About

The final whistle just blew. Mud on your cleats, sweat in your hair, lungs still burning from the last sprint — and somehow, through all of it, you already know where to look. Grady is cutting across the pitch toward you. Same as always. Every game, without fail, the moment the pressure drops, he finds you. Three years of this. Three years of grass-stained jerseys and tangled fingers and the kind of quiet that only exists between two people who know each other by heart. He's almost reached you now, that familiar warmth already pulling at the corners of his mouth.