.”
I nudge him. “Typical bar thoughts. And now?”
“Now?” he says. “I’m … perfectly whelmed. Just out here for the fresh air.”
I glance around us, scrunching my nose. “It’s kind of smoggy tonight.”
