Carter and Taylor: A Love Story

The unconventional pairing of a college quarterback and the team physiotherapist.

1

Carter Hansen's injury isn't dramatic. It's a clean snap, ankle against turf in mid-drill. The kind that draws whistles, not gasps. Within hours, he's wheeled into the sports medicine clinic, gritting through pain and charming the nurses like it's part of the playbook.
         Taylor Hughes enters with clipboard in hand, barely glancing up. His reputation precedes him--precise, no-nonsense, with that physiotherapist's sixth sense for reading the body like a biography.
         "You'll be off the field three weeks if you follow everything exactly," Taylor tells Carter without preamble.
         "And if I don't?" Carter asks, with a grimace.
         "You'll be off longer. Or permanently."
         It's not the kind of thing Carter's used to hearing. He's used to being negotiated with. But Taylor isn't impressed, and Carter--unreasonably--wants to change that.


         Their early sessions are transactional.
         Taylor stretches and probes, Carter winces and swears. The small talk sticks to weather, games, pain thresholds. But slowly, slivers of personality slip through.
         Carter learns Taylor drives an old Jeep with a cracked cassette deck. Taylor learns Carter's mom sends long voice notes packed with unsolicited life advice. Neither realizes how often they quote each other outside the clinic until a mutual friend points it out.
         Occasional jokes form. Inside jokes follow. Carter asks if Taylor has ever watched "Fringe." Taylor says he grew up on it. Carter pretends he's seen it, too. He hasn't.

         At a team fundraiser, Taylor volunteers for rehab support, unofficially. Carter spots him across the crowd and cuts through conversations he doesn't care about just to say hey.
         "You here professionally?" Carter asks.
         Taylor shrugs. "You could say I'm here for the snacks."
         A grin. A pause. Not charged. Not anything yet. Just ease--unrushed, uncomplicated. A platonic rhythm that starts to feel less like incidental parallel lives and more like quiet orbit.


         Carter's ankle improves. Officially, his time with Taylor is done.
         Unofficially, he keeps showing up. Not every day. Sometimes just to drop off protein bars or ask about tendon durability. Taylor doesn't call him out on it. He simply shifts from practitioner to observer, like he's waiting to see what shape Carter takes now that pain isn't the thing tethering them.
         One afternoon, Carter lingers after campus rehab hours, watching Taylor organize tape rolls. The silence feels like it's asking to be broken. Carter does.
         "You ever get bored helping broken people?"
         Taylor tosses a roll into the bin. "People aren't broken. They're adaptive."
         "Even quarterbacks who can't sit still?"
         Taylor gives him a sidelong glance. "Especially those."


         Taylor offers Carter a ride one day when it's raining too hard to walk across campus. Carter shares a rental house with linebackers Hayes Connor and Geno Rossi, located just outside the edge of the Chisholm University campus to give them some street cred.
         The rain's got that steady persistence, drumming like a metronome. Inside the Jeep, old guitar solos bleed faintly from the warped cassette deck, fuzzy but familiar.
         Carter leans back in the passenger seat, watching the blur of campus through streaked windows. He's quiet--like the world outside is buffering.
         "You always listen to tapes?" he asks finally, voice low.
         Taylor nods, still watching the road. "Dad left a crate of 'em in the garage before he split. I figured they survived Missouri summers, they earned the right to stay in rotation."
         Carter half-smiles. "That why you drive this thing? Sentimental attachment?"
         Taylor shrugs. "It's loud, stubborn, and bad in the rain. Felt accurate."
         "I know that riff," Carter says, head tilted toward the music.
         Taylor smirks. "Didn't peg you for a classic rock guy."
         "I'm not," Carter replies. "But I respect the tone." He pauses, lets the guitar lick play through. "My first coach gave me a beat-up acoustic when I was twelve. Said it'd teach me rhythm and patience. Pretty sure it was just his way of getting me to sit still."
         Taylor glances over, brows lifted. "You still play?"
         "Yeah. Late nights mostly. Stuff I can keep quiet to not wake up the boys. Fingerstyle, no picks." Then, turning to Taylor. "You ever play?"
         Taylor doesn't look over. "I mess around. Nothing worth hearing."
         Carter shifts in his seat, just slightly. "Funny. You seem the type who'd know how to find the good notes."
         Taylor huffs a quiet breath--less laughter, more acknowledgment. "Maybe."


         They lapse into quiet again. But it's not the awkward kind--it's loaded with small weights, all rolling around unspoken.
         Taylor taps his fingers against the steering wheel. "You ever get tired of being looked at?"
         Carter turns to him, surprised. "What?"
         "You know. QB. Team darling. Campus default. That kind of attention has gravity."
         Carter hesitates, then shifts in his seat. "It's like... being in a play where you didn't audition. People clap anyway, so you keep doing the same lines."
         "Well, you did audition, so to speak."
         "Yeah, that's true. High school stats. Tryouts..."
         Taylor nods slowly. "You ever forget who you were before the play?"
         Carter doesn't answer right away. His knuckles rest on his knee, tight.
         "Sometimes I think I do remember," he says. "Then I realize I'm just remembering a version of myself I made for someone else."
         Taylor glances at him. For a second, he almost says something. But the light changes, and they move forward.


         The Jeep eases to a stop beside Carter's off-campus rental--a squat brick house trimmed with mismatched garden lights that felt more like a half-hearted party trick than a residence. It's also the unofficial team party house due to its deceptively immense back yard. The rain has dwindled to a mist.
         Taylor watches Carter pull up his hood, the pause as he reaches for the door.
         "Appreciate the ride, Physio," Carter says, casual, grateful.
         Taylor nods, eyes flicking briefly toward the dashboard. "I couldn't in good conscience watch anyone suffer."
         Carter chuckles, steps one foot out, then leans back in through the open window. His arms rests along the edge, and his gaze avoids Taylor directly.
         "BBQ at the house Saturday," he says. "Team thing. Chill crowd. You should come."
         The offer hangs there--light, easy--but Taylor feels it land like a stone skipped wrong across water. A staff member at a student gathering. Informal or not, that line was real.
         He doesn't answer right away. The steering wheel feels solid beneath his hands.
         "Coach Varner practically lives in front of the grill," Carter adds, smiling.
         Taylor lets out a dry breath slip past his lips. "Figures."
         The silence returns. He knows those kinds of parties--grills, half-finished playlists, muddy lawn chairs. Heck, he'd hosted those parties himself not too long ago at Mizzou. Not official, but not completely neutral either. The university has its unspoken boundaries. Being staff means knowing which social brushstrokes blur too easily.
         "I'm not against it," he says at last. "Just... there's a line. People watch how it's walked."
         Carter gives a half-shrug, but something flickers behind it. Disappointment, maybe. Or just the dull ache of a missed chance.
         "It's open invite," he says quietly. "Food's decent. Ribs vanish quick."
         Taylor gives the faintest nod. His fingers taps once against the wheel, a small gesture of indecision.
         "I'll think about it," he says. "No promises."
         Carter steps away, tapping twice on the doorframe before heading up the walk. Hoodie damp, house keys already in hand.
         Taylor stays parked a moment longer, the cassette picking up a track with a murky intro. Something slow, vague. He tells himself it wouldn't mean anything if he shows. Coaches do it. No one raises an eyebrow. Still... there was something the way Carter had asked. Something not entirely team-related.
         He lets the thought linger as the wipers make one final pass across the glass, then he drives away.


         Carter unlocks the door and steps inside, the scent of rain trailing him. Geno, Hayes, and who sounded like other teammates, Timmy Garner and Lowell Paige, are loud in the living room--laughter and game replays--but he lingers by the window. Watches the Jeep idle one more second before it fades into the mist.
         There's something about Taylor that pulls at him, not dramatically, not all at once. Just--a steadiness. Not like the friendships built on adrenaline and locker room chaos. This one feels quieter. Deeper. Like being known in fragments.
         He wants more time, Carter realizes. More conversation that doesn't orbit football.
         He tells himself it's just friendship, but that word feels narrow now. What he wants is proximity--real presence, without posturing. He wants Taylor to show up on Saturday. Not for optics. Just so he's there.


         Taylor turns down the cassette as he drives, letting the music fade into tire hiss and half-formed thoughts. He isn't oblivious to Carter's energy. The extra eye contact, the way his voice drops when asking personal things. The invitations. The leaning in.
         I'm university staff. Not to mention eight years older. I'm supposed to be calibrated--cordial, supportive, detached.
         But Carter's presence is organic. It never feels rehearsed, just... sincere. And that sincerity has a texture Taylor's finding harder to ignore.
         He wants me there, Taylor thinks. Not as staff. Not because it's normal. Because it's me.
         Am I reading into it? Is Carter looking for depth--or just comfort disguised as connection? What if showing up shifts the dynamic in a way I can't manage back into neutral?
         The line isn't blurred yet. But it's closer than it used to be.

2

It's late afternoon on Saturday and the backyard is strung with mismatched bulbs the owners had installed before the quarterback and two of the team's linebackers moved in for the season. Smoke curls from the grill, laughter rises in waves, and music fumbles between genres. Carter moves easily through it all--center of gravity, just slightly off-balance.
         Coach Varner is manning the grill like a general at war, armed with tongs and unsolicited wisdom.
         "You char burgers like you coach blitzes," Carter jabs, holding a paper plate hostage.
         "You keep chirpin' and I'll hand you raw ribs to toughen you up."
         The linemen cackle. Carter bows mock-seriously, then retreats, rib in hand, Solo cup clutched loosely. He's grinning--effortless, practiced.
         But the grin dims when he turns toward the gate again.
         The barbecue's in full swing. Teammates are scattered in half-moon lawn chairs. Someone's started a game of cornhole with rules nobody's following. Carter should be settled into the chaos--should feel how familiar it all is.
         And yet.
         Every so often, he drifts. His eyes scan the side gate--an idle glance, casual on the surface. But there's tension in it. The kind that builds under expectation.
         It's not nerves. Not exactly.
         It's hope with a timestamp.
         He tells himself it's no big deal. Taylor was noncommittal. No promises. And Carter wasn't even sure he wanted him there as anything other than a steady face in a blur.
         But with each round of laughter, each passing minute, Carter feels it more clearly; he wants Taylor to choose to show up.
         Not because it's convenient.
         Because it matters.


         The heat clings to the windshield. Taylor leans back in the driver's seat, one hand curled around the steering wheel, the other flexing uselessly against his thigh. The windows are down just enough to catch the cadence of the party--shouts, music, the unmistakable laughter of Carter--and somehow that makes it harder.
         He told himself this was a maybe. A soft yes. Didn't even say the time. Just "I'll think about it."
         But now he's here.
         And something about being parked outside, engine humming low, turns maybe into a decision. Carter's laugh echoes again, and Taylor shifts in his seat, eyes tracing the warped shape of the backyard through slats in the wooden fence.
         He'd planned this. Stopped by the store. Thought it'd be simple, something light, something neutral. He even picked to bring Canada Dry ginger ale because Carter had once mentioned that it was his favorite soda, which is embarrassingly considerate.
         But now he's in the Jeep, and all of that feels heavier. The weight of not knowing what he's walking into. The weight of Carter's gaze, if he notices. The weight of his own heartbeat, thudding a little faster than it should for something so casual.
         The six-pack sits beside him on the passenger seat, condensation glistening against the aluminum. His hand brushes it absently, like that touch will anchor him.
         For a long moment, he stays still.
         Then, without ceremony, he shuts off the engine, reaches for the ginger ale, and opens the door.
         His sneakers hit the pavement with a quiet finality. He rounds the Jeep, pacing toward the side gate, following the source of the music and aroma of grilled meats--ginger ale in hand, shirt clinging slightly to his back, nerves masked in motion.
         The backyard's laughter grows louder with each step.
         He doesn't knock.
         Just slips through the gate.


The side gate creaks with a sound no one's bothered to oil, and Coach Varner's spatula mid-flip halts in the air as if startled.
         "Well, I'll be damned!" he calls, voice booming past the music. "There's a first time for everything!"
         Heads swivel. A brief hush pulls at the party's rhythm before erupting into raucous cheers and teasing shoutouts.
         "Physio's in the house!"
         "Watch your backs, boys--man might hand out ice baths for dessert!"
         Taylor grins, sheepish but not small.
         Geno, broad and always ready with a chirp, nods at the six-pack in Taylor's hand. "Ginger ale, huh? Classic move. Staying sharp even off the field?"
         Taylor shrugs, easy and unapologetic. "I drink responsibly."
         More laughter. It's good-natured, threaded with respect rather than ribbing. Someone clinks a can against his in solidarity before peeling off toward the cornhole game.
         From across the yard, Carter clocks the ginger ale.
         Knows it's not random.
         Knows Taylor sees him.
         And maybe--maybe tonight's not about grand gestures or spoken truths.
         Just about showing up.


         The barbecue winds into that stretch where voices mellow and the grill's fire flickers lower, golden light chasing shadows across the backyard. Music still plays, but softer now--something with plucked strings and syncopated rhythm.
         Taylor has spent most of the evening near Coach Varner, a steady exchange of shop talk and mild ribbing. Game recovery plans, tendon inflammation patterns, a sideways comment about someone's spring mechanics--nothing personal. Nothing revealing. But it keeps him busy, keeps eyes from wandering.
         Carter doesn't press.
         He stays folded into his circle, joking with the defensive line, flipping Solo cups, keeping easy pace with the group. But every so often, he notes Taylor's laugh--low, clipped, unfamiliar in this setting. Notes how Taylor doesn't stay long in one spot, how he politely circles without sinking into anyone's gravity but Coach's.
         The quiet distance between them is deliberate. Not avoidance--more an unspoken calibration. No extra proximity. No lingering looks. Just... steady.
         Around dusk, Taylor slips out with the same softness he arrived with. No grand announcement. Just a subtle farewell to Coach, a wave to a corner cluster of linemen, but Carter notices. He excuses himself mid-laugh, steps through the side gate like he's chasing fresh air. The driveway is lit only by the last of the sun and the overcast breath of porch lights.
         Taylor is halfway to the Jeep when Carter catches up.
         "Hey," Carter says--quiet, casual.
         Taylor turns, eyebrows raised, hand on the door handle. "Hey."
         "You headed out?"
         Taylor nods once. "Didn't want to overstay."
         "You wouldn't have."
         "Didn't really blend in either. Staff at student gatherings..."
         Carter half-chuckles. "You kiddin'? The boys appreciated having you. Wouldn't have given you such a hard time, otherwise."
         Taylor looks at him a moment, eyes searching but soft. "Yeah, maybe. Appreciate the invite."
         Carter nods, steps back slightly toward the side gate--but doesn't go. His fingers tucked into his hoodie pocket, as if anchoring to something.
         "Drive safe, yeah?" he says, voice almost lost to the light breeze.
         Taylor watches him for a second longer before opening the door. "I will."
         He gets in. The engine starts. No music this time.
         Carter waits until the taillights fade past the bend of the street before turning back inside.
         No one noticed.
         But something settled differently tonight.

3

In a crowded downtown bar lit with red neon trim and laughter that sticks to the ceiling, Carter walks in with Geno, Hayes, and a couple of O-linemen, already loud, already loose. His jeans are scuffed, his shirt hangs open at the collar, and he feels untethered in a way that Friday nights at a college town allow. They carve out space near the bar, claim a high-top, and launch into whatever passes for weekend banter.
         At the other end of the room, Taylor leans over a candle-flickering table, deep in quiet conversation with someone new--dark hair, smooth laugh, a Tinder match with a glimmer of chemistry. His shirt's pressed. His posture careful. She laughs at something he says and tilts her drink in easy rhythm.
         The two clusters occupy the same space, unaware. For now.
         Then, Geno spots him.
         "Yo, Physio!" he bellows, half-tilting his drink. "Who's your special lady?"
         Heads turn. Taylor does, too. His expression tightens, then loosens into a composed smile. His date chuckles, brows raised. "Popular guy?" she asks lightly.
         Taylor shrugs. "Occupational hazard."
         Carter chuckles along with the group, loud enough, easy enough. But something aches just under the sound--a flash of something unwelcome. Not jealousy. Not really.
         Just that stinging kind of surprise you feel when someone who's been running around in your thoughts turns out to have their world. Their own gravity.
         He watches Taylor tilt toward her again, lean in slightly as she speaks.
         He tells himself it's fine.
         After all, Taylor's straight. And he is, too.
         Nothing's off script.
         But still. There's the pang.
         And when he's sure no one's watching, Carter glances over once more. Just a glance. Just enough to see Taylor's profile, the way his fingers light rest on his glass, the way he listens like he means it.
         Taylor catches him.
         Brief eye contact. Nothing dramatic. Just the kind that scrapes the surface, then recoils. Taylor looks away instantly, back to his date. Smiles faintly. Resumes.
         Carter turns back, too.
         There's no scene. No signal.
         Just a moment that neither one expected, and neither one will mention.


         The week after the bar runs slow and strange. Carter doesn't bring up Taylor--not to his teammates, not even to himself in the moments he scrolls aimlessly, trying to fill the silence.
         Instead, he texts Maddie.
         They went out twice last semester. Nothing dramatic. One shared playlist, one mediocre movie, sex that felt more like punctuation than poetry. But she's funny, low-pressure, and uncomplicated in a way that feels necessary.
         "Drinks?" he texts.
         "Not mad if you're bored," she replies.
         "I'm aiming for semi-entertained."
         "That, I can do."


         They meet at a downtown place with high stools and nachos that come in metal baskets. It's fine. She laughs easily, throws mock insults, tells him about her roommate's new obsession with ice baths. Carter listens, even flirts a little. But when she touches his hand across the table, it's reflex more than response. His mind slides elsewhere--recalling the brief glance across the bar, the way Taylor looked away too fast.
         By the end of the night, he walks Maddie home. She asks him in. He hesitates.
         He doesn't go.


         Later that week, Carter swings by the sports medicine center--not for treatment. Just casual. He walks by it twice before stepping inside with some vague excuse about calf tightness. Taylor's not at the front desk, so Carter mills around the bulletin board longer than necessary.
         Taylor eventually appears, clipboard in hand, stopping mid-step when he sees Carter. His expression isn't cold--just cautious.
         Carter shrugs. "Figured I'd stretch the recovery window. Preventative stuff."
         Taylor nods, eyes scanning him quickly. "Calf soreness?"
         "A little. Mostly restlessness."
         Taylor gestures him to a table. "I've got ten minutes."
         They don't say much. Just measured talk about muscle groups and sleep cycles. Carter watches how Taylor keeps his gaze steady but careful, how his tone stays just shy of familiar.
         They part with a brief nod.


         Midweek, late afternoon, Carter finds himself back at the sports medicine center--not under the guise of soreness this time, but with purpose tucked behind casualness.
         The hallway smells faintly of antiseptic and muscle rub, the usual cocktail of rehab and repetition. Carter lingers near the bulletin board again, but this time he's not hiding behind pretense. Taylor rounds the corner holding a small cooler sleeve, pausing slightly when he sees him.
         "Forgot something?" he asks, measured but not closed off.
Carter grins. "Not exactly."
         Taylor arches an eyebrow, waiting.
         Carter slips his hands into his pocket. "I'm turning twenty-two on Saturday."
         Taylor nods, lips tilting slightly. "Congrats. You're catching up."
         There's something in Carter's tone that makes Taylor still a little.
         "I'm throwing a BBQ again at the house, same setup. Probably less chaos than last time. Or not," Carter glances past him, then returns. "You should come."
         Taylor studies him. The last party had been safe--team-sanctioned noise, Coach close by, no lingering closeness. This? It's still informal, but birthdays carry weight. Meaning. Intention.
         And yet--he's already crossed into that space once. A second time wouldn't break protocol. Especially if Coach shows up. Especially if he's careful.
         Taylor nods slowly. "I appreciate the invite."
         "Appreciation sounds like a soft no," Carter says, eyes narrowing playfully.
         Taylor lets a small smile linger this time. "I meant it as a likely yes."
         There's a flicker behind Carter's grin--something satisfied, not triumphant. A moment held between them, light but solid.
         "Cool," he says. "I'll make sure to save you ribs."
         Taylor starts to move past him toward the treatment room. "You always do these invitations in person?"
         Carter shrugs. "Not always."
         Taylor doesn't answer. But he doesn't dismiss it either.

4

The late afternoon sun settles over the house like a warm handshake--gold streaks cutting across the backyard where laughter curls through rising smoke. The Bluetooth speaker hums with a playlist made for Texas summer; twang, grit, and just enough bass to rattle the lawn chairs.
         Taylor pulls up in his Jeep, same spot as last time. He steps out with both arms occupied--a six-pack of ginger ale in one hand, a case of Lone Star tucked under the other. The gesture feels like just enough: thoughtful, but not piercing. No wrapped box. No envelope. No hint of sentiment that might read too deeply. Just beverages--neutral, friendly, safe.
         He approaches the gate with ease and nudges it open. It creaks like before.
         Coach Varner is already posted up at the grill, flipping chicken thighs and talking technique to anyone not listening. He glances up, eyes narrowing in mock surprise.
         "Well, look at this!" he calls out. "Physio's back--and he's packing some Texas pride!"
         The team cheers, scattered but sincere.
         "Taylor! Come hydrate the chaos!" one lineman shouts, pointing to the cooler.
         "Bring that Lone Star over here before the ribs get pretentious!"
         Taylor smiles, nods toward the cooler as he makes his way in, his path folding into the party without dissonance. He greets a few guys by name, shakes a hand or two, even tips an imaginary hat at the punter's playlist choice.
         Then Carter is suddenly there, stepping through the low haze of grill smoke. Dressed simply, sun still caught in his hair. His smile is calm, but the warmth behind it makes it real.
         He pats Taylor's back as they stand close enough to speak without the party hearing.
         "Glad you made it," he says. Just that.
         Taylor feels the weight of the hand--not possessive, not tentative. Just there. Solid.
         "Wouldn't miss a birthday," Taylor answers, voice quiet but clear.
         No one lingers near. No knowing glances. No awkward silences.
         Just two men standing in the buzz of their shared orbit, steady in the middle of motion.


         The party drifts into its sweet spot--sun casting long shadows, music softening just enough for voices to rise above it. The team's scattered across the yard in loose clusters. Laughter punctuates the air like commas.
         Carter stands near the grill, mid-story--something about freshman year, a failed Tinder date, and a miscommunication involving brisket and formal wear. The crowd's hooked, learning in with that particular type of attention reserved for someone who always lands the punchline.
         Taylor hovers at the fringe. Not dominating space, just present--invited by proximity more than planning. He eases closer as the story unfolds, finally settling into the outer arc of the group. When Carter delivers the kicker, Taylor laughs--not loudly, not performatively. Just genuinely enough for Carter to notice.
         They meet eyes for a beat--one of many they've allowed tonight, quietly threaded through the gathering. None linger long enough to draw attention. But they register.
         A kind of recognition.
         The party rolls on. Coach chats briefly with Taylor, then gets pulled into a debate about seasoning ratios. Taylor stays in motion--getting another can of ginger ale, nodding at side conversations, fielding one teammate's attempt to diagnose an imaginary injury.
         By evening, they sky bruises with purple and ash. The Bluetooth speaker hiccups to a quieter song. Carter's leaned against the porch railing, drink in hand, gaze half-lost in the motion around him.
         Across the yard, Taylor catches him watching. He lifts his can of ginger ale slightly, eyes steady. Mouths the words--happy birthday.
         No performance. No smile. Just a quiet message, sent with precision.
         Carter's breath catches--not visibly, not theatrically. Just a tiny shift in posture. A stillness.
         Because the gesture lands.
         Not as ritual.
         But as intention.


         With the party over and the final shreds of evidence have either been discarded or put away, Carter lies in bed, shirt off, back half-sunk into pillows while his thumb navigates loops of content on Instagram. The fan hums in the corner. A line of light from the street grazes his dresser.
         Coach had tagged him in a birthday post earlier--grainy photo mid-storytelling, one hand lifted like punctuation, mouth open mid-laugh. Carter had liked it earlier without much thought.
         Now in the quiet of night, he taps back in.
         Just scrolling. Checking names. It's casual, but not nothing.
         He moves past teammates, boosters, someone's aunt who always leaves emojis. Then he sees it.
         PhysioTH
         The handle alone makes him pause. The profile pic is small--framed tight, color-muted. But the slope of the jaw, the posture... Carter knows it. Knows it the way you know someone not by the photo, but the feeling it stirs.
         Taylor.
         His breath slows.
         Taylor liked the photo. Carter mid-story. Surrounded. Animated.
         Carter clicks the profile.
         Private Account. 25 posts. 342 followers. 418 following.
         No bio. No link. No curated performance.
         Just the closed door of digital presence.
         And Carter--without overthinking--taps Request Access.
         The button flips. Requested.
         It's not overt. Not romantic. Not risky.
         But to Carter, it's not nothing.
         It's curiosity. It's intention.
         It's the first move he's made that doesn't come wrapped in humor or proximity or coach-approved circumstance.
         And it sits in the dark beside him, quiet but sure.


         In the opposite part of town near the CU campus, Taylor sits on the edge of his couch, thumb scrolling absently through his feed--not to be seen, not to engage. Just to float. A few teammates' stories. A physiotherapy meme account. A photo of a lake from his cousin in Montana. It's all noise.
         He taps the message icon out of habit.
         There it is.
         Access request: CarterCU.
         His heart tightens--not in shock, but in recognition.
         Carter.
         The profile handle is unmistakable. The same one tagged in Coach's birthday photo, the one he'd double-tapped without thinking. The photo hadn't felt like crossing a line. It was public. Group-shot casual. Harmless.
         But now? This.
         This feels personal.
         Taylor stares at the request for a beat too long. Swipes the notification away. Then brings it back.
         Rejecting it would send a message. One Carter might read clearly. Taylor could chalk it up to boundaries, professionalism. Say he keeps the account limited--friends, family.
         But the follower count--342--spells out the truth.
         His thumb hovers.
         There's no clear line here. No rulebook for unnamed orbit. If he accepts, he's letting Carter behind the curtain. His personal posts--photos from hikes, cryptic captions, one or two of him playing guitar with no face in fame. Nothing revealing, but still... his.
         Taylor exhales. Accepts the request. The icon flips.
         You and CarterCU are now connected.
         He waits.
         Phone still in hand, thumb still resting against glass, as if the other shoe might drop in the form of a like, a message, a reaction. But nothing comes. Not yet.
         He leans back into the couch. Stares at the ceiling. Wonders what Carter saw in that photo that made him want in.
         And wonders, quietly, what he just let in in return.


         The phone buzzes.
         PhysioTH accepted your request.
         Carter sits up instinctively, back resting against the headboard, screen already loading.
         Taylor's grid appears in muted tones--some outdoor shots, a few guitar silhouettes, recovery memes that only physiotherapists would laugh at. But Carter doesn't scroll fast.
         He slows down on the photos where Taylor's in the frame.
         There's something different about seeing him this way--outside of the bounds of campus, without the usual context of ankle tape or branded polos. Taylor in motion. Taylor at rest. Taylor in moments Carter hadn't been part of.
         Then Carter sees it.
         A post from years ago--four, maybe five. The lighting is washed with summer warmth. Taylor's younger, shirtless on what looks like a cabin deck. He's smiling--real, unrushed, the kind of smile that doesn't play to the crowd. His chest is strong, arms toned, the kind of build shaped by time, not vanity. Hair dusted across his torso in all the right places, natural and unbothered.
         Next to him is a girl Carter doesn't recognize. She's laughing at something out of frame, Taylor's arm slung behind her casually.
         Carter stares. Then zooms.
         Not because he's searching. Because the image asks something of him. Something unspoken.
         There's no jealousy. No pang like before. Just a slowed breath. A moment of seeing Taylor not as "Physio," not as the man who stood at the end of his birthday BBQ or mouthed happy birthday across the yard--but as someone who existed long before he occupied space nearby.
         Carter lingers. Screen aglow. The room holding quiet around him.
         It's not the photo. Not even the girl.
         It's that version of Taylor: open, easy, unaware of any future gaze.
         Carter exits the zoom slowly. Scrolls up. But the image stays with him longer than any swipe can erase.
         Taylor's newest post wasn't even trying. Just him on someone's couch, lit by low afternoon light, gaze on the camera but not reaching for it. Loose sweatshirt, knees up, the kind of presence that didn't ask to be noticed but was anyway. Carter's thumb paused.
         "He's hot."
         Wait, what?
         Carter blinked, shook his head. That word has slipped in, not his. He wasn't supposed to think that. Not about Taylor. Not about anyone like Taylor. But there it was, stubborn and echoing. Had it always been there, tucked into the spaces between admiration and attention?
         Without meaning to, his thumb tapped twice. A like. And then--almost reflex--he held the screen and took a screenshot.
         What am I doing?
         


         Across town, Taylor is still on his couch, thumb tracing through Carter's Instagram feed now that they're linked.
         It's abundant. Unabashedly young. Group shots flooded with sweat and sun, captions half-serious. A handful of tagged friends. A couple of images that suggest past girlfriends-- shoulder leans, captioned inside jokes that now feel faintly historical. He doesn't linger on those.
         What draws him are the landscapes--Texas skies stretched wide, blurred creek water, golden grass caught mid-sway. He mutters, just once, "Wow."
         Because Carter's got a good eye.
         Then he stops.
         A photo of Carter sitting cross-legged on a couch--guitar cradled across his lap, posture lazy in that practiced way, a cheeky grin curled under soft eyes. One eyebrow slightly lifted like he's mid-joke, but not directed at the camera. Something off to the side. Something personal.
         Taylor feel it before he thinks it.
         He smiles.
         Just a flicker. Reflexive. Uninvited.
         Then it hits him.
         The tilt in his mouth. The softness in his gaze.
         He's smiling at a photo of Carter.
         The screen stays lit in his hand. That's all it takes.
         He shakes his head. Quiet, almost amused with himself.
         What just happened?
         He tells himself it's aesthetic appreciation. Composition. The charm of the candid.
         But part of him knows better.
         It wasn't the guitar. Or the light.
         It was Carter.
         And whatever thread tugged at him from that image, it's humming louder now.

5

The stadium pulses in shades of orange and dusk. Home game energy hums through bleachers and turf--rowdy, expectant, always a little desperate. CU's lineup jogs onto the field with practiced bravado, but by kickoff, the air feels unstable. Something's off. The rhythm isn't falling into place.


         In the first quarter, the opposing team comes out hard--slick, efficient, merciless with screen passes. CU's defense scrambles early, and Carter takes two hits inside five minutes. Momentum is slipping.
         From the sideline, Taylor stands near the trainers' bench, clipboard in hand, earpiece loose. Not the center of attention, not even adjacent. But he's watching. Always watching.
         Carter sees him between plays--just a glimpse. Taylor's brow is set, mouth in a quiet line, gaze locked on motion and injury potential. Not emotional, not reactive. Just calibrated.
         He looks... good, Carter thinks, helmet resting against his hip during a timeout. It's not the clothes, it's the way Taylor carries stillness like a skill.
         
         CU claws back a bit in the second quarter. Carter breaks for a deep run off a misdirection call, jukes clean past two defenders. The crowd explodes.
         In the backfield, one of the wideouts takes a nasty landing. The trainer runs out--but Taylor follows. He crouches, checks alignment, motion, pain responses. Carter sees how focused he is, how the field noise doesn't touch him.
         Taylor's jaw tenses slightly as he listens to the injured player. He nods once, makes the call, signals for removal.
         Carter watches it play out from the huddle.
         His face gets sharper when he works, Carter notices. Handsome.
         He blinks the thought away like sweat. It's the game. The adrenaline.
         Probably.


         At halftime, CU's trailing by ten.
         Coach Varner is fired up, pacing through the locker room with strategies rewritten in real time. Carter takes water with a towel over his head, heart pounding.
         No sign of Taylor back here. Trainers only. But his absence is noticed anyway.


         CU rallies in the third quarter. The defense finds rhythm, and Carter starts making surgical passes. Smart, decisive, unspectacular--until a fourth-down fake leaves the field howling in disbelief. Touchdown.
         During the extra point, Carter jogs toward the bench, high-fives all around. Then he sees Taylor again--leaning into a quick consult with the lead trainer. Just enough to catch the crease of his brows, that game-focused calm.
         Carter's smile lingers for a moment too long.
         He's so steady, he thinks. Like he belongs here, even if nobody sees it.
         The kicker misses. And chaos resumes.


         The fourth quarter unfolds and it's neck and neck with two minutes left. Carter takes a snap under pressure, fakes left, darts right, and finds the end zone with six seconds to spare.
         The stadium goes feral.
         Everyone's on their feet.
         Except Taylor.
         He stays behind the bench, eyes sweeping the sideline like he's checking for fallout--hydration, potential cramps, pre-injury signs. He doesn't move toward the celebration.
         But Carter sees him.
         After the crowd settles and the handshake lines form, Carter jogs toward the bench. He doesn't say anything, not with everyone around. But as he passes Taylor, their eyes meet.
         Taylor nods. Nothing more.
         Carter exhales.
         It's not a high-five. It's not even acknowledgment.
         But it registers.
         He saw me, Carter thinks.
         Just like Carter kept seeing him.
         All game.


         As the very same game unfolded, Taylor stood behind the line of hydration carts, clipboard tucked under his arm, eyes trained on motion. His job was clarity--spot the limping gait, the awkward recovery from a tackle, the subtle wince masked by bravado. And yet, more than once, his gaze drifted past the immediate.
         Carter, helmet off, face flushed under a smear of sunblock, stood mid-huddle listening to the call.
         His jaw was locked. Shoulders squared. Mouth just slightly parted, the way it always was when he was calculating several probabilities at once.
         It was familiar.
         It was the same face from that guitar photo.
         Relaxed focus. Quiet ownership.
         Taylor watched him through two full possessions--both fast, messy, and scoreless. Carter didn't flinch. Didn't overcompensate. Just moved.
         There was a calm to him. A center.
         Taylor felt it stir something quiet.
         When Carter threw the touchdown in the fourth, erupting the stadium into an ecstatic din, Taylor stayed back-- professional distance, measured motion. He grabbed the cold packs early, scanned the bench reflexively, eyes flitting over the bodies that collapsed in celebration.
         He let himself smile when Carter jogged off the field, high-fiving the linemen, laughing with a towel thrown over his shoulder.
         It was voluntary.
         The kind the curled just one side of his mouth.
         Then Carter passed him.
         No pause. No inward glance. Just a genial nod. Respectful. Casual. Nothing else.
         Taylor didn't react.
         But inside, something pinched.
         Not disappointment. Just confirmation--he was still on the outside. Still circling a center he wasn't allowed to touch.
         Lines mattered. Taylor knew that better than most.
         He didn't want to cross one.
         But some days, Carter made him wonder if standing behind it still counted as safe.


         Carter lies flat on his bed, one arm draped over his head, phone balanced against his chest. The game earlier that day still buzzes faintly in his limbs, but it's not the adrenaline he's sitting with now--it's something softer. Quieter.
         The memory of that nod post-touchdown replays in his mind. Taylor's calm. That unreadable expression. Carter doesn't want to overthink it.
         But then he finds himself opening Instagram again.
         Taylor's profile is quiet. No new posts, no new stories.
         Carter navigates to the messages.
         No history. Just the option to begin.
         He stares at the blank chat window for a beat. Types. Deletes. Types again.
         Then settles.
         CarterCU -> PhysioTH: You looked like you were ready to take over coaching duties today. Thanks for being there. Even when you're just blending in, I always notice.
         His thumb hovers.
         Then he hits send.
         Nothing dramatic. Nothing confessional.
         But a window opened.
         A beat later, he tosses his phone on the nightstand and pulls the comforter up. If Taylor replies, it'll happen when it happens. If not--Carter already said what he meant.


         Taylor hadn't checked Instagram since Friday--he never really scrolls unless he was bored. But the phone buzzes, then again.
         CarterCU sent you a message.
         He ignores it, not out of spite but out of not spending time in that space, then.
         It buzzes again and it send a curious little ripple in his chest.
         Taylor taps the screen and opens the app without much thought, but his thumb pauses before the chat loads. Carter's name is bold. No picture, no flair. Just him.
         Taylor reads the message once. Then again.
         You looked like you were ready to take over coaching duties today. Thanks for being there. Even when you're just blending in, I always notice.
         It's well-worded. Casual in tone. But not impersonal. There's intent threaded through--Carter saw him, named his presence, drew attention to the role Taylor works so hard to keep quiet.
         It's flattering. And potentially charged.
         Taylor sets the phone face down, letting the message linger in his mind longer than he'd admit. He's careful with responses--not because he doesn't want to engage, but because he knows once the rhythm shifts, it's hard to reset.
         A few minutes pass before he picks the phone up again.
         He types: Coach didn't look like was ready to hand over the clipboard just yet. Appreciate the note. You held the team steady when it counted.
         Neutral. Measured. But it acknowledges Carter's reach. And gently returns the favor.
         He sends it.
         No emoji. No ellipses. Just clarity.
         Then he tosses the phone onto the couch cushion behind him. The game's over, but something is still in motion.
         Something Carter started.


         Meanwhile, in Carter's room, the post-game quiet is still humming in his chest. The afternoon light is starting to slope downward, painting his walls in muted warmth. The phone lies facedown on his desk, half-forgotten.
         Carter isn't expecting a reply.
         He'd sent the message knowing full well it might sit unopened, or opened but unacknowledged. Taylor isn't exactly reactive--not digitally, not emotionally. And Carter respects that. Mostly.
         But when his phone lights up with a single notification-- PhysioTH: Coach didn't look like he was ready to hand over the clipboard just yet. Appreciate the note. You held the team steady when it counted.--he reads it twice.
         There's a neutrality to it. Measured distance. Taylor didn't match Carter's warmth, didn't lean in emotionally. But he didn't deflect, either.
         He responded.
         Carter smiles, thumb brushing under his lip as he rereads the line: You held the team steady when it counted. It's not personal. Not romantic. But it's a nod. A mark. A tiny flag planted between them that says, I saw you, too. And I'm not stepping back.
         It feels good.
         Earned.
         Carter tosses his phone onto the bedspread and flops down beside it, arms folded behind his head. His ribs still ache from that second-quarter hit. His jersey's still draped over the desk chair. Sweat from the game still faint in his scalp.
         But all of it feels softer now.
         Because Taylor messaged back.
         Because Carter's reach didn't fall into silence.
         Because today wasn't just a win on the scoreboard.
         It was a quiet signal returned.

6

Two weeks later. Home stadium, third quarter. The score's tight. Carter's jersey is streaked with turf. Sweat. Frustration. He's thrown two touchdowns and taken four hits harder than he should've.
         The crowd is a wall of sound. Third and long. Carter steps up in the pocket--too long--and the blindside collapse is brutal. His helmet skids several feet away. He doesn't get up immediately.
         Taylor's already moving. Not rushed, but intentional. Purposeful. The trainers usually respond in packs, but Taylor's the first on the field. Alone. Eyes only on Carter.
         Carter's blinking against the lights when Taylor crouches beside him.
         "You with me?" Taylor's voice is steady, low.
         Carter groans, propping himself to one elbow. "Yeah."
         Taylor slides two fingers along his jaw, gentle but firm, checking for dislocation, signs of concussion. Carter doesn't flinch, but he doesn't break eye contact either.
         "You're not answering me like someone who should still be in the game."
         "I'm fine."
         "Not what I'm seeing."
         Carter's hands find Taylor's wrist. A hold--not aggressive, not pleading. Just contact. Heat. That heartbeat Taylor's trying hard not to measure.
         They stay like that a second too long.
         From the sideline, coaches shout for status. Taylor doesn't look away.
         "I'm pulling you. At least until I get a baseline."
         Carter's jaw clenches. "Taylor--"
         "You can glare at me from the bench." He stands. "Come on."
         Carter follows, not because he agrees, but because Taylor asked.
         As they walk together toward the sideline, Carter picks up his helmet without putting it on. Taylor walks close, not touching, but aware. Hyperaware.
         No more words. Not right now. But the crowd doesn't matter. The scoreboard doesn't matter.
         That brief charged grip of Carter's hands around his wrist?
         That matters.


         The fourth quarter unfolds with a tension that clings to every breath. CU is down by three, the stadium pulsing with a restless energy as the backup quarterback steps in, his cadence just a shade off from Carter's familiar rhythm. Every snap is a test, the offense grinding out yards but rarely finding open field.
         The crowd ripples with nervous encouragement, voices rising and falling in anxious waves. On the sideline, hope is stitched quietly into pep talks and supportive claps on the shoulder--players and staff exchanging glances that say, "We're still in this."
         Carter, helmet in hand, watches every play with the scrutiny of someone unable to intervene, his eyes tracking the ball's arc, the shifting pocket, the stutter of feet across the turf. He feels each incomplete pass and short gain as if he's still out there--his own frustration mirrored in the tightness of his grip.
         Taylor, meanwhile, hovers at the periphery: always near enough to signal support, never so close as to distract. Around them, the game advances: timeouts called, substitutions whispered, water bottles exchanged in hasty intervals.
         When the defense forces a punt, the sideline surges with anticipation. This could be the moment. Carter exchanges a glance with Taylor--not seeking approval, but confirmation.
         The backup glances over, awaiting instruction, and Carter almost steps forward, caught between muscle memory and the boundaries set by protocol. Every second ticks down with the weight of opportunity and what-ifs, the play clock a silent metronome for their collective heartbeat.
         Each moment on the field is loaded with intent, each yard hard-won, and on the sideline, it's all Carter can do not to pace alongside Taylor, hope and frustration tangled beneath the stadium lights.
         Carter stands with his helmet tucked against his hip, sweat cooling under the collar of his pads, jaw tense. Not medically benched. Not officially out.
         Just sidelined.
         Taylor's position remains consistent: clipboard in hand, headset half-on, pacing between hydration carts and trainers without inserting himself too much. But Carter notices that every time he glances up, Taylor's not far.
         Not watching him, exactly. Just aware.
         On the next timeout, Carter shifts a step closer.
         "No concussion. You know that," he says, low, edged more with frustration than challenge.
         Taylor doesn't flinch. "I do."
         Carter waits for the caveat.
         "I also know you didn't track the blitz pressure properly. Which tells me your systems were off--even if your memory was on."
         Carter shakes his head. "You're cautious."
         "You're impulsive."
         It's not hostile.
         It's familiar.
         Carter exhales. His thumb taps the shell of his helmet. "I feel useless here."
         Taylor leans slightly--just enough to close the distance without inviting attention. "You don't look it."
         Their eyes lock. Long enough that a couple of teammates glance over, then look away.


         Final minute. The clock drains tension with each tick, the team huddled on the edge of possibility--third and goal in the red zone. Sweat beads beneath helmets; every breath is a measured risk and a hope. The backup quarterback jogs in, nerves hidden behind a mask of steady hands. The snap is clean, a heartbeat of choreography. He rolls out to the right--defenders converging, cleats grinding divots into the turf.
         There's a sharp scramble in the pocket. For a brief moment, it looks as if he'll eat the play, but then he spots a sliver of daylight toward the end zone's corner. The tight end pivots, shedding his marker with a well-timed feint, and sprints toward the pylon. The quarterback squares his shoulders and, despite an outstretched linebacker nearly swiping his arm, releases the ball in a tight spiral.
         It wobbles in the air--too high, maybe, too far. But the tight end leaps, fingertips grazing leather, and secures the catch as his feet drag just inside the paint. Touchdown.
         The crowd bursts into noise, sideline players erupting from benches, fists in the air. Coaches try not to celebrate too soon, but it's pure relief and vindication.
         For a split second, the stadium exists only in that suspended silence before joy crashes in.
         Carter doesn't leap. Doesn't shout.
         He turns toward Taylor. Finds him already looking.
         Taylor nods once--same as earlier. Not emotional. Not distant. Just deliberate.
         Carter returns it.
         This nod means more.
         Because Carter stayed grounded when he wanted to run.
         Because Taylor held a line neither of them fully understood--and did so for both their sakes.


         The hum of post-game routine buzzes through the locker room. Claps, half-jokes, showers running. The win has settled in--but not loud. Just tight enough to feel earned.
         Carter's jersey is peeled halfway off, shoulder pads tossed, as he slips into the far corner where the metal tub gleams with cold intent. Ice cubes clinking lazily, like they're waiting for the show.
         He climbs in like he's done it a hundred times. But today, there's something extra in the air. A bit of defiance. Maybe recovery isn't just physical.
         Taylor enters behind a few assistants, running through stat sheets, his tone clipped but fair. He doesn't glance toward the tub until one of the trainers mutters. "He's good to soak--vitals all checked."
         Only then does Taylor cross the room, arms still crossed over the clipboard.
         "Hydrate," he says, nodding to Carter's water bottle on the bench. No greeting. No warmth. Just protocol.
         Carter grins, unapologetic. "Doctor cleared me."
         Taylor doesn't take the bait. "I know. That's why you're in the bath, not the field."
         The cold begins to bite. Carter leans back anyway, elbows resting along the rim of the tub. He doesn't wince.
         "I made the right call," Taylor adds, quieter. "Even if it didn't feel like it to you."
         There's no response for a beat.
         Then Carter shifts just enough to lift his eyes. "You worried I'd spiral again?"
         Taylor's jaw tightens. He doesn't answer immediately, but he also doesn't walk away. Instead: "I worried you'd forget what staying put looks like."
         That hits somewhere deep.
         Carter exhales, water rippling.
         "So... this is me. Staying put."
         Taylor lets that hang. Then finally taps his clipboard and turns to go.
         Before he exits, though, he stops--just briefly--at the doorway.
         "You were seen," he says.
         Then he's gone.


         Campus exit road, early evening. The golden hour slants light through trees as Taylor's Jeep creeps toward the stop sign. The driver's side window is down, music low--an instrumental playlist mean to disappear into background.
         Up ahead, Carter's walking.
         Backpack slung loose, earbuds out, head slightly tipped in that way Taylor recognizes--not distracted, just unwinding. The kind of posture that speaks to having carried tension for most of the day.
         Taylor taps the brake and pulls up beside him.
         "Need a lift?"
         Carter turns, eyes lighting briefly with surprise, then ease. "Thought I was on your bad side."
         "You're not. Get in."
         Carter opens the door and climbs in, adjusting the seat automatically. It smells faintly of eucalyptus and waxed canvas--somewhere between gym bag and lived-in professionalism.
         The engine hums back to motion.
         A few blocks pass in comfortable quiet. Then, casually--
         "I didn't know you shot landscapes," Taylor says, keeping his eyes on the road. "Saw a few on your feed. You've got a good eye."
         Carter shrugs, but it's not deflection--just modesty with worn edges. "It started with my mom's old Nikon. Got me through some rough seasons. Helps me slow down. Get out of my head."
         "Seems like it works."
         "It does," Carter says, then adds, almost offhand. "I've got a trip planned for Saturday. River Legacy Parks. Just me, some coffee, and hope the clouds cooperate."
         Taylor nods. "Never been."
         Carter tilts toward him slightly. "It's beautiful there. You should come."
         A pause.
         Taylor doesn't respond right away. His grip on the steering wheel tightens a fraction. He could say no. He could mention boundaries. Or professionalism. Or how it's not part of his scope to chaperone nature walks for quarterbacks.
         But then Carter glances at him with that quietly hopeful expression, one part invitation, one part ease.
         Taylor exhales. "Could be useful. Just in case the star QB rolls an ankle mid-photo op."
         Carter laughs. "Sure. We'll call it preventative care."
         Taylor shakes his head, amused against his better judgment. "Don't expect me to pose for anything."
         Carter smirks. "Wouldn't dare."
         They arrive at the Carter's rental house, golden hour deepening into dusk. Carter unbuckles, reaching for the door handle. "Thanks for the ride, man."
         Taylor taps the gear into park but doesn't move to leave. "About Saturday," he says, almost like it just occurred to him. "I can drive us."
         Carter pauses. "You sure? I was gonna borrow Geno's car, we could meet there."
         Taylor shrugs with practiced ease. "This is how I commit directions to memory. You drive a route once, it sticks."
         Carter nods slowly, watching him. "Alright. Sounds good."
         The porch light blinks on behind him, but neither moves for a beat.
         And while Carter heads inside, Taylor sits for a moment longer, fingers flexing loosely on the steering wheel. His excuse was functional, rational. Safe. But the truth he's tucked beneath all that--driving together means fewer performance cues, more room for pauses, offhand comments, conversation that doesn't ask for eye contact. It's deliberate, yes, but not cold.
         He'll still be measured. Still edit himself in real time. But on a winding park road, with trees rising and Carter talking about clouds and shutter speeds--he might let a little more slip than planned.


         The front door clicks shut behind him, and Carter bolts down the hallway like he's holding back a win celebration. Inside his room, he kick the door closed, spins once, then clenches both fists and punches the air like he's scored midfield with one second left.
         Taylor had offered to drive.
         Taylor. Voluntarily.
         And not just some casual "see you there"--but time. In the car. Just the two of them.
         Carter grins, adrenaline mixing with giddy disbelief.
         He drops to his desk chair and pulls out his phone, thumb quick over the screen as he opens the Photos app. He scrolls past the nature shots until he lands on a screenshot tucked in a private album--pulled from Taylor's Instagram weeks ago.
         It wasn't a posed pic. Just Taylor, mid-conversation, leaning against a railing at a team event. Hoodie half-zipped. That effortless kind of handsome that snuck past Carter's defenses before he could rationalize it.
         He zooms in a little--not creepy, just... curious. Tracing the lines of Taylor's jaw, the faint crease between his brows.
         "He's hot," Carter had thought the first time he saw it.
         And now? "I can't wait," he says quietly to the screen, voice barely above a whisper.
         He's CU's starting quarterback, used to controlling tempo, reading defenses, managing chaos on the field. But this? This felt like a different kind of thrill. The kind you don't strategize--just lean into and hope the ground stays steady beneath you.


         Taylor kicked off his shoes by the door, the quiet click of his keys against the ceramic dish punctuating the thought already circling in his head.
         The couch was where he usually decompressed after games--quick injury logs, laundry humming in the background, maybe one too many late-night episodes of something forgettable. But tonight, everything felt a little off-center. Not wrong. Just... slightly unclassified.
         He dropped his backpack onto the armrest, pulled out his phone, then stared at the screen like it owed him clarification.
         Carter had invited him.
         Not to a party.
         Not to lunch with the team.
         To spend time. One-on-one.
         Harmless on paper. Hell, they'd made more physical contact on the sideline this season than most friends do in a month. Ice baths. Field checks. Post-game tension.
         But this wasn't about bruises.
         It wasn't technically professional, either.
         Taylor ran a hand through his hair, then opened the Notes app--something he did when sorting thoughts required structure.
         "Should I tell Coach Varner?"
         He typed it as a heading. Then started at it like it might blink.
         Covering his bases. That's what he'd said to himself.
         But what bases exactly?
         Liability? Reputation? Ambiguity?
         There were no rules against accompanying a player on a personal outing. Especially not one framed around recovery and calm. But Taylor knew what it could look like. Or worse--what it could feel like.
         He'd said yes for a dozen reasons. None of them wrong. None of them simple.
         And now, in the soft stillness of his living room, the decision felt less like a boundary violation and more like crossing into territory where boundaries were just harder to define.
         He didn't draft the message to Coach. Didn't send anything.
         Instead, he closed the app and walked to the fridge. Poured water. Let the silence stretch.
         Saturday was still days away.
         Plenty of time to play it safe.
         Or not.


         Friday evening settles in, low and golden through the blinds. Carter's got his laptop open, a half-packed duffel bag on the floor, and an enthusiasm he's trying not to let look like giddiness.
         Camera batteries charged.
         Extra SD card in the mesh pouch.
         Granola bars that don't crumble.
         Tripod? Definitely tripod.
         He's clicked through weather forecasts, trail review, and Google Maps enough times to know the parking lot layout at River Legacy like it's home field. But he keeps circling one detail.
         The driver's seat.
         Taylor had offered to drive. Casual, even offhand--but Carter reads between the lines. The guy who spends hours controlling risk just volunteered to share space with him. For hours.
         He picks up his phone. Scrolls to Taylor's Instagram again. Pauses on the photo--the porch one, his favorite. A beat passes before Carter switches apps and opens Notes.
         "Don't forget to ask about his shoulder rehab rotation. Could be something to shoot--less posed, more motion."
         He deletes it.
         Instead, he types:
         "Keep it light. Let him steer."
         Then closes the app. Smile still lingering.
         Saturday's going to be good. He's got a gut feeling--and lately, his instincts have been hitting clean.


         Taylor stands beside the sink, rinsing out his shaker bottle with methodical quiet. His phone buzzes with a text from Coach Varner: just a check-in. Nothing about Carter. Nothing about Saturday.
         Still, Taylor doesn't reply yet. He moves to the counter, taps open his planner, and eyes the weekend slot. Saturday is marked only by a thin line:
         "Field--River Legacy w/ C."
         He stares at it.
         It's vague on purpose. No mention of camera gear. No notation of personal versus professional. Just space.
         Taylor runs through the mental checklist: boundaries, optics, tone. He reminds himself Carter extended the invite freely. That his own response was noncommittal enough to be safe, yet direct enough not to be misread.
         Still, he doesn't message Varner.
         Instead, he opens Carter's Instagram. Again.
         The photography isn't just pretty--it's still. Intentional. Pieces of Carter's mind, maybe, mapped out in color and contrast.
         Taylor lingers on a shot of wind-shifted tall grass, then closes the app. He lets his fingers hover over his phone for a moment. Should he prep? Plan conversation threads? Or trust Carter to fill the spaces?
         Instead, he sets the phone down and reaches for his keys.
         He'll gas up the Jeep tonight. No matter how this goes, he'll be in the driver's seat. In more ways than one.

7

The sun is barely up, soft and amber across the quiet street. Taylor's Jeep rumbles to a stop just past Carter's rental house. It's washed clean from last night's obsessive detailing--more intentional than he'll admit. Windows down, music low. Something instrumental. Safe.
         He watches Carter descend the front steps. Over one shoulder: a duffel bag slung with purpose. It undoubtedly contains his camera gear and some granola bars, for sure. And then--
         The guitar case.
         Taylor's fingers tighten subtly on the steering wheel. He doesn't react outwardly, but inside, something lifts. A note of delight plays silently between his ribs. He hadn't expected music. He definitely hadn't expected Carter to bring something so personal.
         As Carter opens the door and tosses a friendly "Morning," Taylor murmurs back, "Didn't know this was a full production." His tone's teasing, but warm. Carter smirks--he's packed for flexibility, not formality.
         Inside the Jeep, Carter arranges his gear in the backseat with quiet efficiency. Their elbows brush once--accidental, linger just half a second too long. Neither comments.


         As they roll through early light, conversation is easy. Commentary on trail conditions, possible weekend crowds, and thermal layering. But laced in between are looks.
         Carter, catching Taylor's profile when he leans to adjust the AC. Jawline sharp, focus serene.
         Taylor, sneaking a glance as Carter flips through his phone. Thumb dragging, lip half-bitten in thought.
         The glances aren't intrusive--they're observational. Each is building a quiet catalog of the other. Not just for memory, but maybe for later use.


         The Jeep turns into the nature preserve's entrance, gravel crunching under tire. The trees peel back to reveal open trails laced with light mist. Golden beams catch dew across tall grass.
         Taylor slows to a stop. Exhales.
         "Wow."
         He says it low, like it escaped. Not for Carter's benefit-- but for the view's.
         Carter smiles, already unbuckling. "Been waiting to shoot this morning light for weeks."
         Taylor doesn't reply immediately. He's still absorbing it--the place, the moment. Then he turns, eyes landing on Carter's guitar case now bathed in early sun.
         "You planned for musical breaks," he says, the question landing more like a statement.
         Carter simply smiles.


         They step out of the Jeep with the kind of casual coordination that comes from second nature--not familiar, not routine, but something in between. Carter slings the duffel bag strap across his chest, camera slung around his neck with its own strap, guitar still zipped in its case, resting along his back. His steps are grounded, a little playful. Already synced to the rhythm of the place.
         Taylor locks the Jeep, shouldering a small drawstring bag containing water and protein bars. He nods toward the trail signage, leading the way without fanfare. He walks purposefully--not fast, not rigid, but safe. Measured.
         The air is still dewy as they begin the walk, a quiet kind of gold lighting the way. Carter moves with an almost tactile ease. Taylor leads with a steady tempo of someone managing pace and expectations.
         They fall into rhythm quickly--not quite shoulder to shoulder, but close enough for side glances to feel natural.
         Taylor points out an overgrowth side path, notes the incline. Carter follows, not for cardio, but for composition. He's already visualizing the angles, light, contrast.
         "Trails' prettier than I expected," Taylor says casually, scanning ahead.'          "You doubted me," Carter teases, and Taylor smirks but doesn't bite.
         
         As Taylor bends to tighten a shoelace, Carter lifts the camera--not quite discreet, but practiced.
         Snap: Taylor's profile lit by the forest's spill of light.
         Snap: His hand braced on a tree root. Intent. Clean lines.
         From the corner of his eye, Taylor catches the movement. He straightens slowly, brushing off his knee. "Didn't I say no photos of me?"
         Carter doesn't flinch. Just grins. "You said no posing. This is natural behavior."
         Taylor gives him a look--half amused, half warning. "Semantics aren't a legal defense."
         Carter lifts both hands, mock-innocent. "Just documenting the journey."
         Taylor exhales, head shaking with a smile. "You get one candid. After that, I confiscate the camera."
         Carter laughs, but the lens lowers. The shots he got will linger in his folder unnamed--for now.


         The trail curls open into a ledge lined with weather-worn rock and spindly grass, overlooking a valley streaked with morning haze. Taylor steps forward, squints into distance. The view is everything he didn't know he needed.
         He pulls out his phone, thumb dragging camera into focus. He snaps a few: wide shots, sky heavy. A close-up of a pine limb backlit in soft gold. He's not Carter, but he enjoys it--quietly.
         Carter watches, then raises his own camera. "This makes for a great backdrop for photos of you," he offers. Neutral tone, noncommittal posture.
         Taylor hesitates, gaze still fixed on the horizon. "You're persistent."
         "Just thorough," Carter counters, smiling. "I'll share them only with you."
         Taylor sighs, feigning reluctance. But he steps back, positions himself near a fallen log, hands half in pockets.
         "No posing," he reminds.
         "Wouldn't dream of it."
         Snap: Taylor against the valley, hair slightly tousled, expression caught somewhere between guarded and curious
         Snap: His profile turned toward light, jaw relaxed, one boot hooked behind the other.
         Taylor doesn't ask to see them. But his posture shifts after--just slightly. Like he's marked the moment as quietly significant.


         They settle on a rock ledge, shoes scuffed with trail dust. Taylor passes Carter a protein bar with cracked almond clusters, and they drink water in companionable silence.
         Then Carter nudges the guitar case with his boot. "Play something?"
         Taylor doesn't reply. Just unzips the case slowly, pulls the guitar into his lap with that same practiced indifference. He tunes it with surgical precision, fingers methodical.
         And then--
         He plays.
         Not a cover, not a standard. Something unfamiliar to Carter. Minor key with a wandering melody. No lyrics, just fingerpicked contemplation.
         Carter sits forward, elbows on knees, utterly still. His eyes don't stay on the guitar. They trace Taylor's face, hands, the way his shoulders tighten and loosen with phrasing.
         Then the camera lifts.
         Snap: Taylor leaning into the bridge.
         Snap: Taylor's thumb dragging a note with hesitation.
         Snap: Taylor's lashes low, lips slightly parted.
         Taylor notices. Of course he does. But he doesn't stop. Doesn't flinch. Just lets the final note trail off, then rests the guitar flat across his thighs.
         He doesn't say it was his own piece. But Carter doesn't ask. He doesn't need to.
         He'll replay that scene later--visually, emotionally, sonically.
         And Taylor? He'll pretend not to care that Carter documented all of it.


         Taylor pretends to study a cluster of wildflowers. Carter kneels to frame them, only to pause mid-shot and tile the lens upward--Taylor's silhouette against dappled light.
         "You're doing it again," Taylor murmurs without turning.
         "Doing what?" Carter grins, barely hiding his intention.
         "I said no posing."
         "Exactly. This isn't posed."
         Click.
         Taylor exhales with a shake of his head, amused. But beneath it, there's a faint warmth that catches just under his ribs.


         Later, Carter crouches by a fallen log, inspecting texture and shadows for contrast. His brows furrow in the way Taylor has come to recognize as total focus.
         Taylor quietly lifts his phone and snaps a photo. No announcement. Just instinct.
         "Gotcha," he says lightly.
         Carter glances up, mock-offended. "I thought no candids allowed."
         "That's my line," Taylor replies, smirking.


         Midway up a winding hill, Carter stops to catch breath--not from fatigue, but to feel the breeze.
         "You ever think trees feel competitive?" he asks, stretching.
         Taylor raises an eyebrow. "Like... rooting for more sunlight?"
         "Exactly. These two here--definitely frenemies."
         Taylor hums thoughtfully. "Must be exhausting. Constant shade games."
         They both laugh longer than the joke deserves.


         As they near the trail's end, breeze brushing against them like the forest's parting gesture, Carter's hum rises softly above the crunch of their steps. It's faint at first--just a few bars.
         Taylor hears it instantly. His fingers twitch at the melody, already mapped to muscle memory.
         Carter turns slightly. "What song was that, anyway? The melody's haunting and I really dig it."
         Taylor scratches his jaw, almost like debating whether to deflect.
         "It's... mine," he says at last. "One I wrote. Been sitting with it a while."
         Carter stops mid-stride.
         "It's.. it's beautiful."
         There's no teasing in his voice. No casual tone. Just a quiet kind of awe.
         Taylor shrugs, the motion fast. "Didn't think it was worth sharing."
         "I'm glad you did," Carter replies, still holding his camera in one hand and a look in his eyes that makes Taylor glance away first.
         Carter doesn't say it aloud, but the melody anchors itself inside him--looping behind his ribs, tucked somewhere deliberate.
         He logs it without ceremony.
         Our song.
         And walks the rest of the way beside Taylor like something's shifted.
         Just a little.
         Just enough.


         Taylor drives with one hand loosely on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. The Jeep hums in that way vehicles do when both passengers are content not to fill the silence. The trees thin out as they exit the park, and the stillness of the nature preserve gives way to pavement and road signage.
         Carter's guitar lies in the back, and his camera zipped inside the duffel bag. But his gaze isn't on the gear.
         He's watching the way Taylor studies the road--brows relaxed, mouth set in neutral concentration. Taylor's got a quiet presence when he isn't functioning professionally. It's observant, self-contained. Grounded.
         Carter stretches slightly in his seat, twisting to look through the window. Then, without breaking the rhythm:
         "Thanks for coming with me."
         Taylor's fingers shift just slightly on the wheel. He doesn't glance over.
         "Thanks for the invite," he says.
         There's no performative gratitude. No grin. Just a voice that lands easy in the space between them.
         A few moments pass. Then Carter, leaned back, still relaxed, starts quietly humming again--that tune. The one Taylor played. The Jeep fills with it gently, like it belongs to the vehicle.
         Taylor's eyes flick sideways. Just briefly.
         "Bit of an earworm, huh?"
         "Not gonna forget it," Carter says, simple and soft.
         Taylor's jaw tightens--not with discomfort, but something more like... absorption.
         He doesn't reply. But his next glance lingers.
         It holds.
         Carter catches it. Doesn't deflect, doesn't tease. Just nods once, very slightly, and watches the road pass under fading light.
         No labels. No shift in tone.
         Just a glance returned. No apology needed.


         Carter's neighborhood just at the edge of campus comes back into focus through streaked windows and the scrape of tires easing into rhythm with city streets. River Legacy is long gone in the rearview, but the silence inside the Jeep still carries the feeling of trees. Open air. Unearned grace.
         They'd talked--some. Laughed, quietly. Even bantered over protein bar flavors. But nothing had needed explaining.
         Now, as Taylor signals a turn toward Carter's street, the tension isn't discomfort. It's continuity. Like the kind you don't want to disrupt by saying too much.
         Taylor clears his throat lightly. "Discovered what would possibly be a new sanctuary for me. Thanks again."
         Carter grins, almost bashful. "Happy to share it with someone."
         Taylor smiles but doesn't respond immediately. He parks with quiet precision and keeps both hands on the wheel for a breath longer than usual.
         Carter moves slowly, gathering his gear and slinging the guitar strap across his chest. He doesn't reach for the door just yet.
         Taylor glances over--not hurried. The look holds.
         Carter meets it--equal parts grounded and grateful. They don't smile this time. They just look. And it's warm without asking for warmth.
         No fist bump. No lingering handshakes. Just that glance. That moment. That shared quiet.
         Carter exits, steps onto the curb, and watches the Jeep pull away, one hand lifting in parting acknowledgment.
         Inside the vehicle, Taylor lets out a single breath as he rounds the corner. No regrets. Just softness he hadn't expected to carry into his evening.


         The light is thin now--just slanted streaks across the floor where his guitar case leans. Carter settles at his desk, camera card already slotted, file transfer ticking the corner.
         He's silent as the photos populate.
         Taylor, looking out across the valley, hands tucked in pockets.
         Taylor on the trail, caught mid-turn, his profile half-lit with sun.
         Taylor playing guitar--fingers curved, eyes low, the melody still humming somewhere under Carter's skin.
         He labels the folder River Legacy - Saturday w/ T.
         Then, without thinking too hard, he makes a subfolder.
         "ours"
         Inside it go the candid guitar shots. The bench moment. The captured expression when Taylor watches the trees but wasn't really seeing them. Carter lingers on that one--the quiet absorption behind the physiotherapist's usual control.
         He replays the Jeep ride in his mind. The glance returned. The hum of a tune not forgotten.
         His body still carries the posture from that moment--his elbow resting on the window frame, his heart oddly steady for how full it feels.
         Carter doesn't capture anything.
         Not yet.
         But he lets himself imagine what that melody would sound like with words.


         Taylor sets down his keys. The place is quiet but not still. He moves with something residual, like his body hasn't quite left the trail behind.
         He sits on the couch--not to write notes or check emails, but just to be still.
         His guitar rests against the far wall.
         After a long beat, he stands. Picks it up. Doesn't sit down again. He just holds it, fingers brushing along the neck before they settle into position.
         Then he plays it again--that song.
         Slower this time. More deliberate.
         And somewhere between the bridge and the final chord, his chest feels tight--not with regret, not with panic, but with presence.
         Carter hummed it.
         Carter remembered it.
         Carter asked what it was.
         Taylor still hadn't told him the name. Mostly because it didn't have one. Not officially.
         He thinks for a moment then picks up his phone. Opens Notes.
         Just two words.
         "Memory map."
         That's all. For now.

8

Practice is hot--sun glaring, helmets clanking, hydration breaks short. Carter's spiral is sharp today, and the backups are feeling it. At one point, he fires a no-look toss across the field, landing perfectly in stride with a receiver.
         Taylor, clipboard in hand near the medical tent, watches the play unfold. When Carter jogs back past him, he mutters just loud enough for Carter to hear. "I thought quarterbacks were supposed to protect their wrists, not show off."
         Carter doesn't stop moving, but a grin spreads. "I'm stretching your skill set," he fires back.
         Next round, when Carter slow-rolls after a scramble, Taylor casually tosses a small towel toward him mid-stride. Hits him square in the chest.
         "Thought you said you had range," Taylor says.
         Carter catches it, twirls it once, and shoots him a look--the kind no one else on the field reads. It lasts a breath longer than necessary. Nothing overt. Nothing that would ping anyone's radar. But it's there.
         And Taylor doesn't look away.


         That afternoon, Carter lowers into the cold tub like he's earned it. Taylor's nearby, running post-practice diagnostics with a junior trainer. He's not scheduled to linger--but he does.
         They don't talk about bruises. Or recovery schedules.
         They just... stay.
         At one point, Carter kicks a cube toward the edge where Taylor's standing.
         "You're hovering."
         Taylor shrugs. "I like symmetry. You looked unbalanced."
         Carter smirks. "That's rich, coming from Mr. Precision."
         The junior trainer glances up, chuckling. "You two sharing a moment or something?"
         Carter laughs. "Just me and the frost."
         But Taylor's eyes flick toward him-- brief, charged, and unmistakably amused. A smirk follows. Carter catches it. Doesn't look away.
         They say nothing else until Carter's timer beeps.


         Mid-practice, Carter lingers near the bench with a sports drink in hand, half-listening to Coach Varner but his eyes occasionally flick to the sideline--where Taylor's half-focused on a hydration report.
         "You planning a hydration intervention?" Carter asks under his breath.
         Taylor glances sideways. "Only if you keep pretending electrolytes are optional."
         Carter grins. "What would I do without your passive-aggressive wellness wisdom?"
         Taylor doesn't reply immediately, but he tucks the corner of his mouth into a smirk and keeps walking.
         One of the receivers clocks it from afar, nudging a teammate: "They're definitely friends now." No one argues.


         Carter's ice bath days have grown a little longer--without explanation. Taylor stops asking. He just hangs back during those sessions, less technical, more present.
         Today, Carter tosses a cube toward the wall and watches it bounce off without purpose.
         Taylor mutters, "What's your accuracy rating when you're submerged?"
         Carter shrugs. "You don't keep stats?"
         Another trainer passes by and raises an eyebrow. "Would you two go get a room already?"
         They both laugh. The kind that sounds like it's just for them.


         Taylor's clearing out extra wrap tape. Carter strolls in with a sprained finger and ends up staying longer than needed. At one point, he's just leaning against the doorway, offering critiques of Taylor's music taste as it plays faintly from his phone.
         "You've got a soft spot for acoustic covers, don't you?"
         Taylor slides a fresh roll into the bin. "You say that like it's a flaw."
         Carter doesn't reply. He just smiles. And stays.


         Carter lies on the mat post-practice, arms overhead, legs in a lazy pretzel. Taylor adjusts the angle of his left hip, a minor realignment.
         Their eyes meet mid-motion.
         Taylor doesn't speak. Carter doesn't move. There's nothing charged--just trust. Ease. Familiarity.
         Carter exhales slowly. Taylor backs up. Nothing to correct.


         A dusky sky settles above the Athletic facility parking lot. Taylor slings his bag over his shoulder as Carter calls out, "You headed out?"
         "Yeah," Taylor says. Then pauses. "Actually..."
         Carter waits, tossing his keys lightly.
         "There's a cafe off Walnut," Taylor says. "I've been playing there Thursdays. Just sets--acoustic stuff. Nothing wild."
         Carter blinks. "You're... gigging?"
         Taylor nods. "Wanted someone there tonight who'd listen-- really listen. And maybe give me actual notes instead of just clapping politely."
         Carter stands taller. "You've been doing this behind our backs?" Then adds, awed: "When did you have time?"
         Taylor's voice is quieter now. "I made time."
         There's a beat. Then Carter grins, broad and unfiltered.
         "I'm there."

9

Carter arrives early--just in case. The small cafe off on Walnut and Berkshire is tucked into a quiet neighborhood miles from campus. Wood-paneled walls, mismatched mugs, and Edison bulbs shine condescendingly overhead. The crowd is eclectic but decidedly suburban. He orders something that smells burnt but comforts him anyway. He picks a booth close to the tiny stage, not center but angled, the way he always sits when he wants to observe without intruding.
         The mic stand waits like a promise.
         Then Taylor appears--guitar case in one hand, loose denim jacket over his shoulders, posture relaxed but eyes scanning for Carter. When he spots him, something shifts: the quiet tension that always lingers between them softens. He approaches, doesn't say much. Just a nod. A shared breath. Then he steps onstage, sits on the stool, settles his guitar on a propped knee, and adjusts the distance of the microphone from his mouth.


         Taylor doesn't speak much between songs. He lets the music do the heavy lifting.
         It's Carter's first time hearing him sing.
         And when Taylor starts, Carter freezes.
         The voice is a low warmth, almost smoky, with a reach that stretches without effort. The tone's intimate but restrained, like someone confiding without knowing if they're being heard.
         Carter is speechless.
         "This next one is an original," Taylor says, a slight shakiness in his voice. Not from nerves, exactly. More from anticipation, a bit of excitement.
         Carter recognizes the first chord immediately. His breath catches, heart rising.
         When the first lyric lands, he moves.
         Without planning it, he leaves the booth and stands closer to the stage, just off to the side, hands loose in his pockets. Swaying. Not performing appreciation--simply pulled by it.
         A few tables whisper. Not about the music, but the man who stood up and walked closer to it.
         There's a look in his eyes--open, unguarded, unaware. A look some of the cafe patrons briefly stopped to recognize. The kind that's been in films and novels and real-life goodbyes.
         The look of love.
         Carter doesn't know he's making it.
         Taylor glances toward him mid-verse. Sees it. Doesn't flinch. Keeps singing.
         And maybe--just maybe--he sings that final chorus softer. Not for the room. Not for critique.
         But for Carter.


         The set ends without flourish- Taylor's final note carried by a ripple of casual applause, as if the crowd sensed something personal had just concluded. He offers a nod, thanks the room, then steps offstage.
         Carter had sat back down by then, and he walked to his booth. Tyler allows a faint exhale and a tired grin- his post-performance expression soft, open, real. A mug of herbal tea is set in front of him by the cafe server.
         Carter leans back, eyes flicking toward the other tables- casual glances from strangers, a few lingering looks. He taps a finger against the table, then meets Taylor's gaze again.
         "You added lyrics."
         Taylor's smile deepens. "Yeah," he says. "I felt inspired."
         "Sounded so much better here than in the woods," Carter says, tone threatened with something nostalgic.
         Taylor tilts his head. "You liked it then."
         "I liked you."
         And Taylor stops moving altogether.
         They don't speak for a full stretch of time. Just sit-heat fading from their drinks, clarity forming in the quiet. Then Carter says, "I wasn't planning to stand up, you know."
         "I figured."
         "But I had to. It... I was moved."
         Taylor simply smiles. He stirs the remains of his herbal tea, the spoon quiet against ceramic. He's not rushing- if anything, he's pacing the silence.
         Carter waits. Not with expectation, but with a kind of open patience. His posture relaxed, eyes clear. He's still humming inside, even if his lips aren't moving anymore.
         Taylor watches him for a moment, then sets the spoon down.
         "You looked like you understood it," he says again--this time less about the song, and more about something underneath.
         Carter's brow ticks upward. "I did."
         There's no pressure in the reply. No push. Just truth.
         Taylor leans forward a little. Not dramatically. Just enough to soften the air between them.
         "I like you, Carter," he says.
         Simple. Bare.
         Carter doesn't move. Doesn't grin. Just listens.
         "I've liked you for a while now," Taylor adds, voice low. "But we both know my job doesn't make things easy. Especially on campus. Especially under the lights."
         There's no performative regret in it--no dramatic conflict. Just honest acknowledgment.
         "Some lines are drawn," he says, steady now. "Others... are harder to see."
         Carter blinks once, then breathes in slow. "And out here?"
         Taylor's gaze meets his. Holds.
         "Out here's different."
         For a long moment, nothing follows. Just the hum of a bus passing outside, a plate clinked in the kitchen, a lyric-less instrumental looping through the speaker overhead.
         Then Carter says, "I like you, too. Forever."
         He doesn't say it fast. Doesn't say it with bravado. Just calm, sure, as if the truth had been resting in his chest the whole time.
         Taylor's shoulders relax a fraction.
         And neither of them smiles.
         Not yet.
         They just sit in it. That in-between. That off-campus space where rules feel like suggestions and gravity feels negotiated.


         The cafe parking lot's mostly empty. A halo of lamplight bleeds across wet pavement.
         Carter stands beside Taylor's jeep, his hands tucked into the pockets of his denim jacket. The cool air doesn't touch the warmth in his chest.
         Taylor slams the trunk gently shut, his guitar now tucked safely in the backseat. "Where are you parked?"
         "Took the bus," Carter says plainly.
         Taylor straightens, mouth parting. "From campus?"
         A nod. Nothing more.
         Taylor stares, processing. That ride isn't short. Not late at night. Not when he could've waited, made an excuse. But he didn't.
         "You really came for me," Taylor says--not quite a question.
         Carter's lips curl, subtle. "Wouldn't have missed it."
         Taylor swallows, something tugging in his chest. Then-- "Let me drive you back."
         Carter accepts with a nod.
         Taylor pulls open the passenger side, then leans in to adjust the seat. When he turns again, Carter's right there--close, still. He reaches gently, fingertips at Taylor's waist, and pulls him forward.
         Their lips touch.
         It's soft. Intentional.
         Taylor pulls back, startled, head whipping around like the kiss detonated something public. His eyes skim the lot--lamps, shadows, no one nearby.
         He looks back at Carter, whose eyes haven't shifted. Focused. Wanting.
         Taylor inhales, then closes the space with his mouth. This time, it's fiercer. Less hesitant. Their bodies align, the kiss deepens, and time folds. A few minutes melt. The air around them seems to blur.
         When they part, breathless and flushed, Taylor's glance still flits nervously. Carter, though, just watches him--with heat, with calm.
         "Take me to your place," Carter says, quiet but clear.
         The words land like a match on dry wood.

10

The highway glows faintly. Taylor's knuckles on the wheel pale a shade brighter. Carter watches him from the passenger seat, his thigh barely grazing Taylor's. Not accidental. He drives a notch above his usual pace--not reckless, not rushed. Just slightly pressed. The hum of the tires feels louder than the music, though nothing's playing.
         Carter's gaze is constant. Not demanding, just present. His eyes trace Taylor's profile, settle on the flex of his forearm, the soft clench in his jaw. His body tilted in quiet draw.
         Taylor notices.
         He doesn't comment. Just clears his throat once, presses harder on the gas, and lets himself be a little more reckless with time.
         They arrive at Taylor's apartment complex with little ceremony. Lights spill from a neighbor's porch as Taylor kills the ignition. Neither speaks--just movement now, silent and thick.
         The door swings shut behind them. The apartment is dim, but neither fumbles for light.
         Hands find fabric. Shirts lifted, jeans kicked off. Mouths meet like they've run out of time to stall.
         It's not choreographed--it stutters and shudders. Kisses land too hard or miss, fingers fumble with belt loops. They're both hungry, but not quite fluent. Not yet. But it doesn't matter. The want is louder than the mess.
         They find the bed. Sheets rumpled, blinds half-closed. Clothes trail behind them like breadcrumbs.
         It's Carter who gasps first. Taylor who groans into his shoulder.
         It's not perfect. But it's real.
         After, they lie tangled. Skin sticky. Hearts still climbing down from the high.
         Taylor wraps around Carter naturally, broader, heavier in the way that offers anchoring. Carter's head rests just beneath Taylor's chin. The air has slowed.
         A pause.
         Then Carter exhales, the words soft from a place deeper than his lungs.
         "This."
         Taylor kisses the back of Carter's neck. Doesn't rush his reply.
         "This," he echoes, his voice caught somewhere between awe and surrender.


         A soft light bleeds through the blinds, diffused and warm, touching scattered clothing on the floor and the quiet curve of tangled sheets.
         They'd drifted apart overnight--bodies shifting with sleep, the heat of the evening giving way to the gentle cool of morning. But now Carter stirs.
         A soft groan, a stretch, then a slow scoot across the mattress. He finds the dip in the bed where Taylor lies on his back, one arm sprawled across the pillow, face turned away from the window.
         Carter slides in naturally, curling into Taylor's side. Head settles on his shoulder. Fingers draw lazy shapes across the chest--light trails through hair that's soft but thick.
         A pause. A sigh.
         "I've fantasized over this chest."
         Taylor blinks awake, mouth twitching.
         Carter squints. "Man, that sounds weird."
         Taylor laughs, voice husky. "Not even the weirdest thing that's been said in this bed."
         Carter chuckles against him. "I didn't know what I was doing last night."
         Taylor shifts to wrap an arm around him. "Me neither. But..."
         A beat passes.
         They both exhale at once.
         Taylor mutters, "Fuck, man."
         And they burst into laughter, muffled against shoulders and blankets-- ridiculous, tender, and completely theirs.


         The apartment shower isn't built for two--especially not when one of them is built like a quarterback and the other's broad from years of treating athletes but not dodging tackles himself.
         Taylor ducks under the stream first, adjusting the uneven temperature, and Carter tries to follow without colliding. It doesn't work.
         "Sorry," Carter laughs, bumping an elbow into Taylor's ribs. "Not exactly a team-sized locker room in here."
         "Wouldn't pass a physiotherapy assessment," Taylor grumbles, pressing his back awkwardly to the tile.
         A burst of cold water hits Carter's shoulder as he shifts. They both swear, then laugh, tangled up in the curtain that clings too closely.
         But the space shrinks in other ways too--steam rising, fingers finding skin with less hesitation than the night before. Carter leans into Taylor, heat building between slippery bodies and stuttering breath.
         Carter releases first--quiet and close, forearm braced against the wall, forehead resting against Taylor's shoulder.
         Taylor follows with a soft grunt, blinking through mist and smiling dazedly. "We're definitely testing the limits of this plumbing."
         They rinse, sharing laughter, a towel, and a toothbrush in the post-orgasm haze of two people too content to be proper.


         The drive is short and quiet. The hum of tires, a few soft glances exchanged, everything still warm.
         But as they near Carter's rental--a modest house shared with some of his teammates--he shifts in his seat.
         "Can you let me out here?" Carter asks.
         Taylor slows instinctively, nodding. "Yeah. Good call."
         Carter shoulders his bag, fingers ghosting Taylor's wrist. "Thanks. For... all of it."
         Taylor watches him for a breath before replying: "Thanks for trusting me."
         The door clicks shut. Carter gives a small wave and turns away.


         Geno hadn't planned on a morning jog, but the restlessness insisted. Four blocks from the house, he rounds a corner and catches sight of Carter stepping out of a Jeep.
         Taylor's Jeep.
         Geno slows, frowning. His jog turns into a quiet shuffle as he watches Carter turn away from the Jeep, shoulders relaxed, smile creeping up--something warm and light.
         Then Carter does a skip. Just a small, unguarded bounce that carries him down the sidewalk and toward their rental.
         Geno's breath catches. He doesn't know what he's seeing exactly, but the image doesn't fit the Carter he's used to.
         Confusion settles. Not alarm--just something that doesn't align.


         It is late morning and the rental house smells faintly of laundry, turf, and reheated sausage links. Laughter cuts through like halftime banter.
         Carter's just finished tossing his backpack onto the couch when the ribbing starts. No one's holding back.
         "He's being coy," one of the linemen calls from the kitchen, mouth full of peanut butter toast. "But he definitely got lucky last night."
         "Which cheerleader was it?" another pipes up, flipping through ESPN highlights on the TV.
         "Or how many at the same time?" someone adds.
         That one gets the loudest laugh.
         Carter grins through it, deflects with a lazy shrug, grabs a bottle of water like it's armor. His walk toward the hallway is smooth, practiced, and precisely noncommittal.
         Just as he turns, Geno steps in from his jog, hoodie damp, breath still hitching.
         He hears it all--the laughter, the joking, the unfiltered locker-room camaraderie. He even smirks at a couple lines, lets out a low chuckle, doing nothing to break the rhythm.
         But his eyes don't join the chaos. They scan.
         Carter catches him, flashes a mock salute like he's the commander of mischief, then disappears down the hall to his room. No explanation. No denial. Just a wink and exit.
         Geno watches that door close.
         He doesn't say anything.
         He doesn't know the whole story.
         But he knows what he saw--Taylor behind the wheel, Carter's gait light, that half-skip too full of something to be casual.
         Geno exhales, rubs the back of his neck, then steps deeper into the house.
         He decides to keep quiet. For now.


         Morning light slices through the windshield. Taylor's arm drapes loosely over the wheel, palm steady despite the chaos behind his eyes.
         The Jeep hums along the tree-lined boulevard, one tire slightly underinflated, which somehow feels appropriate. Carter's scent still lingers faintly, like an echo in the passenger seat. Taylor rolls the window halfway down, hoping the breeze will clear his head. It doesn't.
         His lips tug upward, involuntarily, when he thinks about that final glance between them. There'd been warmth in it. A new weight. Something real.
         And yet. The joy bubbles uncomfortably close to dread.
         Taylor's fingers tighten briefly around the steering wheel. The implications crowd in: locker rooms, staff meetings, sideline glances. The scrutiny. The inevitable games of interpretation-- one too-long glance could become gossip, a quiet moment a rumor.
         He exhales through his nose and forces his face neutral. The strategy starts forming in real time: play it cool, stay inside the lanes, don't get careless. Not with this. Not with Carter.
         No moves unless they're safe.
         No tells unless they're shielded.
         Let it play out. Let time be the decider. But for now: clean lines, steady hands, and quiet mouths.
         He pulls into the school lot, parks, kills the engine.
         And sits there. Just for a second longer than he needs to.

11

The next two weeks stretch out in dual tones--public ease, private fire. And somewhere in the blur, a quiet pair of eyes take note.


         Monday morning, practice field. Carter jogs past Taylor post-drill, sweat slick along his temple, and casually flips him a towel mid-stride. Taylor catches it without looking.
         "Precision," Carter mutters with a smirk.
         "Don't flatter yourself. That towel had trajectory."
         Their exchange is quick, timed with the kind of rhythm that teammates chalk up to familiarity. But Geno watches, one brow lifted. He's not near, but near enough. The smiles look a little too easy. The glance Taylor sends as Carter turns toward the huddle... not unreadable.


         Tuesday night, Taylor's apartment. Taylor's back presses into the fridge as Carter kisses him with a kind of practiced need--one hand bracing on the door, the other tugging at the hem of Taylor's shirt.
         There's laughter between the urgency. Bumps against cabinets. The kind of kiss that sounds like shared air.
         They don't make it to the couch. A trail of clothes marks the way toward the bedroom, where restraint burns off in flickers.


         Wednesday afternoon. Taylor adjusts a compression wrap on Carter's wrist. Their conversation is minimal.
         But Carter's knee brushes Taylor's briefly. Their hands touch once too long during the wrap switch. Taylor doesn't look up--doesn't need to. He knows the rhythm of Carter's breath now.
         Geno watches from across the room. Doesn't say a word. But something catches: Taylor's fingers curling inward after the touch. Carter's subtle lean. It isn't loud, but it's there.
         Cracks forming.
         
         Thursday night. Taylor's place again.
         Carter arrives late, hoodie damp from light rain. They don't talk at first--just press together on the couch, legs tangled under the blanket.
         Taylor plays something soft on his stereo. Carter hums along, fingers trailing lazy across Taylor's chest.
         It's slower this time. A quiet kind of passion. Muted but felt.


         Friday. In the Athletic Center.
         Geno rewatches a play on his tablet, Carter flanking the screen from the corner of the Rec Room. Taylor passes by, discussing a rehab schedule with another trainer--but his glance flickers once toward Carter.
         Carter catches it, and doesn't look away.
         Their connection is clean. Quick. But Geno's watching now with intention. A mental file forming. He doesn't confront, doesn't stir anything.
         Just logs the glance. The warmth. The patterns.
         He's not guessing anymore. He's just waiting.


         The following Monday, stretching zone, 6:00 AM.
         Taylor braces Carter's ankle, guiding him through slow rotations. Onlookers see functional silence. Carter cracks a joke only Taylor hears: "Pretty sure this is foreplay in some countries."
         Taylor doesn't flinch. "You're lucky it's just your ankle today."
         They hold eye contact a beat too long. Geno, sipping coffee nearby, catches the lingering. Files it under: "playful masks."


         Tuesday, Taylor's place.
         The lights stay off. Carter sits shirtless, back against the cabinets, Taylor between his legs, both panting. Not from lust--but laughter. A dropped wine glass and improvised cleanup spiraled into kisses, then into something else: slow, consuming connection with whispered jokes stitched between moans.
         It's not rough anymore. It's rhythmic. Familiar. Taylor mouths "you're ridiculous" against Carter's shoulder. Carter grins like he's won something big.


         Wednesday, training table.
         Taylor tapes Carter's ribs post-scrimmage, eyes scanning the bruises. Carter's tone dips: "You worry more when you're pissed off at me."
         Taylor doesn't answer. Just presses down harder than necessary. Geno watches from a nearby bench, pretending to review his own ankle wrap, but really clocking Carter's wince and Taylor's smirk.
         Filed under: "passive-aggressive tenderness."


         Thursday. Taylor's balcony, dusk.
         Carter reads out loud from a dog-eared book while Taylor massages his foot with rhythmic care. They're shirtless but soft, golden light on their skin, a lazy breeze pushing around the edges of their comfort.
         There's no rush. Just a shared pace, one that didn't exist two weeks ago.
         Taylor says, "You're different here."
         Carter replies, "I'm myself here."
         Geno doesn't see this moment. But he feels its echo later in Carter's mood on the field.


         Sunday night.
         Geno sits alone, scrolling his camera roll. A few sideline shots. One where Carter's hand brushes Taylor's back with suspicious familiarity. Another mid-laugh when Taylor looks at Carter like the world's narrowed to him.
         Geno doesn't smile. Doesn't judge. Just narrows the list. Connection: check. Touch: check. Shift in identity? Still watching. But the rhythm's real. And it's growing.

12

The Coyotes effortlessly win this away game. The post-game buzz still hums through the hallway-laughter, towel slaps, the distant pop of beers cracked in celebration. Carter's jersey hangs loose on his frame, his cleats still half-laced as he exits the elevator behind Geno.
         Geno doesn't wait. Doesn't turn. Just speaks over his shoulder. "Let me guess. You sleeping in Taylor's room tonight?"
         Carter halts, brows drawn in. "The fuck you talking about?"
         Geno turns slowly, unbothered. "You know exactly what I'm talking about, dude."
         A scoff, a head shake from Carter- part deflection, part warning.
         But Geno doesn't flinch.
         "Look, I'm not gonna say anything," he continues, evenly. "But I'm not gonna stay quiet if whatever this is starts fucking up our game."
         Geno walks off. Leaves Carter in the hallway with echoes of celebration behind him, and a pulse now hammering against his ribs.


         Taylor's room, three doors down. Carter walks past it without stopping. He takes the keycard to his own room, tosses his gear bag onto the bed, and sits-jersey still clinging to his skin, Geno's words in his head like static.
         He pulls out his phone. Nearly texts Taylor. But stops.
         Tonight was supposed to be clean. Discreet. Discipline over desire.
         Instead, Carter replays every touch in the past two weeks with the eyes of an outsider: the rhythm he's found with Taylor, the way it feels more natural than anything before- and how it might look from Geno's side of the field.
         For the first time, the locker room wouldn't feel like neutral ground.


         Morning sunlight over the quiet breakfast spread.
         Carter's plate goes untouched. Taylor makes brief conversation with a teammate across the table, glancing toward Carter now and then--but Carter keeps his posture loose, his gaze unfocused.
         Geno enters late, no sign of confrontation. Just a nod toward Carter as he grabs his coffee.
         They'll talk later. No eruption. Just Carter wanting to own the rhythm of this new space before it gets defined by someone else.


         Back at the CU campus, the Athletic Center's gym is empty this late morning save for two students. Fluorescent lights hum overhead. Iron clangs in rhythm. The air smells like chalk and silence.
         Carter drops the bar onto the rack, exhaling as he sits up, towel slung over his neck. Geno finishes a set on the adjacent bench, wipes his palms slowly, and nods once--just enough to acknowledge the timing.
         They don't speak for the first few minutes. Just move. Stretch. Lift. Let the rhythm ease into them.
         Then Carter breaks the silence: "Thanks for joining me today."
         Geno shrugs. "Better than watching game tape on the couch."
         Carter watches him a beat, then sets his water bottle down.
         "I need you to hear something," he says, voice steady. "And I need you to let me say it before you decide what to do with it."
         Geno leans against the bench, towel over his shoulder. Doesn't nod. Doesn't interrupt.
         "This thing with Taylor--it's real. It's new. I didn't plan it, didn't even expect it. But it's happening, and I'm not shying away from it."
         Geno's jaw shifts, but nothing else.
         "I know you've seen some stuff. I didn't mean for it to get obvious. We've been careful. We will stay careful."
         Carter breathes, then adds: "But I need you to understand this--this doesn't mess with my game. If anything, I feel looser. More locked in. I've stopped wasting brain space wondering what if. It's just quiet now, and I can play."
         There's a beat.
         "I'm asking for discretion, man. I'm asking for space to figure this out without worrying it screwing up the team."
         Geno runs a hand over his buzzed hair, exhales slowly, like his body's buying time his mouth hasn't asked for. Then: "You're my quarterback," he says, finally. "You mess up, I feel it. If your head's gone, I've got linebackers throwing me into the turf."
         Carter doesn't flinch. "I get that."
         Geno's voice sharpens, but not cruel--just matter-of-fact.
         "I've seen guys spiral over relationships, straight or not. Seen it take people out of the zone. You say you're better. I'll watch. I'll decide."
         "And yeah--I clocked it," he continues. "I've been clocking it. I didn't say anything because you weren't fumbling. But now I know. And I do care what this means--for the locker room, for chemistry. That doesn't mean I'm gonna run my mouth."
         Carter nods. "I'm not trying to make you comfortable with my personal life," he says. "I'm just asking that you give me... and Taylor... more time to sort through things. Before going public."
         Geno scoffs lightly. "I'm not looking to play gossip columnist."
         Then, quieter: "This isn't my lane. But I respect what you just did. That's not easy. So yeah--I'll keep quiet. Long as the game stays clean."
         "Don't make me regret trusting you," he adds.
         Carter grins faintly. "Not planning on it."
         Geno pushes off the bench, heads toward the squat rack. Stops. Looks back. "Also?" he says. "You better not tank against Berkshire. Or I'll start blaming everyone in your support system."
         Carter laughs. "Fair enough."

13

The sports medicine center hums with idle chatter, antiseptic tang in the air. Taylor's focus is fixed on Carter's knee--not overly clinical, but deliberate. His fingers move with practiced confidence, guiding the wrap through familiar rotations. Carter leans back on the treatment table, palms relaxed, eyes not.
         Their glances meet--just flickers. One while Taylor secures the anchor strip. Another when Carter shifts his leg slightly.
         There's no smirk. No wink. Just calculation. Precision. And something unspoken hovering between care and craving.
         A linebacker is sprawled on the adjacent exam table.
         "Aww, that looks so romantic," he calls out, voice full of obnoxious charm.
         Carter rolls his eyes. Taylor doesn't blink.
         Then, from across the room: "Shut up," Geno says evenly. "You're just jealous. Besides, Physio takes care of all of us equally. Isn't that right?"
         Taylor, still mid-wrap, grins faintly. "Damn right. You all get hurt with equal frequency. Keeps me employed though."
         Light laughter pops around the room. Geno chuckles and walks off, nodding toward the door. He never looks at Carter. Not once.
         But Carter watches him go.
         He registers the deflection. The defense. Subtle as a seam in an old jersey. And it tightens something in his chest--not in panic, just recognition.
         Geno knows. And for now, Geno's holding the line.


         Outside the sports medicine center, Carter is leaning against the wall, thumb idly dragging across his lock screen, mostly to avoid eye contact. Taylor exits and steps up beside him, holding a water bottle, his taping apron still loosely slung at his side.
         They don't touch. But they're close in that way you only get when you already know the shape of someone's silence.
         Taylor studies him for a beat, then murmurs: "What's wrong?"
         Carter's expression doesn't shift, but something in his shoulders tightens. "Geno knows."
         Taylor's head tilts, faint but sharp. "Knows...?"
         Carter hesitates. It's not new territory-they've had months of quiet, coded closeness. But when Geno's name comes up, the calculus changes.
         "About us," he finally says.
         Taylor doesn't answer right away. Just takes a sip of water like it might dilute the tension. "We've been careful."
         Carter nods. "Maybe not careful enough."
         There's a beat where Taylor wants to press: Does Geno knows how deep this goes? Does he know I can name every mole on Carter's back? The scar on Carter's inner left thigh? But instead: "Alright. Then we stay sharp."
         A quiet agreement. Not out of shame, but protection.
         And when they part, Taylor's hand brushes briefly against Carter's. No one sees it. But Carter feels it linger longer than touch should.


         Dim light pools from the kitchen, casting soft shadows on the floor. Taylor is perched on the edge of his couch, not scrolling his phone, just staring at it.
         He rewinds the moment- Geno's voice across the room, the joke, the laugh, the way he didn't look at Carter once. Not even in passing.
         Not accidental.
         Not neutral.
         Taylor exhales, runs a thumb over the condensation of his water glass.
         Carter had said that Geno knows.
         Taylor knows what that means. They've crafted this thing-bit by bit, moment by moment, woven in hushes and glances and whispered nights. And they've hidden it in plain sight.
         But Geno might have seen not just a moment, but a pattern. A rhythm.
         Taylor swallows hard. Not fear. Not quite. But a tremor of being known when you've tried so hard not to be.
         He texts no one. He doesn't need to.
         Instead, he pulls the throw blanket closer and lets Carter's voice echo in his mind- soft, cautious, full of weight.
         They've been careful. But maybe not invisible.

14

The week before the home game, a tapestry of precision and permission plays out-one thread tightly wound in daylight, the other fraying beautifully in the dark.


         Monday. On campus, Carter and Taylor become choreography. Measured passes on the turf, subtle nods between drills. Taylor checks Carter's ankle stability with clinical detachment--no lingering fingers, no indulgent eye contact.
         Carter plays his part well. That teasing smirk? Disarmed. That extra-long glance? Deleted.
         But that night in Taylor's apartment, they're undressed before the fridge light has a chance to turn off.
         Taylor's mouth on Carter's neck is bruising, reverent. Carter groans against the hallway wall, fingers fisting the back of Taylor's hoodie. They move with practiced desperation, as if the cost of silence feeds their hunger.


         Tuesday. In front of the team, Carter slouches on the bench, joking about protein mixes. Taylor makes a comment about hydration charts and doesn't so much as glance Carter's way.
         Geno watches. Carter sees him watching.
         Later, Carter and Taylor meet in the basement rec room no one uses anymore. The lights are dim, the carpet dated, the mood electric.
         Carter straddles Taylor's lap. Their laughter is muffled against each other's mouths. It isn't rushed--it's burning slow and low. Words are few. Touch is fluent.


         Wednesday. Taylor works on Carter's shoulder. The table is squeaky. A junior trainer stands nearby. Taylor narrates like a textbook.
         They don't speak beyond the technical. No jokes. No warmth.
         But in the early morning hours, Carter climbs into Taylor's bed while he's still half-asleep. A kiss lands on Taylor's ribs. Taylor slides a hand down Carter's spine. They barely speak.
         The silence is safe. And full.


         Thursday. They cross paths near the athletic building entrance. Carter is flanked by teammates. Taylor exits holding a clipboard. No wave. No nod.
         But that night, Carter enters through the back of Taylor's apartment. They don't turn the lights on. They don't play music. They just are.
         Carter sprawled across Taylor's chest, their hands tracing each other's shoulder blades like territory.
         Taylor whispers, "I needed today." Carter replies, "Me too."


         Friday. Before team dinner, Taylor offers ice rotations to the quarterbacks. Carter gets his early. The interaction is short. Efficient.
         Later, in Taylor's apartment again, they drink too-hot tea in the back patio and hold hands under a blanket for a while before slipping inside.
         The sex isn't urgent. It's deliberate. Every move feels like permission given, not stolen.
         Taylor pants against Carter's jaw, "We're good at this."
         Carter says, "Too good."
         They fall asleep tangled, the hallway light left on by accident.
         Public tension. Private combustion.
         Next stop: game day.

15

The CU campus is a ball of energy especially when the Coyotes are on home turf. The stands shake. On the field, the lines blur. Pain and pride clash beneath stadium lights.
         Every yard feels borrowed during the first quarter. The crowd sways between encouragement and irritation, a cacophony of Coyote orange and opposing navy. Carter lands two brutal throws under pressure. One finds Hayes on the edge, the other skips off the turf.
         Taylor's on the sidelines, headset tight. His eyes track Carter's gait after each hit--there's something off. A pause too long. A wince too sharp.
         Geno watches from the sideline, arms crossed, game face composed. But he's tracking more than yardage.
         


         In the second quarter, the game tumbles onward. Carter scrambles right on third and seven. He gets the yardage--but doesn't get up right away.
         When he does, he limps. When he throws, he flinches. When he tries to block, he doesn't.
         Taylor intercepts him at the bench. Carter shrugs him off, but the limp betrays him. By halftime, Taylor makes the call: out for now.
         Carter sits with clenched fists and a clenched jaw. Taylor doesn't look over.


         In the third quarter, CU's backup quarterback stumbles into rhythm only to fumble it again. The defense holds--barely. The offensive line buckles--often.
         Carter paces behind the bench. His helmet on. Cleats tied. Anger smoldering.
         Taylor checks in with medical. Looks at Carter. Says nothing.
         Geno watches Carter like one would a fire behind glass--close enough to feel the heat, safe enough not to burn.


         Midway through the fourth quarter, Carter pleads with Coach Varner. Coach turns to Taylor.
"He says he's fine. What do you see?"
         Taylor locks eyes with Carter. "I see a player who shouldn't be anywhere near the field."
         Carter snaps, voice raised. "I can do this!"
         Taylor doesn't flinch. "And I'm telling you: I won't clear you."
         The backup fumbles again. The opposing team scores with under two minutes. The stadium groans.
         Carter curses under his breath and walks off. Taylor watches him go--but doesn't chase.


         The locker room is a palette of steam and silence. Carter showers without speaking. Taylor wraps up inventory and leaves before anyone can say a word.
         Geno, watching it all unfold, breathes in the conflict and exhales clarity. Carter had yelled. Taylor had held his ground.
         Taylor could've folded. Given in. Let Carter play broken just to preserve whatever they are. But he didn't.
         That meant something.
         Geno doesn't know how to name it yet. But it settles in him quietly.


         Back at the rental house, the living room hums with low banter and leftover adrenaline. A few teammates lounge around with greasy takeout, ESPN muted in the background. Someone tries to razz Carter about a post-game meme circulating already--he doesn't bite.
         Carter's on the couch, slouched deep, scrolling absently. His jaw is tense. Eyes unfocused but burning.
         Someone tosses him a warm water bottle like it's a peace offering. He catches it, doesn't drink.
         Geno sits at the edge of the kitchen counter, half-shadowed, sipping soda, observing the fracture lines.
         When the volume gets too loud, Carter stands.
         He doesn't announce it. Just moves--deliberate, not rushed.
         One of the linemen calls out, "Where you headed?"
         Carter pauses at the door. "Just getting out for some air."
         The line is simple. Practiced. Neutral.
         But Geno leans forward slightly. Watches the way Carter's fingers flex on the doorknob, the twitch in his shoulder. He knows that kind of air isn't fresh--it's thick with unsaid things and unmet need.
         Carter steps out.
         Geno doesn't follow. Not yet.


         Taylor opens the door and doesn't get a greeting--he gets Carter's hand at his neck, mouth crashing into his before the lock even clicks. They stumble backward into the hall, colliding with walls, breath already fast, already uneven.
         Their jackets land somewhere between the foyer and the kitchen tiles. Taylor fumbles with the buttons on Carter's flannel, curses softly when Carter yanks the whole thing off in one tug.
         They kiss like they've waited months.
         Carter grips Taylor's waist with both hands, backing him into the wall--then into the living room. Taylor flips them with a grunt, and suddenly Carter's spine hits the bookshelf. Neither of them cares.
         The couch becomes a battlefield of denim and groans. Carter straddles Taylor's lap, grinding once, twice, biting Taylor's jaw before whispering something that makes Taylor growl.
         "You take and then I do," Carter says.
         Taylor's hands slide under Carter's shirt, dragging it upward, revealing ribs, muscle, heat.
         "You think you call the rhythm?" Taylor asks, half-laughing, fully breathless.
         But Carter's already flipped them again. Already pinning Taylor beneath him, fingers tracing the defined line of his abs before leaning in to kiss slow--then not slow.
         The clothing peels off like steam. It clings, it tangles, it piles.
         They move into the bedroom together with no choreography, shifting control, alternating pressure. There's no script. Just instinct.
         Taylor holds Carter's wrist against the mattress while Carter pants through clenched teeth, Taylor's mouth on his collarbone.
         Carter rides the friction until he's gasping, releasing with a stutter of sound muffled against Taylor's shoulder.
         Taylor flips them one last time, as if claiming something deeper than space, and finds his own edge through Carter's moans and whispered urgencies.
         They break together, bodies seized, breath stolen.
         Eventually, they collapse into each other. Sweat cooling. Lips bruised. Limbs tangled.
         Carter's leg is thrown across Taylor's thigh, Taylor's fingers lazily circling Carter's hip bone.
         The silence stretches. A good silence. A full silence.
         Then Taylor chuckles, voice hoarse. "Pretty sure that was rage sex."
         Carter laughs, rolling toward him. "Nah," he says, grinning. "There was no rage there."
         Taylor laughs too, the kind that curls in his chest.
         Then they kiss again--not hurried, not heated. Just soft. Familiar.
         A tight embrace follows--one of warmth, of want, of choosing.
         They don't speak again for a while. They don't need to.


         They don't dress all at once. Carter sits on the edge of the bed, shirt still off, fingers absently tracing the curve of Taylor's knee beneath the sheet. Outside, the air is quiet--the kind of late-night hush that feels forgiving but not forgetful.
         Taylor leans against the headboard, watching Carter's posture settle into something reluctant. "You heading out?"
         Carter nods once. Not fast, but with resolve. "Told the guys I was just stepping out for some air. Can't drag that lie out till morning."
         Taylor's mouth tugs into something half-understanding, half-unsaid. "You could stay anyway. Lie's already halfway built."
         Carter tilts his head, eyes landing on Taylor--soft, steady, threaded with want. "You know I want to."
         Taylor nods. Because of course he does.
         But what lingers between them now isn't want--it's calculation. Strategy. Self-preservation.
         They dress quietly. Taylor tosses Carter his hoodie, Carter slips it on, then pauses at the door like he's forgotten something.
         He turns. Taylor's already watching.
         Then Carter closes the space, hand curling at the back of Taylor's neck, and their mouths meet again--full, deep, slower than earlier but no less heated.
         There's no rush. Just the ache of goodbye curled up inside longing.
         Taylor murmurs against his lips: "Be safe."
         Carter replies with a breath, a brush of knuckles against Taylor's ribs. "Always."
         He slips out the door, hoodie drawn tight, steps starting with quiet determination that soon shift into a jog. Not frantic. Just focused.
         Taylor watches the door long after it closes. Wonders whether Carter is thinking of him as his soles strike pavement.


         The front door of the rental house clicks open softly.
         Carter steps inside, hoodie drawn up, shoes barely registering on the floorboards. The warmth on his skin hasn't faded yet. Nor the half-smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.
         He moves like someone lighter than before.
         Geno's still up. Leaning on the counter with a glass of water in hand, phone facedown beside it. He says nothing at first--just watches Carter walk in with that unmistakable afterglow. Not giddy. Not loud. Just... settled.
         Carter sees him, pauses mid-step. "You're still up?"
         Geno shrugs, sips. "Didn't feel like crashing yet."
         A beat passes.
         Then: "That was a long walk for air," Geno says, not unkind. Not digging. Just observation.
         Carter lifts his chin. Doesn't flinch. "Needed the time."
         Geno nods once, slowly. No raised brow. No smirk. Just acknowledgment. "Got it."
         There's no tension between them. Not now. No questions. No judgment. Just quiet understanding, even if Geno chooses not to name it.
         Carter exhales, the edge of his earlier adrenaline smoothing. "G'night," he says, simple.
         Geno doesn't look up from his glass. Just replies: "Night."
         Carter slips down the hall. His bedroom door clicks shut. And Geno stays there a while longer, staring at nothing, as if calibrating what respect sounds like when no one's asking for it.

16

Monday. During post-practice cooldown, Taylor moves through a row of players distributing electrolyte sachets and checking wrist strains. Carter's last in line, sitting on a cooler, foot propped.
         Taylor crouches to stretch Carter's ankle. Fingers find familiar grooves. Carter rests his hand absently on Taylor's shoulder--natural, thoughtless. Just contact.
         From three feet away, linebacker Rhodes jokes: "You two still passing secret codes, or just stretching?"
         Taylor doesn't respond. Carter smirks, eyes forward.
         Geno's nearby but doesn't react. The moment lands, light but real.


         In the campus caf Tuesday mid-morning, Carter and Taylor sit side-by-side at a small table, review sheets spread between empty espresso cups. They speak quietly, heads tilted close.
         Taylor adjusts his leg and Carter's knee ends up against his--light pressure, not pulled away.
         A barista clears a nearby table and does a double-take.
         Later, when she's in the back texting a coworker: "Pretty sure the quarterback was getting a knee rub from the physio dude???"
         The message is half a joke. But still sent.


         Wednesday.
         Carter's arm is sore from the previous day's scrimmage. Taylor assesses it during team cooldown. Their exchange is quick, efficient. But as Taylor steps away, Carter says low: "You always know exactly where it hurts."
         Taylor looks over, not smiling, but something flickers.
         Two players notice. One shrugs. One watches a little longer than usual.


         Late Thursday night. Taylor's apartment.
         They don't speak much before undressing. Carter kicks off his jeans while Taylor fumbles with a lamp. They land in bed fast, breathless. The rhythm is intense--Taylor straddling Carter, both of them gasping through release.
         They don't fall asleep quickly.
         Taylor brushes Carter's hair off his forehead, says: "You were colder today."
         Carter replies: "Didn't wanna slip up."
         Taylor sighs into his shoulder. They kiss once more. Not for heat--but quiet anchoring.


         Carter waits outside Coach's office for a review on Friday afternoon. Taylor passes behind him, scanning his phone. Carter doesn't look up, but taps once on Taylor's forearm as he goes by.
         It's small. Unremarkable. Except for the assistant trainer sitting beside Carter who lifts an eyebrow.


         Saturday afternoon outside the Athletic Center. The Coyotes load gear into the bus. Taylor double-checks his med bag, calls out last names. Carter boards without a glance.
         No smirks. No notes. No contact.
         But Geno watches.
         He sees the invisible tension--that strain between wanting and caution.
         When Carter sits near the back and Taylor takes a seat across the aisle, no one else seems to clock it.
         Except Geno. And maybe one freshman wide receiver who turns to a teammate and mutters: "Something's up with our QB lately. You feel that?"
         The teammate shrugs. But the observation stays.

17

The away turf hums with anticipation, chalk lines still bright beneath stadium lights. Every step off the bus feels like a test, but the Coyotes move as one--gear slung, postures tight. Carter lingers near the back, helmet swinging from his fingers, gaze flicking up just as Taylor zips up the med bag and joins the current of bodies toward the locker room.
         Inside, pregame rituals thrum: straps tightened, playlists blasting, linemen chanting half in jest, half in threat. Taylor traces the rows, checking wrists and ankles, but when his hands hover near Carter's shoulder, the touch is brisk--businesslike, careful. But Carter's breath catches for a second and Taylor's lips press together, as if to swallow a comment.
         Kickoff comes with a clangor of cowbells and rival jeers. The first quarter unfolds in measured exchanges--short gains, careful containment, no one risking too much. Carter's passes are precise, but his eyes flick sideline-ward after nearly every play, seeking Taylor's outline among the trainers. Taylor, clipboard in hand, marks each drive, his focus sharper than necessary. Geno prowls the sideline, arms folded.
         Late in the first half, the Coyotes' defense snags an interception. Carter gathers the offense, calls for tempo. Hayes cuts across on a slant, Carter threads the needle, and the end zone erupts. The sideline surges; Taylor's grin is a quick, hidden thing. As Carter jogs back, Taylor tosses him a water bottle, their fingers nearly brushing. For a heartbeat, the din recedes.
         The opposing team answers, tying the game with a bruising drive. Before halftime, Taylor tapes Carter's fingers, knuckles sticky with turf.
         "Relax," he says softly.
         Carter grins, eyes forward. "You first."


         Halftime locker room: the air is thick with sweat and deodorant. Coach sketches routes, shouts about composure. The offense listens, but Carter sits apart, towel over his head. Taylor kneels beside the ice chest, watching. Geno catches the glance, then looks away.


         Third quarter, the Coyotes stumble. A botched screen, a fumble, and the rivals punch in two field goals--now the crowd is raucous. Carter's rhythm falters. Taylor paces, hands balled in his pockets. Between plays, he checks Carter's knee wrap, voice steady: "You're fine." Carter nods, but his jaw is set.


         The fourth quarter opens with a field goal--Coyotes claw back: 17-20. The rival QB scrambles, hurls up a desperate pass, and the Coyotes intercept. The sideline sparks, nervous energy crackling; Taylor's knuckles whiten on his clipboard.
         Coach bellows: "Fifty-six yards! Run it clean!" Carter barks signals, huddle tense as wire. Hayes sprints, Carter lofts a spiral--Hayes snatches it, is dragged down at the five, the stadium a riot of noise. The clock bleeds seconds.
         Next snap: Carter fakes left, plunges through a gap--touchdown. Helmets fly, bodies collide in exultant celebration. 23-20. Coyotes.


         Throughout the game, Carter and Taylor's interactions become warmer--less coded, more grounded. In the fourth quarter, Carter bumps Taylor's shoulder after a water handoff. Taylor squeezes Carter's wrist briefly while double-checking tape.
         A few players glance.
         Coach glances too. One of the assistants mutters something under his breath, unreadable.
         Geno watches everything. Says nothing.
         But he's no longer alone.
         The team bus rocks gently across the dark stretch of highway, interior wrapped in dim LED strips and patchwork snores. Most of the team is slumped--hoods up, legs stretched, earbuds humming lo-fi or nothing at all. Coach Varner is nodding off three rows up, arms crossed like defense posture doesn't sleep.
         Carter's in the very back, hoodie tugged loose, gaze on the window but mind somewhere else. He cradles his wrist idly, rotating it once before resting it on his thigh.
         The aisle creaks quietly.
         Taylor slides into the aisle seat across the way, settling with the quiet grace of someone who knows how close is still safe.
"You good?" he asks, voice low. Familiar. Like they've said it hundreds of different ways.
         Carter huffs out a half-laugh. "Define good."
         Taylor gives him a look--half smirk, half diagnostic. "Wrist?"
         Carter nods. "Tender. Stiff."
         Taylor leans over, extends a hand with zero ceremony. "Give it."
         Carter hesitates just long enough to tease, then places his wrist in Taylor's palm.
         The massage starts gentle--thumb sliding beneath the bone, pressure radiating outward. Carter's shoulder drops.
         Their heads dip slightly closer. Carter murmurs: "Pretty sure you're just showing off."
         Taylor glances up beneath his lashes. "You're not wrong."
         One aisle up, a drowsy wide receiver stirs and shifts. Doesn't quite wake. But catches voices, catches motion. His eyes blink open for a moment.
         He sees Taylor massaging Carter's hand. Sees Carter looking back, relaxed. Smirk barely contained.
         Eyes shut again--but memory doesn't.
         Taylor lets go, rubs his hands together like warming friction. Then, quieter: "Knee?"
         Carter nearly says yes--instinct kicking in--but catches the look in Taylor's eye. That extra-second stare. Not just checking. Communicating. Carter pivots: "Still smarting."
         Taylor taps his own lap. "Leg up."
         Carter stretches his right leg across the aisle--slow, casual--and Taylor begins massaging behind the knee, lower thigh, fingers deliberate but light.
         They don't talk. Not for a few beats. A smirk pulls at Carter's mouth.
         Taylor rolls his eyes but doesn't stop.
         Someone halfway down the bus glances back. Catches the setup. The leg. The concentration. The flicker of grin.
         They don't speak. But tomorrow, someone might mention it. Not accusatory. Just curious.
         For now, it's all silence.
         Carter leans back, breath hitching slightly as Taylor hits a spot near the tendon.
         "That's rude," Carter mutters.
         "It's effective," Taylor replies.
         They smile. Smiles they try to suppress. Smiles that slip anyway.
         The bus moves forward. Everyone drifts. But two in the back row carry heat beneath the hush.
         And a few others? They're starting to feel it.

18

Monday morning at the campus cafe, low light is filtering through dusty windowpanes. Carter stands in line, ball cap pulled low, nursing a slight limp no one really notices. Taylor walks in two minutes later, nods at the barista, then steps up beside Carter--no greeting, just proximity.
         They order separately. But when Taylor moves to the pick-up counter, Carter's hand rests briefly on the small of his back. Not a grab. Not a linger. Just familiar placement.
         The barista, mid-latte, blinks. She watches. She notes.
         Later, behind the counter, she whispers to a coworker: "Quarterback's super tactile with the physio guy."
         The other just smirks. "Maybe he's just good at stretching."


         Tuesday, midday recovery.
         Carter lowers into the tub with a wince. Taylor hovers with a clipboard, checking vitals and timing exposures. As Taylor kneels beside him, their knees press lightly together.
         Carter whispers something low--inaudible to most.
         Taylor chuckles under his breath, scribbles something onto the chart that clearly isn't clinical.
         One of the freshman defensive ends watching from the bench squints, clocking the vibe. He nudges his friend and mutters, "They've got a rhythm. Weird but, like... practiced."
         His friend shrugs, tossing a towel over his head. "Quarterbacks always get special treatment."


         Wednesday afternoon. Sideline haze, turf burnt warm.
         Taylor finishes taping Carter's left knee. Carter rises, groaning, rotating his leg. He mouths a "thanks" so quiet it's more breath than word. Taylor pats the taped joint twice, and Carter rests a hand on his forearm for a beat.
         A junior trainer looks up from his kit. Doesn't say anything. But he logs it.
         Later, he jokes in the supply closet: "Taylor's got that quarterback on a five-star wrap plan."


         Taylor sits at the edge of the team briefing room, glancing between muscle strain reports and heat maps. Carter enters late, slides into the nearest seat--right beside him.
         They share a pen briefly. A glance. Taylor murmurs something that makes Carter smile.
         Coach Varner speaks from the front, unfazed. But one assistant notices the moment and mutters to another: "They're synced. I don't think it's just training schedule."
         The second assistant just nods. Doesn't look surprised.


         Gear loads into buses for another away game. Taylor calls out checklist items with clean authority. Carter boards early, staking out the same rear seat as before.
         As Taylor passes, Carter offers a subtle fist bump. Taylor returns it--calm, steady--but both wear faint smirks like something remembered. Something lingering.
         A defensive tackle behind them watches, tilts his head slightly, and murmurs to no one in particular: "Huh."


         They roll toward another away game with increasing precision. But precision has cracks. And cracks carry echoes.
         The questions haven't been asked yet. But they're forming. Soft and slow.
         Like tension before lightning.

19

The opening drive unfolds with a slow, coiled tension--every snap and play is deliberate, each team sizing up the other like boxers circling in the ring. The Coyotes' offense moves with a quiet discipline: Carter takes the snaps, scanning, checking down, hitting his receivers on short curl routes. The crowd noise is a hush, pierced only by the smack of pads and the yelp of cleats on turf.
         On the sideline, Taylor hovers near the equipment crate, clipboard angled just so, tracking Carter's every step. Each time Carter glances over for the play call, Taylor meets his eyes for a heartbeat--quick, almost imperceptible, but charged. The coordinators are shouting, coaches pacing, but this current runs between them, unspoken.
         Midway through the first quarter, CU finds a rhythm. A screen pass to Hayes breaks the defense, who sprints wide, sidestepping one tackle, then another--until he's clear and crossing the pylon. The bench erupts: cheers, helmet slaps, Taylor's pen scratching a quick "TD--Hayes--screen--LEFT." Carter jogs back, sweat mixing with the steely focus on his face, but his gaze flicks to Taylor for a split second--just enough.
         The scoreboard flashes: 14-7 Coyotes.
         On the kickoff, the opposition comes alive. Their return man cuts up midfield, weaving through bodies--a blur of neon socks and muscle--and sets them up in good field position. Two plays later, their quarterback launches a bullet over the middle. CU's safety bites too soon, and the receiver is gone. Touchdown. The stands pulse with rival cheers now, and the tension ratchets up.
         14-14.
         The bench tightens. Carter paces, helmet in hand. Geno claps his shoulder, barking something about ball control. Taylor kneels by the water cooler, jotting notes, pretending not to watch as Carter shakes out his arm.


         The second quarter is a grind. CU struggles to move the ball; Carter gets sacked once, then twice. The offensive line looks rattled. Taylor notices Carter's wince, the micro-shift in his gait, and slides closer during a timeout.
         Their whispers are quick--Taylor asks, "You good?"
         Carter nods, too curtly. "Don't smirk at me like that," he mutters, voice low.
         Taylor just shrugs, lips twitching: "Play better, then."
         No one else catches it, except maybe the assistant coach nearby, whose eyebrow arches slightly before he turns back to the play.


         Halftime comes with the game tied and nerves fraying.
         The third quarter is a gauntlet. The opponent's defense turns vicious, crashing through blockers, forcing Carter to scramble on nearly every play. He throws one ball into the turf, another nearly picked off. Taylor keeps a sideline vigil, monitoring the rotation of Carter's wrist, checking for swelling. During a timeout, Carter finally lets Taylor adjust the tape over his knee, grumbling but grateful.
         The scoreboard is unforgiving: Opponents take the lead, 20-14.
         Coach Varner's jaw is set. Geno is all clipped instructions and silent fury. Carter slips on his helmet, jaw clenched, and leads the offense out again.
         Late in the third, CU strings together a desperate drive. Short routes, a draw play, a daring fourth-down conversion. The red zone looms. Carter drops back, feints left, fires a dart to Hayes at the sideline--just enough for a first down.


         Early in the fourth, they settle for a field goal. 20-17.
The next series is chaos. The opposing quarterback misreads coverage, and CU's safety leaps for the interception, setting off a thunder of noise from the Coyote faithful. The return is solid but leaves them at the 56-yard line--too far for a field goal, not enough time to waste.
         The final drive is electric. Carter's in the huddle, calling the play--a double cross, Hayes in motion, the line holding for just a heartbeat longer. The ball snaps; Carter drops back, eyes scanning, pressure mounting. He steps up, takes a hit as he releases--Hayes dives for the catch at the five-yard line, skidding on the turf.
         The sideline is frantic. Coaches yell, clocks tick down.
No hesitation--Carter lines up, shouts the cadence. The snap comes. He tucks the ball, surges forward behind his line. Bodies pile, a surge of legs and torsos--then the ref's hands go up. Touchdown.
         The bench explodes, players leap onto the field. 23-20, Coyotes.


         Amidst the chaos--helmets tossed, shouts echoing--Taylor weaves through bodies, reaching Carter mid-stride. He offers water, his hand lingering on Carter's shoulder just a moment longer than necessary.
         Their quiet congratulations are nearly swallowed in the celebration, but a smile flickers between them. Carter bites his lip, eyes bright. Nearby, two players exchange that look--knowing, curious.
         Coach Varner passes, eyes narrowed, pace slowing as he clocks the interaction. He says nothing, but the noticing has started--a slow, inevitable ripple.


         As the team trickles onto the bus, Carter slides into his familiar back row, headphones blaring, victory humming beneath sweat and adrenaline. Taylor lingers by the staff, clipboard in hand, checking the injury chart, hydration reports. Just before stepping onto the bus, Coach Varner lays a gentle hand on Taylor's arm--not an accusation, just the unspoken weight of "I need a word."
         Taylor straightens. "Coach."
         Coach speaks low, rhythm deliberate. Not a confrontation--more like preventative care. "I've seen how you work. You're solid. Players trust you. I trust you."
         Taylor nods once. "Appreciate that."
         Coach's gaze sharpens a hair, but his tone doesn't shift. "But I also see things I can't quite name. Maybe nothing. Maybe something." He pauses, then adds with quiet precision: "You know your job. I need you to keep doing it clean. That means boundaries--whether they've been crossed or just blurred."
         Taylor swallows, jaw steady. "Understood."
         Coach nods once, then steps aside. Taylor boards the bus without looking back.


         Taylor takes a seat near the front--clipboard back in hand, gaze forward. He doesn't text immediately.
         But after a few minutes, he lifts his phone, tilts it just out of view, and types: Coach spoke to me. Didn't say much, but it was enough. I'm up front tonight.
         At the back, Carter reads it in silence. The text glows against his palm. His chest tightens just slightly--not out of panic, but out of clarity.
         He lowers the phone, eyes tracing the curve of the bus ceiling, the shuffle of cleats and slumped teammates. A few faces glance his way, distracted but lingering.
         He thinks: We were smooth. Careful. Mostly.
         But also: Maybe not enough.
         Carter slides deeper into his seat, hoodie up. Victory still warm against his ribs. But tension cooling at the edges.

20

On-field evals after practice on Monday. Taylor checks Carter's shin splint complaint with practiced detachment. Their exchange is brief: "Any sharp pain?"
         "Only when you're around," Carter says, smirking just enough to make it pass for banter.
         A junior trainer nearby laughs. Coach glances over but sees nothing out of bounds. Geno, icing his shoulder, watches Carter's jaw tense as he walks away. It's not flirty, it's effortful.
         Carter and Taylor sit with teammates after weight training on Tuesday, tossing one-liners about sore quads and terrible protein shakes.
         When Carter flicks a balled-up napkin at Taylor's chest and Taylor fires back with a deadpan: "Easy, QB. Aim like that and we'll lose next weekend."
         The laugh is shared. Real, but contained. No eyes linger too long. Except Geno's, who notices Carter's hand fist the hem of his hoodie for a second longer than necessary.


         During individual injury checks on Wednesday, Carter's knee gets a full workup. Taylor narrates the process professionally, even offering his usual: "Gonna stretch the lateral fascia now. This'll feel weird."
         Carter nods, no jokes. His voice is even. When Taylor brushes the side of his knee, Carter winces slightly--but doesn't look at Taylor's face.
         A wide receiver nearby glances once, then back to his phone.
         Coach walks past. Sees textbook care. Moves on.
         Geno watches Taylor bite the inside of his cheek while entering notes. It's the kind of restraint that knows it's being watched.


         On Thursday, Carter comes over late to Taylor's apartment. Quiet knock. Hoodie deep. Taylor greets him with soft eyes and locked arms.
         They don't speak much before landing on the sofa. Kisses start hesitant, then avalanche--Carter's thigh sliding between Taylor's, Taylor's mouth bruising Carter's neck.
         They don't bother turning on lights. They know the shape of each other in the dark.
         They finish twice. Once in the hallway. Once in the bedroom. The second time slower. Holding each other through the ache of pretending all week.
         Before Carter leaves near dawn, Taylor murmurs: "We're good, right?"
         "We're gold," Carter replies, mouth still sore.


         Friday, during mobility drills, Taylor calls Carter out for favoring one side.
         "Don't baby it. It makes you slower."
         "Coming from the guy who kneaded it into submission last week."
         The line lands like locker room shade. A few chuckles rise.
         Coach hears. Doesn't react. But Geno sees how Carter flinches after the laugh fades.
         Later, Geno watches Taylor reorganizing the PT cabinet with precise tension.


         Friday evening in the Athletic Center, the weight room is empty, just past curfew. The lights are low--motion sensors flickering to half-life before going dormant again. Geno stands near the squat rack, palms roughing the bar while Carter leans against the wall, towel slung around his neck like he's just exited a confession booth.
         They've said nothing for five whole minutes. Just breath and steel and the low thud of a mop bucket rolling in the janitor's closet.
         Then Geno clears his throat. "You two've been good. No stunts. No slip-ups in front of the guys. Respect that."
         Carter nods, slow. A beat of tension wrapped in gratitude. "Thanks. We're trying."
         Geno stares him down a second longer--like he's waiting to see if Carter'll say more. Carter almost does. Almost confesses how exhausting it is, how every smile in public feels like it's filed through a filter first.
         But he doesn't.
         And Geno gets real. "What's the end game here, Carter?"
         Carter stiffens. "What do you mean?"
         "You gonna come out as gay at some point?"
         "I'm not gay, Geno."
         Geno scoffs--not mocking, just disbelieving. "You kidding? Then what are you? Bi?"
         Carter runs a palm across his scalp, voice a notch softer. "Maybe. I--I don't know. I haven't labeled anything..."
         Geno nods once--sharp. Doesn't blink. "Well, you sure ain't straight right now."
         "I..."
         "What about your future? Huh? I mean, where's Michael Sam now?"
         Carter flinches. "I'm not gay!"
         Geno steps forward, not aggressive--just pressing for clarity. "Then what are you?!"
         Silence.
         Thick. Unmoving. Muffled by the hum of overhead pipes and history neither of them asked for.
         Carter breathes through it. Geno doesn't interrupt.
         There's no resolution. Just the hang of a truth still forming.
         And Geno--he watches Carter like a teammate in a storm. Not an opponent.
         Just someone trying to locate their own sky.
         Geno stands at the rack, one hand braced on the bar, the other loose by his side. Carter hasn't moved from the wall, breath low and tangled.
         Geno's eyes fix on nothing at all--then shift back to Carter with a clarity that's neither cruel nor soft.
         "Look," he says, voice level, deliberate. "I'm not saying you chose this path. But I'm also not not saying it."
         Carter flinches, almost imperceptibly. But Geno catches it.
         "Figure it out soon. 'Cause the scouts? They only look so many times before they look somewhere else."
         He lets that hang--weighted and clean. Then adds: "I'm working on my game." A pause. One final look. "Time for you to start working on yours."
         Geno turns. No fanfare. No glance back.
         The door clicks behind him, leaving Carter in silence, the metal still humming from Geno's parting grip, the overhead lights buzzing low like leftover static.
         Carter exhales. It's not surrender. Just recognition.


         Carter's shower is silent save for the hiss of water and the rhythmic thud of droplets against tile.
         He leans forward, forehead to the cool wall, Geno's words looping not as a speech but in jagged fragments:
         "...not saying you chose this path..." "...figure it out soon..." "...time for you to start working on yours..."
         Each line ricochets through his chest like it's trying to find a place to land. But there's no space. Just dread. And pressure. And something that won't name itself.
         Water streams down his back. He doesn't remember how long he's been standing there.


         Taylor opens his front door, brows tightening immediately. Confusion edges past concern.
"Carter?"
         He steps aside instinctively, but Carter doesn't speak. He moves in wordless motion--through the threshold, hand closing the door behind him with a soft click.
         And then he's there--arms curling around Taylor, face pressed into his shoulder, body sagging like gravity just got mean.
         The sob escapes unannounced.
         "Babe...?" Taylor's voice is gentle but startled. He hadn't expected this. They weren't supposed to see each other again so soon. They'd agreed. Needed distance. Needed discretion.
         But now Carter's breath stutters in broken intervals against him, the words muffled: "I don't know what to do..."
         Taylor's arms wrap around Carter reflexively, protectively. But his mind's racing, unanchored.
         He doesn't know why this is happening. He doesn't know about the confrontation with Geno or what lines got crossed or blurred or buried.
         But Carter's holding on with quiet desperation--as if Taylor's the last thread keeping him from unraveling entirely.
         So, Taylor stays still. Strong. Even in his uncertainty.
         And near the door, beneath the overhead light, Carter's sobs echo like something sacred breaking.


         The couch cradles them in silence. Taylor's hoodie draped halfway over Carter's back like some makeshift shelter.
         Carter doesn't cry anymore. Doesn't speak. He just traces slow, concentric circles on Taylor's bare bicep--like motion keeps thought from spiraling too fast.
         Taylor breathes in sync. No rush. No question. Just presence. Anchor.
         Eventually, Carter speaks. His voice cracks once, then steadies. "Geno cornered me. Not in a bad way. Just... direct."
         Taylor doesn't interrupt.
         "He asked what the endgame is. If I'm gay. If I'm bi. What this means. Where it's going. If scouts will care."
         Taylor's breath catches, but he nods. Because it lands sharp. Because it's familiar.
         Carter continues, more whisper than speech.
         "He brought up Michael Sam."
         Taylor's eyes tighten.
         Carter shifts closer, still curled into Taylor's chest.
         "I told him I'm not gay. But I couldn't say what I am. And then he asked what about the future and I couldn't--Taylor, I couldn't answer anything."
         Taylor exhales through his nose, hand slowly stroking the back of Carter's neck.
         "Yeah," he murmurs. "I get that."
         Carter lifts his head slightly, looking for reaction.
         Taylor's gaze is gentle--but bruised with something old.
         "I don't feel gay," Taylor says. "I've never used that word. Not really. Not even about myself. But what we do... what I feel with you... it's not what straight people do. That's for damn sure."
         They share a soft laugh, the kind that slips out between exhaustion and intimacy.
         "Bi?" Taylor asks aloud, like it's a term he hasn't tested in his own mouth.
         Carter watches him. "I've never liked boxes. But maybe. I don't know."
         They fall quiet again. Not because they're done. Just because some truths need space before they're touched again.
         The room has settled into dusk, light filtering through blinds in slanted amber stripes across their knees.
         Carter's fingers still trace Taylor's bicep, but the rhythm has slowed. His thoughts feel like soft static, the kind you don't notice until someone turns off the volume.
         Taylor shifts slightly, tension ghosting through his frame.
         "I've been thinking," he says quietly. "And I don't want anything to jeopardize your career."
         Carter's hand pauses mid-circle. "What do you mean?"
         Taylor breathes slowly, clearly rehearsing the sentence before releasing it. "I'm going to talk to Coach about a transfer. Another school. Another program."
         The words land like a dropped glass. Not with rage--more with disbelief. Carter sits up halfway, brow furrowed in real confusion. "What?"
         Taylor keeps his eyes low. His voice holds, but barely. "We can't keep doing this. Not here. Not like this. You've got scouts watching. Pressure building. You've worked too hard, and I won't be the reason something derails."
         Carter's mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
         Taylor forces himself to continue. "If I leave... it removes the--temptation. For both of us. Especially for you."
         Carter stares, jaw tight, eyes wide. "You think you are the problem?"
         "Not a problem," Taylor says quickly. "It's not about that. It's about keeping you safe."
         Carter stands, pacing now, his fingers raking his scalp. "That's insane. You think transferring fixes this? That I'll suddenly be okay because you're gone?"
         Taylor stands too, but slower. The weight of it all draped across his shoulders. "I don't know, Carter. But maybe distance helps."
         Carter turns to face him, eyes wet again, voice guttural. "You are my anchor. You don't get to rip that away in the name of protecting me."
         Taylor doesn't respond immediately. And Carter doesn't yell. But the silence now is sharpened by fear.
         Carter's voice fractures as he speaks--barely above a whisper. "That, that would kill me..."
         It's not hyperbole. It's fact. It lands not with drama, but with truth measured in breath.
         Taylor freezes. Not out of confusion. But out of sheer inability to process the weight of what Carter's just said.
         He opens his mouth. Nothing comes. His body stays still, except for his eyes, they're locked on Carter, wide and unsteady. The couch, the room, even the light feel suddenly smaller.
         Carter steps forward, vulnerable but resolved. "I can survive scouts ignoring me. I can survive bad press. But not losing you."
         Taylor's jaw tightens. He's blinking now, fast.
         "If you go... I won't recover."
         Taylor's silence finally cracks--first in the corners of his mouth, then in the tremble that spills through his voice.
         "You think this is easy for me?" he says, almost too fast, like the words were locked behind his teeth and just broke free.
         Carter turns, stunned by the sudden volume. It's not anger. It's the sound of someone unraveling.
         Taylor steps back, rubbing both hands down his face, voice taut and bruising.
         "You think I haven't lied awake at night trying to figure out what the hell I am? What this makes me? What it means when I look at you and--" he swallows hard, "--and I feel something that doesn't fit anything I was taught to want?"
         Carter stares, unmoving, heart pounding.
         Taylor keeps going, raw now.
         "I don't want to leave. God, I don't. But every time I step into the locker room I feel like a fraud. And when I walk past you in public without touching you, I feel like a coward."
         His voice cracks again, and this time he doesn't fight it. "I don't know who I am anymore."
         Carter, eyes glassy, crosses the space between them slowly. Not to fix things. Just to be near while they fall.
         He puts a hand on Taylor's chest. Taylor exhales shakily, like the contact both soothes and hurts.
         "You don't have to know," Carter whispers. "Not yet."
         Taylor's lips part. His hands hover like he's not sure whether to hold or fold.
         "But don't leave me over it," Carter says. "Please."
         And Taylor just--nods. It's shaky. Imperfect. Human. But it's enough.
         The silence stretches between them--thick, but no longer hostile. Just waiting. Carter's hand returns to Taylor's chest, not with the same tracing as before, but as a grounding anchor.
         Taylor leans in slowly, resting his forehead against Carter's, eyes closed like proximity might translate into clarity.
         And then the movement shifts.
         Their mouths meet--first tentative, then insistent. Not lust-driven, not performative. Just urgent in a way that feels final.
         Shirts peel. Fingers find familiar bruises, old scars, new tension.
         Carter's grip at Taylor's waist is firmer this time, more certain. Taylor's breath hitches, and Carter doesn't wait--he guides them back onto the couch, kneel between Taylor's knees, kisses with reverence and possession.
         They move as if the night had no edges.
         As if this is the night they'd lose themselves entirely, just once, before deciding what they'd become.
         The first movement feels desperate. Carter behind Taylor on the couch, their mouths brushing, hips grinding in silent rhythm. The restraint snaps. Their release leaves them trembling, arms looped around each other like gravity couldn't be trusted.
         The second is slower. Taylor lying back, Carter taking his time--his touch softer now, deliberate. The pleasure threads through whispered apologies neither fully voiced.
         They collapse in a heap, breathless.
         Carter's chest heaves against Taylor's shoulder. Taylor kisses his temple.
         The third time is tender. In bed, blankets bunched at their ankles. They don't speak. Just moves. Eyes locked. No dominance. No submission. Only knowing. Only choosing.
         Their release is quieter this time, less about escape and more about anchoring.
         They lay tangle in sweat and heartbeat and the faint hum of traffic outside, something had shifted.
         The room still holds the truth. But its weight? It had lightened.
         Carter whispers: "I don't want to lose this."
         Taylor kisses his shoulder, slow and steady. "Then don't."


         The morning light filters through slatted blinds--gentle and golden, casting quiet stripes across their tangled legs. They've barely moved. Barely spoken. But Carter shifts just enough to break the quiet.
         "I choose you."
         Taylor blinks, slow and confused. He's still groggy. "What?"
         Carter, voice firmer now, clearer, like he's been sitting on this for hours: "You're it for me. You're my person. You're my dude."
         Taylor's breath catches. A smile flickers, but it doesn't fully bloom. Instead, he sighs and rolls onto his side to face Carter directly.
         "Babe... think about this a bit more. I've got less to lose, job wise. I can get a job in Dallas or Fort Worth. It doesn't have to be a university setting."
         Carter furrows his brow, his hand finding Taylor's shoulder and resting there with purpose.
         "Why do you talk like this thing we have is some mistake to recover from?"
         Taylor exhales. "Because I've been trying not to make a choice between us and everything you've worked for."
         "Then let me choose," Carter says. "And I choose us."
         Taylor doesn't reply at first. He just stares at Carter--eyes searching, parsing whether this is bravado or truth.
         "If you lose something because of this," Taylor says softly, "they'll say I was selfish. That I distracted you. That I--"
         "Let 'em talk," Carter cuts in. "Let 'em wonder. I'll show 'em that this works. That we work."
         Taylor's throat tightens. The edges of his voice splinter: "I love you, Carter. I do. But I don't know how to keep you safe and love you loudly."
         Carter slides closer, forehead touching Taylor's.
         "Then we love quietly for now. Not because we're ashamed. But because the world still needs catching up."
         Taylor swallows hard. "You're sure?"
         Carter doesn't flinch. "I've never been surer of anything. You're mine. I want the whole messy, complicated story."
         Taylor closes his eyes, finally allowing the smile in. "God, you're gonna wreck me."
         "Nah," Carter whispers. "I'm gonna build us."
         They breathe in the same rhythm again. No longer afraid. Still unsure. But finally choosing.

21

The Vista Bowl. Odeon Stadium glows beneath a bruised December sky, the crowd a restless sea of banners and nerves. Carter, jaw set, surveys the field as the Coyotes huddle tight, breath ghosting in the chill.
         First play: a sly look to Taylor, then a quick snap--ball whistling through the air, Hayes snatching it and turning upfield for a first down. No huddle, no mercy. Carter keeps pressing, orchestrating with a surgeon's focus: a hard count draws the Wolves offsides, then a dart to Reed over the middle, chains moving, momentum crackling like static.
         Taylor's heartbeat leaps as the Coyotes approach the red zone. The clatter of helmets, the thump of pads, the endless motion--Carter's cadence is a metronome, steady and relentless. On third and short, he tucks the ball and surges behind his left guard, legs churning, digging for every inch. Touchdown. The Coyotes' sideline explodes, fans leaping to their feet as the scoreboard blazes 7-0.
         The Wolves regroup, snarling. Their quarterback fires quick strikes, testing CU's corners, but the Coyotes' defense is sharp--Coach Varner, headset pressed to his ear, shouts adjustments from the sideline. The Wolves punt. Carter wastes no time--screen to Geno, a blur of legs, then a rollout and a bullet to Reed. Another march downfield. A stalled drive, but the kicker is true: 10-0.
         The tide turns fast. The Wolves' tailback bursts through a crease, streaking sixty yards to the house. The crowd roars--a flood of navy and gold. Suddenly, it's 10-7. Carter, undeterred, retakes the field, stomach fluttering but posture unshaken. He runs a bootleg, takes a shot from a blitzing linebacker, but lobs the ball just in time--Hayes, sticky hands, toes the sideline for a crucial catch.
         End of the first quarter, the game knotted tighter than ever. Second frame, the Wolves find rhythm--methodical, punishing. A screen, a draw, then a fade to the pylon. The score levels: 10-10.


         Ohio seizes their opening, a pounding run up the gut--linemen churning, pads popping, the Wolves' tailback shredding two would-be tacklers before lunging over the goal line. The visitors' side erupts, crimson flags waving, as the scoreboard flickers: 14-10, Wolves.
         Carter wipes sweat from his brow, jaw clenched. On the sideline, Taylor meets his gaze--silent questions in his eyes, answered by a terse nod. They're still in it.
         The Coyotes get the ball back, clock ticking down. Carter calls the cadence, voice hoarse, knees stiff with each snap. A quick out to Reed, then a hard slant to Geno, chains moving in slow, stubborn inches. But the Wolves' defense brings the heat; on third down, Carter drops back, finds no one, and the pocket caves in. He's swallowed by navy jerseys, flattened at midfield. He scrambles to his feet, wincing, but shakes off the trainer. "I'm good," he tells Taylor, but he isn't.
         Timeout. Taylor presses cold fingers under Carter's pads, checking for bruises, concern etched deep. Carter shrugs him off, but lets his hand linger for a heartbeat. "Not quitting today," Carter grits out, breath shallow.
         Taylor's reply is a whisper lost in helmet static: "Didn't say you could."
         Their defense tries to dig in, but Ohio drives again--short passes, zone-busting curls, a thundering sweep. They're held just shy of the end zone, but the Wolves' kicker punches through a field goal as time ebbs away. 17-10.
         With seconds left in the half, Carter grits his teeth for one last drive. The huddle is tight, breath fogging in the late autumn chill. "Let's steal one," he rasps. Snap--Hayes breaks free, Carter uncorks a 26-yard rocket, and the wideout hauls it in, tiptoeing the sideline. The Coyotes, hearts hammering, rush to spike the ball--one tick left. Field goal unit sprints on, and the kicker, nerves of ice, splits the uprights as the horn blares.
         Halftime: 20-17, Wolves. Carter jogs off, shoulders heaving, but Taylor's waiting at the tunnel, steady as bedrock. Neither says a word, but something passes between them as the stadium lights hum on--hope, bruised but alive.


         The third quarter unspools tight and tense, each yard hard-won. A sudden downpour rattles against the stadium roof, beads of rain glinting in the lights. CU's defense digs in--their linebacker, stone-faced, sniffs out an Ohio reverse and drags the runner down for a loss. Carter, limping after every snap but refusing to yield, threads a pass between two defenders to keep a drive alive.
         The Wolves answer--quick outs, screen plays, clock manipulation. A fumble, and the Coyotes pounce. Geno, legs churning, breaks outside for a 17-yard gain, igniting a flicker of hope. The crowd's roar builds with every broken tackle, every clock-draining possession.
         Coach signals in a play--double slants, then a quick snap. Carter's arm is shaking, but his voice is steady in the huddle. "Nothing here is given," he rasps. "We take the rest."
         On third and eight, Carter takes the snap, pocket collapsing. He sidesteps a defender, lobs a pass toward the sideline--Hayes again, dragging his toes just inbounds. The chains move, the Wolves' sideline restless.
         By the end of the third, it's all square. 24-24.
         The tension is electric. Cheerleaders huddle, breaths visible in the cool air. Drummers hammer away, a heartbeat for the crowd. Coaches confer like conspirators, plotting every last yard.
And as the fourth quarter dawns, floodlights strobing, the season hangs in the balance--every second, every snap, a chance for legend.


         Wolves strike first in the fourth--their quarterback lofts a spiral over the corner, receiver hauls it in, and the home bleachers groan. Five minutes left. Ohio up by six. Carter jogs to the sideline, helmet askew, sweat slicking his brow. Taylor presses a cold towel into his hand, but Carter's already scanning the field, lips moving with silent math.
         One breath. Two. Back out--no huddle. The Coyotes line up fast. Carter calls for a cross route to Reed, then snaps to Geno for a desperate four-yard push. First down. The Wolves' defense closes ranks, linebackers bracing at the line.
         Play clock running. Carter fakes a handoff, spins right, nearly blindsided--he sidesteps, arm cocked, eyes wide. Hayes sprints down the far sideline, jukes one defender, loses another. Carter, off-balance, hurls a dart across his body. The ball arcs through the lights, slow motion stretched thin.
         Hayes leaps. Time hangs. Then--fingertips, chest, turf. He lands, rolls, clutches the football. Touchdown.
         For a heartbeat, nobody moves. Then the Coyotes' bench explodes, the scoreboard flicks--34-31 CU. The Wolves' safety pounds the turf. Carter falls to his knees, gulping air, teammates piling on.
         Stadium erupts.
         Fans flood the turf.
         Players scream.
         Staff sprint.
         Orange and white engulf the grass like wildfire.
         Taylor navigates carefully--spotting Carter being slapped, tugged, cheered. He finally reaches him, arm outstretched for a congratulatory grab--
         But Carter turns, locks eyes with him. And kisses him.
         Fully. Deeply. On the lips.
         In front of everyone.
         Flashbulbs pop. Gasps echo. Commentators stammer mid-broadcast.
         "Wait--did... was that...?!"
         Coach Varner stares. Some teammates shout in disbelief. Others smile. Geno watches with a half-smirk.
         Crowd reaction is instant and polarizing. A chunk cheers like they've witnessed a Disney climax. Another chunk freezes, expressionless. One drunk fan yells, "The QB's gay?!" Another shouts back, "No, he's in love!"
         Taylor, stunned, pulls Carter back slightly. "There's no turning back from this, you know?"
         Carter, flushed but fearless: "I don't plan to."


         And, in that moment, on that field, as a country watched, a love forged from a slow-burning connection and an undefined union unfurls as if it were always ready for prime time.
         The future for Carter and Taylor is unwritten.
         Scouts will measure the impact as they consider shopping Carter around. Owners will weigh the pros and cons of having a quarterback whose sexual identity doesn't fit tradition. Locker room dynamics will come into play. Taylor's professionalism will be under scrutiny. Precedents may be set.
         But they will face it together.
         As one harmonic chord strummed on a guitar.
         As one breathtaking vista captured through a camera lens.
         As one lingering glance meant to be held.          
         And never questioned again.

THE END

Authors note: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Locations are named solely for the purpose of this narrative and may not exist in real life. No copyright infringement intended.