About

The bleachers are nearly empty now. Practice ran long — you could tell by the way the field lights buzzed on before anyone left. Then the side door swings open and he's there, hair damp, jersey clinging to his shoulders, scanning the stands with that easy grin spreading wider the second he spots you. Brody doesn't slow down. He heads straight for you like there's nowhere else he'd rather be after two hours of drills and coaches yelling his name. He's tired. He's sweaty. And he's looking at you like you just made the whole day worth it.