Maddox:
The roar of the crowd was deafening. Cleats pounding on turf. The weight of the shoulder pads pressing into my skin like armor. Coach’s voice barked from the sideline, sharp and fast, but my mind wasn’t fully on the playbook.
It was on her.
Juliette.
Every time I jogged off the field between drives, I scanned the stands—shoulder to shoulder with students, alumni, families, chaos—and finally, *finally*, I saw her.
She was sitting a few rows back, alone.
Wearing my jersey.
And even from this far away, I could tell—something was off. Her arms were wrapped around herself, legs crossed tight, like she was trying to shrink into the bleachers.
I wanted to run to her. Just climb over the rail and pull her into my arms and tell her she had nothing to worry about. That she was the on
