Page 38 of Hometown Halftime

Knox’s truck appears at the edge of the parking lot a few minutes later. He parks quickly, climbs out before the engine finishes settling, and crosses the field with long, determined strides.

I stand as straight as I can manage, refusing to look fragile. Riley stays close but lets me create whatever illusion of control I’m desperate to maintain.

The girls are gathered around us now, their eyes flick toward Knox as he approaches. I shouldn’t be self-conscious, but I don’t want my team to see me like this.

“Alright, ladies,” Knox calls, forcing a casual tone, “you’ve got Coach Weston for the rest of the afternoon. Listen to him, don’t give him hell, and nobody throws elbows while Coach Malone is gone.”

Brooke salutes dramatically. “No promises, Coach Dalton.” Then her voice softens. “Hope you’re okay, Coach.”

Knox doesn’t break stride as he stops right in front of me, eyes sweeping my face in a way that makes me feel self-conscious. He sees everything.

“What happened?” he asks, tone filled with concern

“I’m fine,” I start, but his eyebrows lift with the expression that I’m sure has shut down football players twice my size.

“Try again,” Knox says.

The pain pulses in my lower back, flaring across my hip in a way that steals my breath. I grit my teeth and wait for it to fade, but it doesn’t.

Riley shifts beside me, voice low but firm. “She couldn’t put weight on her left side. It came on fast.”

I shoot him a quick glare, but it’s weak because he’s not wrong, just uncomfortably honest.

Knox nods once, then returns his attention to me. “Are you ready to go?”

“Where are we going?”

“Urgent care,” Riley says, stepping in. “And don’t you dare protest or I’ll take you to the ER.”

It’s the first time he’s spoken to me like that—direct, quiet, and without a hint of apology.

“I can walk on my own,” I insist.

“Let’s not test that,” Knox replies. “My truck’s right there.”

He reaches for my elbow, but I shake him off, my pride flaring.

“Just lean on me, Kinsey,” Knox says, voice quiet enough that only I hear it.

It’s that gentleness, paired with the strength beneath it, that finally breaks something in me.

“I don’t understand what’s happening,” I whisper, the words spilling before I can shove them back down. “It’s getting worse.”

Riley’s eyes meet mine, and Knox speaks from my side.

“We’re gonna figure it out, but right now we need to get you to the truck.”

I nod once, feeling shaky and humbled.

Riley shifts his hold subtly, adjusting so I can lean into him without feeling like dead weight. The girls watch from the field, but Riley gives them a brief gesture that everything’s okay.

We start across the grass, Knox walking a half-step in front us. Riley stays close to my side, matching each small, cautious step, which is good, because every step takes so much effort that it feels like a workout.

“You’re okay,” Riley says softly.

I shake my head, breath catching. “I’m really not.”

Halfway to the truck, the fear hits me full force. Not the fear of the pain itself, but the fear of the unknown. That I don’t know what this pain is.