Run To The Sun
Run To The Sun
Livermore Falls wasn’t the kind of town that showed up in brochures. It was the kind of place you passed through without knowing it. Old houses with peeling paint. A shuttered paper mill with rusted signage. A two-lane road cutting past the gas station, the diner, and the school. Everything leaned a little. Everyone stayed cold a little longer than they should.
Most of the jobs were gone. Most of the kids with dreams were just waiting to leave.
But they had football.
The Lions hadn’t made the playoffs in a decade, but they still played like it mattered. Because for the town, it did.
This year, the hope lasted a little longer. With their star junior running back, Chase Pryor, leading the way, they were 3–4 heading into Week Eight. The playoffs hadn’t been within reach this late in the season for years. The goal was a simple one: beat Turner—who were also fighting for a final playoff spot—and they were in.
Lose, and it was over.
The season. The dream. The seniors’ careers.
The bleachers were full. Alumni. Teachers. Kids with painted faces. The lights buzzed. The field was worn and patchy—mostly dirt between the numbers, with crabgrass clinging to the edges. But it still felt like something sacred.
===
Chase settled in behind Robert Everett, the senior quarterback. He was their steady leader—never flashy, never flustered, just calm when it counted. Chase shifted his weight ever so slightly from side to side. Flexed his fingers in his gloves—left, then right. His visor fogged lightly with each breath.
“Blue 18! Blue 18! Set…”
The snap came clean. Chase broke left. The toss from Robert was smooth, perfectly placed.
He caught it in stride, eyes already scanning ahead, searching for his opening. Benny, their undersized but fearless senior tight end, crashed down and sealed the edge. Chase smirked inside his helmet. Wide open space.
He hit the gas.
A linebacker shot toward him, but the angle was off—he whiffed. A safety came flying from the backside, their paths set to collide just shy of the goal line. Chase extended his right arm and stiff-armed the defender in the chest, twisting as he did.
The move sent the safety stumbling sideways, just enough space for Chase to stretch and stumble across the goal line. He hit the ground in a heap, tangled with the safety and another defender who got there too late.
The whistle blew. The official’s arms shot up.
Touchdown. His third of the game.
Chase stood up without celebration and handed the ball to the ref. Just business.
“Act like you’ve been there before,” his grandfather had said when he was six or seven—one of many bits of passed-down wisdom.
Robert kicked through the extra point. Chase looked up at the scoreboard:
Turner – 20
Livermore Falls – 20
0:07 – 2nd QTR
==
Anxious energy filled the locker room at halftime. The air was thick with sweat and silence, pads creaking as players shifted on the benches. Coach Marchand stood at the front, arms crossed. The whiteboard behind him was still blank.
“We’ve done all we can with the Xs and Os,” he said, voice steady. “The film study, the reps, the game plan—it’s all in place. What matters now is heart. Effort. Execution. Play for the guy next to you. Play like this is the last time you’ll ever strap on that helmet—because for some of you, it might be.”
He scanned the room, meeting eyes letting the implications of his words sink in.
“This isn’t just about one player. This is about all of you. Every block. Every tackle. Every yard. You want to finish what we started? Go take it.”
The third quarter was a war.
Turner came out with low pads and purpose. No trickery—just power football. They leaned on their size and depth, rotating running backs nearly every play and pounding behind their line. They marched 65 yards in eleven plays, hammering away with counters and dives until the defense cracked. Their fullback barreled in from the two-yard line, dragging a pile into the end zone. The kick was true
27–20, Turner.
Livermore Falls didn’t blink.
They responded with a drive that felt like a sledgehammer to the ribs. Carter Cross, the senior fullback, ran like he was mad at the ground—hammering the middle of Turner’s defense, delivering hits instead of taking them, breaking tackles and falling forward every time. Chase danced around the edges, finding just enough daylight to keep the chains moving. Robert kept it alive with a short strike on third-and-seven, then Chase spun off a tackler for twelve more. The Lions surged to the
Turner 16.
But the red zone stiffened. Two Carter runs—stuffed. On third down, they went wide to Chase. No push. A loss of one.
Fourth and twelve.
Then—disaster. The snap was errant. It hit Chase in the thigh and bounced to the turf. Turner pounced.
Drive dead.
Turner took over. The Livermore Falls defense rose. Three and out. Punt.
Another punt. Field position chess. Tension climbed.
Midway through the fourth, Livermore Falls got the ball at their own 39. Marchand rode Carter like a plow horse. Three straight runs: five, seven, nine yards.
Then they called the play they’d saved all game.
A misdirection toss left to Chase. He cut it back, juked the linebacker, and flew 24 yards up the sideline before being dragged down at the five.
First and goal.
Marchand didn’t hesitate.
Carter Cross, behind a pulling guard and Benny crashing down. Carter hit the pile at the three and kept his legs churning, driving forward with everything he had. A linebacker met him. Then a safety. Then two more. It didn’t matter.
He surged forward, shoved from behind by linemen and teammates, dragging defenders over the line.
Touchdown.
27–27.
Turner responded again, draining the clock as they approached midfield. A third-and-nine conversion moved them to the Livermore Falls 43 with under four minutes left. The threat was real.
Then finally—a stop. Chase lunged to knock down a pass that would have given Turner another first down.
Marchand used his last timeout. The defense held. Turner punted—and it was a beauty. A spiral that rolled dead at the 17.
1:58 left. No timeouts.
One drive. One chance.
They came out with guts.
First play—play-action. Everett’s pass hit a defender in the chest and bounced harmlessly away.
No panic.
Carter went inside for six. Third down: toss to Chase. He sliced back, stiff-armed a man, and fought forward for twelve. First down. The sideline erupted.
They reached the 35. Another toss—four yards. Carter followed with two more. Third and four.
Everett kept it. Just enough. Moved the chains.
0:53.
They ran a counter. Chase followed the pullers for seven. Carter pushed through for five more. The Turner 42. Getting close now.Toss right. Chase tight roped the sideline, spun off a hit, and stole ten more before being shoved out at the 32.
0:28.
Then came the dagger.
A draw to Chase.
He waited. Then exploded.
He darted through a collapsing edge, broke one final grasping arm, and split daylight like it owed him something. Thirty-two yards.
Touchdown.
Livermore Falls – 33
Turner – 27
When the clock hit all zeroes the bleachers emptied. A decade’s weight lifted in a single play. The crowd poured down, disbelief melting into euphoria.
Chase stood at midfield, helmet loose in his hand, letting it all sink in.
Ten years of almosts—gone.
This wasn’t the end.
It felt like the beginning.
Most of the jobs were gone. Most of the kids with dreams were just waiting to leave.
But they had football.
The Lions hadn’t made the playoffs in a decade, but they still played like it mattered. Because for the town, it did.
This year, the hope lasted a little longer. With their star junior running back, Chase Pryor, leading the way, they were 3–4 heading into Week Eight. The playoffs hadn’t been within reach this late in the season for years. The goal was a simple one: beat Turner—who were also fighting for a final playoff spot—and they were in.
Lose, and it was over.
The season. The dream. The seniors’ careers.
The bleachers were full. Alumni. Teachers. Kids with painted faces. The lights buzzed. The field was worn and patchy—mostly dirt between the numbers, with crabgrass clinging to the edges. But it still felt like something sacred.
===
Chase settled in behind Robert Everett, the senior quarterback. He was their steady leader—never flashy, never flustered, just calm when it counted. Chase shifted his weight ever so slightly from side to side. Flexed his fingers in his gloves—left, then right. His visor fogged lightly with each breath.
“Blue 18! Blue 18! Set…”
The snap came clean. Chase broke left. The toss from Robert was smooth, perfectly placed.
He caught it in stride, eyes already scanning ahead, searching for his opening. Benny, their undersized but fearless senior tight end, crashed down and sealed the edge. Chase smirked inside his helmet. Wide open space.
He hit the gas.
A linebacker shot toward him, but the angle was off—he whiffed. A safety came flying from the backside, their paths set to collide just shy of the goal line. Chase extended his right arm and stiff-armed the defender in the chest, twisting as he did.
The move sent the safety stumbling sideways, just enough space for Chase to stretch and stumble across the goal line. He hit the ground in a heap, tangled with the safety and another defender who got there too late.
The whistle blew. The official’s arms shot up.
Touchdown. His third of the game.
Chase stood up without celebration and handed the ball to the ref. Just business.
“Act like you’ve been there before,” his grandfather had said when he was six or seven—one of many bits of passed-down wisdom.
Robert kicked through the extra point. Chase looked up at the scoreboard:
Turner – 20
Livermore Falls – 20
0:07 – 2nd QTR
==
Anxious energy filled the locker room at halftime. The air was thick with sweat and silence, pads creaking as players shifted on the benches. Coach Marchand stood at the front, arms crossed. The whiteboard behind him was still blank.
“We’ve done all we can with the Xs and Os,” he said, voice steady. “The film study, the reps, the game plan—it’s all in place. What matters now is heart. Effort. Execution. Play for the guy next to you. Play like this is the last time you’ll ever strap on that helmet—because for some of you, it might be.”
He scanned the room, meeting eyes letting the implications of his words sink in.
“This isn’t just about one player. This is about all of you. Every block. Every tackle. Every yard. You want to finish what we started? Go take it.”
The third quarter was a war.
Turner came out with low pads and purpose. No trickery—just power football. They leaned on their size and depth, rotating running backs nearly every play and pounding behind their line. They marched 65 yards in eleven plays, hammering away with counters and dives until the defense cracked. Their fullback barreled in from the two-yard line, dragging a pile into the end zone. The kick was true
27–20, Turner.
Livermore Falls didn’t blink.
They responded with a drive that felt like a sledgehammer to the ribs. Carter Cross, the senior fullback, ran like he was mad at the ground—hammering the middle of Turner’s defense, delivering hits instead of taking them, breaking tackles and falling forward every time. Chase danced around the edges, finding just enough daylight to keep the chains moving. Robert kept it alive with a short strike on third-and-seven, then Chase spun off a tackler for twelve more. The Lions surged to the
Turner 16.
But the red zone stiffened. Two Carter runs—stuffed. On third down, they went wide to Chase. No push. A loss of one.
Fourth and twelve.
Then—disaster. The snap was errant. It hit Chase in the thigh and bounced to the turf. Turner pounced.
Drive dead.
Turner took over. The Livermore Falls defense rose. Three and out. Punt.
Another punt. Field position chess. Tension climbed.
Midway through the fourth, Livermore Falls got the ball at their own 39. Marchand rode Carter like a plow horse. Three straight runs: five, seven, nine yards.
Then they called the play they’d saved all game.
A misdirection toss left to Chase. He cut it back, juked the linebacker, and flew 24 yards up the sideline before being dragged down at the five.
First and goal.
Marchand didn’t hesitate.
Carter Cross, behind a pulling guard and Benny crashing down. Carter hit the pile at the three and kept his legs churning, driving forward with everything he had. A linebacker met him. Then a safety. Then two more. It didn’t matter.
He surged forward, shoved from behind by linemen and teammates, dragging defenders over the line.
Touchdown.
27–27.
Turner responded again, draining the clock as they approached midfield. A third-and-nine conversion moved them to the Livermore Falls 43 with under four minutes left. The threat was real.
Then finally—a stop. Chase lunged to knock down a pass that would have given Turner another first down.
Marchand used his last timeout. The defense held. Turner punted—and it was a beauty. A spiral that rolled dead at the 17.
1:58 left. No timeouts.
One drive. One chance.
They came out with guts.
First play—play-action. Everett’s pass hit a defender in the chest and bounced harmlessly away.
No panic.
Carter went inside for six. Third down: toss to Chase. He sliced back, stiff-armed a man, and fought forward for twelve. First down. The sideline erupted.
They reached the 35. Another toss—four yards. Carter followed with two more. Third and four.
Everett kept it. Just enough. Moved the chains.
0:53.
They ran a counter. Chase followed the pullers for seven. Carter pushed through for five more. The Turner 42. Getting close now.Toss right. Chase tight roped the sideline, spun off a hit, and stole ten more before being shoved out at the 32.
0:28.
Then came the dagger.
A draw to Chase.
He waited. Then exploded.
He darted through a collapsing edge, broke one final grasping arm, and split daylight like it owed him something. Thirty-two yards.
Touchdown.
Livermore Falls – 33
Turner – 27
When the clock hit all zeroes the bleachers emptied. A decade’s weight lifted in a single play. The crowd poured down, disbelief melting into euphoria.
Chase stood at midfield, helmet loose in his hand, letting it all sink in.
Ten years of almosts—gone.
This wasn’t the end.
It felt like the beginning.
Run To The Sun
Thanks. I've done a bit of writing in Here to Prove http://dynastysports.net/viewtopic.php?f=4&t=1282 but not as much as I plan to here.
Run To The Sun
Rain tapped the bus windows the entire ride to Hebron Academy. Not the dramatic kind—just a steady, cold drizzle that blurred everything outside into gray. Inside the bus, it was quiet. No loud music. No jokes. Just the sound of tires on wet pavement, muted conversations, the occasional cough, and the creak of a seat as someone shifted uncomfortably.
For most of the guys, it was their first playoff game. None of them had been here before. Not in high school at least. Not wearing Lions blue.
Some stared out the window, trying not to think too hard. Others bounced their knees or chewed their mouthguards, anxious to get on the field and get the waiting over with. A few whispered about the size of Hebron’s linemen, the turf, the student section, the noise.
Chase didn’t say a word.
He sat in the middle of the bus, hood up, running plays in his head like a reel on loop. Power toss left. Lead zone. Sprint draw. The reads, the cuts, the footwork. He wasn’t nervous. Not exactly. He was wired, locked in, like a spring wound tight. He’d waited a long time for a game like this. A game that mattered.
As the bus arrived at the Hebron Academy facilities Robert Everett glanced his way from across the aisle of the bus. A row up, Carter Cross turned just slightly in his seat.
They didn’t speak.
But the look passed between them—quiet and certain. No speeches. No hype. Just a shared understanding.
They knew what this meant.
They were ready.
Their playoff berth hadn’t felt real until now.
The Lions had barely scraped their way in.
Hebron Academy hadn’t scraped anything.
They were 8–0, ranked first in Class C. Bigger, deeper, polished. They had matching warmups, turf under their cleats, and a scoreboard that looked like it belonged in a D2 stadium. Their student section arrived early, umbrellas overhead, cowbells in hand.
Nobody gave Livermore Falls a shot.
But they were still here.
---
The first quarter was punishing.
Hebron Academy came out in a double tight end set and ran the ball right at them. No flair. No misdirection. Just inside zone and lead draws behind a monstrous offensive line. Chase watched from the sideline as the defense bent, bent, then finally broke.
Thirteen plays. Seven minutes. Touchdown, Hebron.
7–0.
The Lions' offense took the field for the first time and made it as far as midfield before disaster struck—a mishandled handoff between Robert and Carter on second-and-short. The ball squirted away on the slick turf, and Hebron jumped on it.
They didn’t waste the gift. A few plays later, they kicked a field goal.
10–0.
The Lions needed a spark. Chase gave them one.
Early in the second quarter, he took a toss right, planted hard, and cut back across the grain. A linebacker whiffed. Then a safety. He stiff-armed the third man and accelerated down the sideline for 38 yards before being dragged down inside the 20.
Two plays later, Carter Cross finished the job—bulldozing through a gap off left guard and falling forward into the end zone.
10–7.
The sideline came alive. Briefly.
Hebron struck again just minutes later—a perfectly timed play-action that froze the safeties. Their tight end slipped behind the coverage, and their quarterback dropped it in over the top.
17–7.
Livermore Falls refused to fold.
Marchand orchestrated a patient two-minute drill, mixing short runs and a pair of quick hitches from Everett to the sideline. They got just inside the red zone before stalling, and the field goal team trotted out with four seconds left.
Kick up. Kick good.
17–10 at the half.
Coach Marchand didn’t draw up anything on the whiteboard.
He just stood there, hands behind his back, eyes hard.
“You made it here,” he said. “Now earn your stay.”
The third quarter opened like a dream.
Zone read. Chase took the handoff, slipped through a crease between the guard and tackle, and accelerated into the second level.
One cut. Two.
He split a pair of defenders at the forty, then it was nothing but turf and rain in front of him.
52 yards. Touchdown.
They went for two. Marchand didn’t even hesitate.
Carter lined up at fullback, then shifted wide pre-snap. It confused the defense just enough. Chase took the sweep, sprinted to the pylon, and dove. The side judge signaled good.
18–17.
Livermore Falls leads.
For a moment, they could taste it.
But Hebron Academy didn’t flinch. They chewed up four minutes on the next drive—converting two third-and-longs, once on a screen, once on a designed QB draw. They leaned on their line again and pounded it in from the four.
23–18 after a missed kick.
Then, a dagger. On the Lions' next possession, Everett’s pass was tipped at the line and picked off at midfield. Hebron drove again, but the defense stiffened. Field goal.
26–18.
Still, the Lions wouldn’t go quietly.
Midway through the fourth, Hebron punted—and Chase fielded it at his own 24. He took two steps right, then reversed field. The wedge formed, and Chase cut through it. He bounced outside and gained 26 before being dragged down near midfield.
The sideline roared.
The next few plays came like punches in a flurry.
First down: Everett found his slot receiver on a slant for ten.
Next: Carter went off tackle for six.
Then: Chase exploded through a trap block for 18 more, dragging a cornerback for the final three yards.
Now they were inside the red zone.
From the 14-yard line, Chase followed Benny around the edge, got a perfect seal block, and turned the corner.
Touchdown.
Marchand didn’t blink—he was going for it.
Same formation. Same shift. This time, Chase didn’t need the edge. He cut inside the reach block, dove into the end zone, and came up holding one finger in the air.
26–26. 2:08 to play.
The onside kick bounced once, then skidded straight into a Hebron up man. He smothered it.
Still, the Lions had two timeouts left.
Hebron took to the air, trying to go for the kill shot but the defense held tight and forced a three-and-out, with the clock barely moving. The punt was high and short.
The ball changed hands with 1:21 to go.
Livermore Falls ball. No timeouts. Down one.
Start at their own 23.
First play: draw to Carter—six yards. The clock ticked.
Toss left to Chase—eleven more and out of bounds, stopping the clock.
Now at the 40.
Everett fired a slant—seven yards.
Chase inside—five. First down.
They were in Hebron territory.
The sideline started to believe again.
Clock: 0:42.
Marchand dialed up the trick play.
Flea flicker.
Carter took the handoff, stepped inside, then pitched it back to Everett.
Hebron’s linebackers bit—but only for a step. The corners stayed disciplined.
Everett looked downfield—his first read was blanketed. So was his second.
Chase drifted into the flat.
Not the target. But open.
Everett threw it on a rope.
Chase turned, caught it—bobble—held on. Turned upfield.
Ten yards. Juke left. Spin right. He had one man to beat.
He tried to cut back inside.
Crack!
The linebacker blindsided him, helmet to the football.
The ball popped out.
Chase hit the turf, scrambled, reached for it—
—but he was too late.
A Hebron defender scooped it clean off the wet grass and took off up the sideline. Chase spun around to give chase, but his legs weren’t under him. The defender was gone before anyone else could react—slipping two tackles before being wrestled down inside the Livermore Falls 20.
The Hebron sideline exploded. Their field goal unit sprinted onto the field with no timeouts left, the kicker already lining up the ball as the referee restarted the clock.
Snap. Hold. Kick.
The ball sailed through the uprights as the horn sounded.
Final score:
Hebron Academy – 29
Livermore Falls – 26
Chase sat motionless on the bench well after the final whistle, rain soaking his jersey, the echo of the Hebron celebration muffled by the weight in his chest.
He’d had it. And he lost it.
Eventually his teammates and coaches coaxed him into the locker room where all was quiet.
Not just quiet—hollow.
Coach Marchand didn’t say anything for a long time. When he finally did, it was only this:
“You gave them everything.”
He'd tried not to look directly at anyone when he said it but his eyes met Chase's if only for a beat.
“I've never been more proud of a team.” He added.
Then he walked out.
Outside the bus, Chase’s dad waited. His mom too. They smiled. Tried to speak. Reassured him that he played great. That he made the town proud.
He nodded. But didn’t look up.
---
That night, long after he should’ve been asleep, Chase stared at the ceiling.
His ribs ached, sore from the blindside hit—but the ache in his chest ran deeper. The game had been right there. In his hands. And now it was gone.
That hurt more than anything.
Downstairs, he heard voices—his parents talking in hushed tones. Not angry. Not loud. Just...off.
The rhythm of it was strange enough to catch his attention.
He thought about sitting up. Asking what was going on.
But he didn’t. He was too tired. Too drained. Whatever it was, it could wait.
Tonight, there was nothing left in him to give. Not even questions.
For most of the guys, it was their first playoff game. None of them had been here before. Not in high school at least. Not wearing Lions blue.
Some stared out the window, trying not to think too hard. Others bounced their knees or chewed their mouthguards, anxious to get on the field and get the waiting over with. A few whispered about the size of Hebron’s linemen, the turf, the student section, the noise.
Chase didn’t say a word.
He sat in the middle of the bus, hood up, running plays in his head like a reel on loop. Power toss left. Lead zone. Sprint draw. The reads, the cuts, the footwork. He wasn’t nervous. Not exactly. He was wired, locked in, like a spring wound tight. He’d waited a long time for a game like this. A game that mattered.
As the bus arrived at the Hebron Academy facilities Robert Everett glanced his way from across the aisle of the bus. A row up, Carter Cross turned just slightly in his seat.
They didn’t speak.
But the look passed between them—quiet and certain. No speeches. No hype. Just a shared understanding.
They knew what this meant.
They were ready.
Their playoff berth hadn’t felt real until now.
The Lions had barely scraped their way in.
Hebron Academy hadn’t scraped anything.
They were 8–0, ranked first in Class C. Bigger, deeper, polished. They had matching warmups, turf under their cleats, and a scoreboard that looked like it belonged in a D2 stadium. Their student section arrived early, umbrellas overhead, cowbells in hand.
Nobody gave Livermore Falls a shot.
But they were still here.
---
The first quarter was punishing.
Hebron Academy came out in a double tight end set and ran the ball right at them. No flair. No misdirection. Just inside zone and lead draws behind a monstrous offensive line. Chase watched from the sideline as the defense bent, bent, then finally broke.
Thirteen plays. Seven minutes. Touchdown, Hebron.
7–0.
The Lions' offense took the field for the first time and made it as far as midfield before disaster struck—a mishandled handoff between Robert and Carter on second-and-short. The ball squirted away on the slick turf, and Hebron jumped on it.
They didn’t waste the gift. A few plays later, they kicked a field goal.
10–0.
The Lions needed a spark. Chase gave them one.
Early in the second quarter, he took a toss right, planted hard, and cut back across the grain. A linebacker whiffed. Then a safety. He stiff-armed the third man and accelerated down the sideline for 38 yards before being dragged down inside the 20.
Two plays later, Carter Cross finished the job—bulldozing through a gap off left guard and falling forward into the end zone.
10–7.
The sideline came alive. Briefly.
Hebron struck again just minutes later—a perfectly timed play-action that froze the safeties. Their tight end slipped behind the coverage, and their quarterback dropped it in over the top.
17–7.
Livermore Falls refused to fold.
Marchand orchestrated a patient two-minute drill, mixing short runs and a pair of quick hitches from Everett to the sideline. They got just inside the red zone before stalling, and the field goal team trotted out with four seconds left.
Kick up. Kick good.
17–10 at the half.
Coach Marchand didn’t draw up anything on the whiteboard.
He just stood there, hands behind his back, eyes hard.
“You made it here,” he said. “Now earn your stay.”
The third quarter opened like a dream.
Zone read. Chase took the handoff, slipped through a crease between the guard and tackle, and accelerated into the second level.
One cut. Two.
He split a pair of defenders at the forty, then it was nothing but turf and rain in front of him.
52 yards. Touchdown.
They went for two. Marchand didn’t even hesitate.
Carter lined up at fullback, then shifted wide pre-snap. It confused the defense just enough. Chase took the sweep, sprinted to the pylon, and dove. The side judge signaled good.
18–17.
Livermore Falls leads.
For a moment, they could taste it.
But Hebron Academy didn’t flinch. They chewed up four minutes on the next drive—converting two third-and-longs, once on a screen, once on a designed QB draw. They leaned on their line again and pounded it in from the four.
23–18 after a missed kick.
Then, a dagger. On the Lions' next possession, Everett’s pass was tipped at the line and picked off at midfield. Hebron drove again, but the defense stiffened. Field goal.
26–18.
Still, the Lions wouldn’t go quietly.
Midway through the fourth, Hebron punted—and Chase fielded it at his own 24. He took two steps right, then reversed field. The wedge formed, and Chase cut through it. He bounced outside and gained 26 before being dragged down near midfield.
The sideline roared.
The next few plays came like punches in a flurry.
First down: Everett found his slot receiver on a slant for ten.
Next: Carter went off tackle for six.
Then: Chase exploded through a trap block for 18 more, dragging a cornerback for the final three yards.
Now they were inside the red zone.
From the 14-yard line, Chase followed Benny around the edge, got a perfect seal block, and turned the corner.
Touchdown.
Marchand didn’t blink—he was going for it.
Same formation. Same shift. This time, Chase didn’t need the edge. He cut inside the reach block, dove into the end zone, and came up holding one finger in the air.
26–26. 2:08 to play.
The onside kick bounced once, then skidded straight into a Hebron up man. He smothered it.
Still, the Lions had two timeouts left.
Hebron took to the air, trying to go for the kill shot but the defense held tight and forced a three-and-out, with the clock barely moving. The punt was high and short.
The ball changed hands with 1:21 to go.
Livermore Falls ball. No timeouts. Down one.
Start at their own 23.
First play: draw to Carter—six yards. The clock ticked.
Toss left to Chase—eleven more and out of bounds, stopping the clock.
Now at the 40.
Everett fired a slant—seven yards.
Chase inside—five. First down.
They were in Hebron territory.
The sideline started to believe again.
Clock: 0:42.
Marchand dialed up the trick play.
Flea flicker.
Carter took the handoff, stepped inside, then pitched it back to Everett.
Hebron’s linebackers bit—but only for a step. The corners stayed disciplined.
Everett looked downfield—his first read was blanketed. So was his second.
Chase drifted into the flat.
Not the target. But open.
Everett threw it on a rope.
Chase turned, caught it—bobble—held on. Turned upfield.
Ten yards. Juke left. Spin right. He had one man to beat.
He tried to cut back inside.
Crack!
The linebacker blindsided him, helmet to the football.
The ball popped out.
Chase hit the turf, scrambled, reached for it—
—but he was too late.
A Hebron defender scooped it clean off the wet grass and took off up the sideline. Chase spun around to give chase, but his legs weren’t under him. The defender was gone before anyone else could react—slipping two tackles before being wrestled down inside the Livermore Falls 20.
The Hebron sideline exploded. Their field goal unit sprinted onto the field with no timeouts left, the kicker already lining up the ball as the referee restarted the clock.
Snap. Hold. Kick.
The ball sailed through the uprights as the horn sounded.
Final score:
Hebron Academy – 29
Livermore Falls – 26
Chase sat motionless on the bench well after the final whistle, rain soaking his jersey, the echo of the Hebron celebration muffled by the weight in his chest.
He’d had it. And he lost it.
Eventually his teammates and coaches coaxed him into the locker room where all was quiet.
Not just quiet—hollow.
Coach Marchand didn’t say anything for a long time. When he finally did, it was only this:
“You gave them everything.”
He'd tried not to look directly at anyone when he said it but his eyes met Chase's if only for a beat.
“I've never been more proud of a team.” He added.
Then he walked out.
Outside the bus, Chase’s dad waited. His mom too. They smiled. Tried to speak. Reassured him that he played great. That he made the town proud.
He nodded. But didn’t look up.
---
That night, long after he should’ve been asleep, Chase stared at the ceiling.
His ribs ached, sore from the blindside hit—but the ache in his chest ran deeper. The game had been right there. In his hands. And now it was gone.
That hurt more than anything.
Downstairs, he heard voices—his parents talking in hushed tones. Not angry. Not loud. Just...off.
The rhythm of it was strange enough to catch his attention.
He thought about sitting up. Asking what was going on.
But he didn’t. He was too tired. Too drained. Whatever it was, it could wait.
Tonight, there was nothing left in him to give. Not even questions.
Run To The Sun
The locker room smelled like old sweat, dried mud, and rubber mats—the kind of smell that never fully left, no matter how much disinfectant they sprayed. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting a pale wash across the empty stalls.
Chase sat on a bench near his locker, his helmet resting in his lap, shoulder pads at his feet. He didn’t rush. No one did.
All around him, teammates moved quietly. No banter. No jokes. Just the dull rhythm of cleats clunking into duffels, jerseys folded into mesh laundry bags, helmets stacked into numbered bins. Four days had passed since the playoff loss to Hebron, and still, the air carried the weight of it. Nobody said “fumble,” but it didn’t have to be said.
Chase noticed everything—the tear in the corner of the carpet by the showers, the loose screw on the plate above his locker name tag, the faded "LIONS PRIDE" decal peeling above the whiteboard. He'd been juggling too many thoughts since the loss: frustration, disappointment, guilt. He kept coming back to the final play, to what might’ve been if he’d just gotten down, just tucked the ball tighter.
Coach Marchand had pulled him aside earlier in the week. Told him how proud he was. Told him they wouldn't have made it that far without him.
Robert and Carter had both said the same.
“Hebron didn’t beat us,” Carter had said. “We pushed them to the edge. You gave us a shot.”
Robert had added, “We got farther than any of us thought we would. Because of you.”
Chase appreciated it. He really did. But it didn’t stop the ache in his chest when he looked around and realized how many of these guys— the seniors—might never strap up again.
He stared down at his helmet. The paint was chipped around the crown. The chinstrap was frayed. One of the screws on the facemask had a dab of blue tape over it from week five. It wasn’t much to look at, but it had carried him through every snap this season.
He didn’t want to let it go.
Across the room, Carter Cross dropped his pads into a bin with a solid clunk and exhaled. Robert Everett folded his jersey neatly and set it gently atop a growing pile of mesh and polyester.
They didn’t say anything at first. But when Chase looked up, they both met his eyes. There was no pity there. Just understanding.
After a few seconds, they crossed the room and stood in front of him.
“You still replaying it?” Carter asked, not unkindly.
Chase nodded.
Robert clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t.”
“We don’t get there without you,” Carter said. “Not even close.”
Robert added, “You led Class C in rushing yards and touchdowns, man. Everyone knows it.”
Carter smirked. “You’re gonna lead the whole damn state next year if you stay hungry.”
Chase shifted, not sure how to respond. He appreciated it, even if he didn’t believe it yet. The way the season ended still felt too fresh, too unfinished.
“You’ve got next year,” Robert said. “Lead this thing. Take it even farther.”
Chase thought about all the talent that was graduating. About how thin they’d be at every position. About how much harder it would be without the seniors who had carried them this far.
He didn’t say any of that. He just gave them each a small nod and a fist bump.
“Thanks,” he said quietly.
Carter and Robert gave him one last look before heading out, their gear bags slung over their shoulders like anchors.
Chase lingered, the last one in the room.
He stood up slowly, walked over to the bin marked #2, and placed his helmet inside. The cracked chinstrap dangled over the edge as he let it go.
It wasn’t just a piece of gear. It was the last part of something that felt like it still mattered.
---
The gym felt like a strange setting for a football meeting.
Chase sat near the front row of the blue-painted bleachers, elbows on his knees, sneakers planted on the polished court floor. The “LF” logo at center court, bright navy trimmed in silver, reflected faintly in the lights above. The space echoed with every shifting foot, every low whisper, every cough.
There were maybe twenty guys there, all of them spread out across the bottom rows. Some sat in small groups. Others sat alone, arms crossed, eyes unfocused.
The playoff roster had only carried thirty-three.
And now—after the loss, after the gear turn-in, after the seniors had started fading into the rearview—it looked more like a club meeting than a football team. No helmets. No cleats. Just old sweatshirts and fading hoodies with “Lions” across the chest.
Chase scanned the faces. The ones who might have to carry the load next year. A few of them had already started talking about it.
“Wyatt’ll have to move to center,” one kid muttered. “He can snap. Barely.”
“Dre’s gotta bulk up if he’s gonna play guard. He’s 180 soaking wet.”
“Zeke’s our only burner. We lose him and we’ve got no shot to stretch the field. Everyone will stack the box to try and stop Chase.”
It wasn’t hopeful, exactly—but it was something. A thread to hold onto. Even Chase had caught himself thinking, maybe we can build something again.
He wasn’t sure how much of that he believed.
But he wanted to.
Coach Marchand entered through the side door.
Chase saw it before anyone else—the way Marchand hesitated for half a step when he walked in, the way his shoulders looked heavier than usual. And there was something else. A shine in his eyes that hadn’t been there since senior night.
He clapped his hands once. “Alright. Settle down, guys.”
The voices dropped off. The team turned to him.
Marchand stood near the half-court line, hands in his pockets. He didn’t pace. Didn’t raise his voice. Just looked at them.
“This season,” he started, “meant more to me than you’ll ever know.”
The gym was silent except for the sound of the rain outside ticking against the high windows.
“You gave everything you had. To this team. This school. This town.”
His voice wavered on that last word.
“You weren’t the biggest, or the deepest. But you were the toughest damn group I’ve ever coached. The most heart I’ve ever seen.”
He looked down and cleared his throat. When he looked back up, his eyes were red, and his voice had cracked at the edges.
Chase shifted in his seat, feeling a lump rise in his throat. He didn’t look around. He just kept his eyes on Marchand.
A single thought crept into his head.
He’s going to tell us he’s retiring.
“You played with grit. With heart. With pride. You made people care again. Not just about football—but about Livermore Falls. You gave this town something to stand behind.”
He paused and cleared his throat. Looked down at the court, then back up again.
“I’ve never been more proud of a team.”
The words hung there. His voice caught in the last syllable.
Then he straightened a bit.
“And that’s why this is so damn hard to say.”
The room stilled.
“The school board met last week. They’ve made a decision. It’s final.”
Marchand took a breath, and when he spoke again, his voice had dropped, like even he didn’t want to hear it out loud.
“Livermore Falls is suspending the football program, effective immediately.”
A long silence stretched over the gym like a blanket.
Chase didn’t move.
Some players shifted in their seats. One dropped his head into his hands. Someone else whispered “No way,” just loud enough to cut through the quiet.
Marchand pressed on, his voice now tired.
“There’s a list of reasons. Some of you already know parts of it.”
He raised a hand, counting on his fingers.
“The field needs major repairs. The visitor bleachers failed their last inspection. Our equipment—especially the helmets—needs replacing. Transportation costs have gone up. My salary isn’t small. And most of all… the numbers just aren’t there.”
He let the list settle in.
“Next year, we were looking at maybe twenty-one returners. Barely enough for scout work. No backup linemen. No depth at safety. You can’t run a varsity program like that. Not safely. Not the way it needs to be done.”
No one interrupted.
Marchand’s voice dropped even lower.
“We’ve talked to some other schools. Asked about combining teams. But nothing’s close to worked out, and it won’t be in time for next season.”
That was it. The hope Chase had felt earlier—the cautious excitement about getting back to work, proving it wasn’t a fluke—it was gone. Replaced by something heavier than anger.
Loss.
He felt it settle in his chest like concrete.
He glanced around at his teammates. He realized most of the guys wouldn’t put pads on again. Definitely not for Livermore Falls, maybe not for anybody. He wondered if he might be one of them.
He looked at his own hands, fists curled tightly in his lap.
Marchand looked around the room one last time.
“I’m sorry,” he said, eyes glassy now, voice just above a whisper. “I wish I could tell you different.”
Then, without another word, he turned and walked back out the way he came.
The door closed behind him with a hollow click.
---
The days after the meeting passed in a kind of slow, gray blur. Chase went to school. Sat through classes. Answered when his name was called. Ate lunch without really tasting anything. Laughed when someone told a joke, though he didn’t remember what it was about.
He moved through hallways like a ghost.
The feeling was hard to name. It wasn’t just sadness. It was heavier than that. Like mourning something that used to anchor you and now wasn’t there. Like waking up in a house that didn’t feel like home anymore.
It felt like losing someone.
At home, things were quieter than usual. His parents weren’t fighting. They were being careful—too careful. His mom would ask if he wanted seconds even before he finished his first plate. His dad complimented him on things he never used to notice, like how neatly he folded the towels.
They walked on eggshells.
But when they thought he wasn’t listening—when he was upstairs or had his headphones in—he could still hear them. Hushed voices in the kitchen. Tense, clipped exchanges. Long silences that said more than words ever could.
Chase didn’t know what they were talking about exactly. But he knew it wasn’t good.
---
Basketball had started.
Normally, he’d have welcomed the change. He wasn’t in love with it the way he was with football, but he’d always liked the pace, the rhythm. The way you could lose yourself in a fast break or a defensive stop.
But now? It felt empty.
He shared the court with Robert and a few other football guys. And instead of feeling like a team again, it just reminded him of what they’d lost. The way they used to lead the pregame tunnel. The sound of the crowd under the lights. The unspoken brotherhood that only came with Friday nights.
This wasn’t that.
One evening, after basketball practice, Chase passed by Coach Marchand’s office. The door was open. The lights were on.
And Marchand was packing.
Chase slowed, then stopped. Marchand was at the bookshelf, placing binders into a cardboard box. He didn’t notice Chase at first.
Chase stepped inside.
He didn’t say anything. Just walked in and sat down in the chair across from the desk.
Marchand glanced up, then went back to what he was doing. He didn’t speak either.
For a few minutes, the only sound was the soft shuffle of papers and the dull thump of each item dropped into the box.
Grief didn’t need words.
Finally, Chase broke the silence.
“What are you gonna do?”
Marchand leaned against the desk and crossed his arms. He took a long breath, then exhaled slowly, not in a rush to answer the question.
“I don’t know yet. A couple schools have reached out about assistant spots.”
Chase nodded, staring at the floor.
“One of them’s Hebron,” Marchand added, almost like a joke.
Chase looked up. They both smirked—just barely. The irony was too obvious to ignore.
The silence settled again.
Chase glanced around the office. The framed team photos on the wall. The signed ball from the teams last playoff win. The crumpled depth chart tacked to the corkboard, names crossed out and scribbled over.
It used to feel alive in here.
He cleared his throat.
Coach looked at him.
“What am I supposed to do?” Chase asked, quiet. “I never thought about football ending. I mean… I knew I’d be done eventually. But not like this. I thought I had more time.”
Marchand nodded slowly, letting the words settle.
“There’s more to you than just a football player, Chase.”
Chase didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he believed that.
Marchand leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“I know it doesn’t feel like it now. But the game’s not going anywhere. It’s part of you. Always will be. Maybe it’s not in this jersey or on this field. But it’ll find its way back to you. Or you’ll find your way back to it.”
Chase looked away, jaw tight.
He wanted to believe that. He wanted it to be enough.
But all he could see was the empty field. The dark Friday nights. The quiet locker room that used to hum with life.
“Doesn’t feel like it,” he said.
Marchand didn’t push. Just nodded again. Eventually he returned to the task at hand.
Chase stood without saying anything and started packing up items on a dusty shelf behind the door, pausing to look at an old roster or picture from time to time. They worked in silence—packing tape, shoeboxes full of playbooks, photos slid out of frames.
At some point, the sky outside the windows turned from blue to orange to gray.
Eventually, Marchand checked his watch and stood up straight.
“We should get going,” he said.
Chase walked out first, backpack slung over his shoulder. Marchand followed a few steps behind.
At the doorway, he paused. Looked once around the office.
He reached up, peeled the small white label with his name off the door, folded it once, and tucked it into his jacket pocket.
Then he switched off the light.
And closed the door behind them.
Chase sat on a bench near his locker, his helmet resting in his lap, shoulder pads at his feet. He didn’t rush. No one did.
All around him, teammates moved quietly. No banter. No jokes. Just the dull rhythm of cleats clunking into duffels, jerseys folded into mesh laundry bags, helmets stacked into numbered bins. Four days had passed since the playoff loss to Hebron, and still, the air carried the weight of it. Nobody said “fumble,” but it didn’t have to be said.
Chase noticed everything—the tear in the corner of the carpet by the showers, the loose screw on the plate above his locker name tag, the faded "LIONS PRIDE" decal peeling above the whiteboard. He'd been juggling too many thoughts since the loss: frustration, disappointment, guilt. He kept coming back to the final play, to what might’ve been if he’d just gotten down, just tucked the ball tighter.
Coach Marchand had pulled him aside earlier in the week. Told him how proud he was. Told him they wouldn't have made it that far without him.
Robert and Carter had both said the same.
“Hebron didn’t beat us,” Carter had said. “We pushed them to the edge. You gave us a shot.”
Robert had added, “We got farther than any of us thought we would. Because of you.”
Chase appreciated it. He really did. But it didn’t stop the ache in his chest when he looked around and realized how many of these guys— the seniors—might never strap up again.
He stared down at his helmet. The paint was chipped around the crown. The chinstrap was frayed. One of the screws on the facemask had a dab of blue tape over it from week five. It wasn’t much to look at, but it had carried him through every snap this season.
He didn’t want to let it go.
Across the room, Carter Cross dropped his pads into a bin with a solid clunk and exhaled. Robert Everett folded his jersey neatly and set it gently atop a growing pile of mesh and polyester.
They didn’t say anything at first. But when Chase looked up, they both met his eyes. There was no pity there. Just understanding.
After a few seconds, they crossed the room and stood in front of him.
“You still replaying it?” Carter asked, not unkindly.
Chase nodded.
Robert clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t.”
“We don’t get there without you,” Carter said. “Not even close.”
Robert added, “You led Class C in rushing yards and touchdowns, man. Everyone knows it.”
Carter smirked. “You’re gonna lead the whole damn state next year if you stay hungry.”
Chase shifted, not sure how to respond. He appreciated it, even if he didn’t believe it yet. The way the season ended still felt too fresh, too unfinished.
“You’ve got next year,” Robert said. “Lead this thing. Take it even farther.”
Chase thought about all the talent that was graduating. About how thin they’d be at every position. About how much harder it would be without the seniors who had carried them this far.
He didn’t say any of that. He just gave them each a small nod and a fist bump.
“Thanks,” he said quietly.
Carter and Robert gave him one last look before heading out, their gear bags slung over their shoulders like anchors.
Chase lingered, the last one in the room.
He stood up slowly, walked over to the bin marked #2, and placed his helmet inside. The cracked chinstrap dangled over the edge as he let it go.
It wasn’t just a piece of gear. It was the last part of something that felt like it still mattered.
---
The gym felt like a strange setting for a football meeting.
Chase sat near the front row of the blue-painted bleachers, elbows on his knees, sneakers planted on the polished court floor. The “LF” logo at center court, bright navy trimmed in silver, reflected faintly in the lights above. The space echoed with every shifting foot, every low whisper, every cough.
There were maybe twenty guys there, all of them spread out across the bottom rows. Some sat in small groups. Others sat alone, arms crossed, eyes unfocused.
The playoff roster had only carried thirty-three.
And now—after the loss, after the gear turn-in, after the seniors had started fading into the rearview—it looked more like a club meeting than a football team. No helmets. No cleats. Just old sweatshirts and fading hoodies with “Lions” across the chest.
Chase scanned the faces. The ones who might have to carry the load next year. A few of them had already started talking about it.
“Wyatt’ll have to move to center,” one kid muttered. “He can snap. Barely.”
“Dre’s gotta bulk up if he’s gonna play guard. He’s 180 soaking wet.”
“Zeke’s our only burner. We lose him and we’ve got no shot to stretch the field. Everyone will stack the box to try and stop Chase.”
It wasn’t hopeful, exactly—but it was something. A thread to hold onto. Even Chase had caught himself thinking, maybe we can build something again.
He wasn’t sure how much of that he believed.
But he wanted to.
Coach Marchand entered through the side door.
Chase saw it before anyone else—the way Marchand hesitated for half a step when he walked in, the way his shoulders looked heavier than usual. And there was something else. A shine in his eyes that hadn’t been there since senior night.
He clapped his hands once. “Alright. Settle down, guys.”
The voices dropped off. The team turned to him.
Marchand stood near the half-court line, hands in his pockets. He didn’t pace. Didn’t raise his voice. Just looked at them.
“This season,” he started, “meant more to me than you’ll ever know.”
The gym was silent except for the sound of the rain outside ticking against the high windows.
“You gave everything you had. To this team. This school. This town.”
His voice wavered on that last word.
“You weren’t the biggest, or the deepest. But you were the toughest damn group I’ve ever coached. The most heart I’ve ever seen.”
He looked down and cleared his throat. When he looked back up, his eyes were red, and his voice had cracked at the edges.
Chase shifted in his seat, feeling a lump rise in his throat. He didn’t look around. He just kept his eyes on Marchand.
A single thought crept into his head.
He’s going to tell us he’s retiring.
“You played with grit. With heart. With pride. You made people care again. Not just about football—but about Livermore Falls. You gave this town something to stand behind.”
He paused and cleared his throat. Looked down at the court, then back up again.
“I’ve never been more proud of a team.”
The words hung there. His voice caught in the last syllable.
Then he straightened a bit.
“And that’s why this is so damn hard to say.”
The room stilled.
“The school board met last week. They’ve made a decision. It’s final.”
Marchand took a breath, and when he spoke again, his voice had dropped, like even he didn’t want to hear it out loud.
“Livermore Falls is suspending the football program, effective immediately.”
A long silence stretched over the gym like a blanket.
Chase didn’t move.
Some players shifted in their seats. One dropped his head into his hands. Someone else whispered “No way,” just loud enough to cut through the quiet.
Marchand pressed on, his voice now tired.
“There’s a list of reasons. Some of you already know parts of it.”
He raised a hand, counting on his fingers.
“The field needs major repairs. The visitor bleachers failed their last inspection. Our equipment—especially the helmets—needs replacing. Transportation costs have gone up. My salary isn’t small. And most of all… the numbers just aren’t there.”
He let the list settle in.
“Next year, we were looking at maybe twenty-one returners. Barely enough for scout work. No backup linemen. No depth at safety. You can’t run a varsity program like that. Not safely. Not the way it needs to be done.”
No one interrupted.
Marchand’s voice dropped even lower.
“We’ve talked to some other schools. Asked about combining teams. But nothing’s close to worked out, and it won’t be in time for next season.”
That was it. The hope Chase had felt earlier—the cautious excitement about getting back to work, proving it wasn’t a fluke—it was gone. Replaced by something heavier than anger.
Loss.
He felt it settle in his chest like concrete.
He glanced around at his teammates. He realized most of the guys wouldn’t put pads on again. Definitely not for Livermore Falls, maybe not for anybody. He wondered if he might be one of them.
He looked at his own hands, fists curled tightly in his lap.
Marchand looked around the room one last time.
“I’m sorry,” he said, eyes glassy now, voice just above a whisper. “I wish I could tell you different.”
Then, without another word, he turned and walked back out the way he came.
The door closed behind him with a hollow click.
---
The days after the meeting passed in a kind of slow, gray blur. Chase went to school. Sat through classes. Answered when his name was called. Ate lunch without really tasting anything. Laughed when someone told a joke, though he didn’t remember what it was about.
He moved through hallways like a ghost.
The feeling was hard to name. It wasn’t just sadness. It was heavier than that. Like mourning something that used to anchor you and now wasn’t there. Like waking up in a house that didn’t feel like home anymore.
It felt like losing someone.
At home, things were quieter than usual. His parents weren’t fighting. They were being careful—too careful. His mom would ask if he wanted seconds even before he finished his first plate. His dad complimented him on things he never used to notice, like how neatly he folded the towels.
They walked on eggshells.
But when they thought he wasn’t listening—when he was upstairs or had his headphones in—he could still hear them. Hushed voices in the kitchen. Tense, clipped exchanges. Long silences that said more than words ever could.
Chase didn’t know what they were talking about exactly. But he knew it wasn’t good.
---
Basketball had started.
Normally, he’d have welcomed the change. He wasn’t in love with it the way he was with football, but he’d always liked the pace, the rhythm. The way you could lose yourself in a fast break or a defensive stop.
But now? It felt empty.
He shared the court with Robert and a few other football guys. And instead of feeling like a team again, it just reminded him of what they’d lost. The way they used to lead the pregame tunnel. The sound of the crowd under the lights. The unspoken brotherhood that only came with Friday nights.
This wasn’t that.
One evening, after basketball practice, Chase passed by Coach Marchand’s office. The door was open. The lights were on.
And Marchand was packing.
Chase slowed, then stopped. Marchand was at the bookshelf, placing binders into a cardboard box. He didn’t notice Chase at first.
Chase stepped inside.
He didn’t say anything. Just walked in and sat down in the chair across from the desk.
Marchand glanced up, then went back to what he was doing. He didn’t speak either.
For a few minutes, the only sound was the soft shuffle of papers and the dull thump of each item dropped into the box.
Grief didn’t need words.
Finally, Chase broke the silence.
“What are you gonna do?”
Marchand leaned against the desk and crossed his arms. He took a long breath, then exhaled slowly, not in a rush to answer the question.
“I don’t know yet. A couple schools have reached out about assistant spots.”
Chase nodded, staring at the floor.
“One of them’s Hebron,” Marchand added, almost like a joke.
Chase looked up. They both smirked—just barely. The irony was too obvious to ignore.
The silence settled again.
Chase glanced around the office. The framed team photos on the wall. The signed ball from the teams last playoff win. The crumpled depth chart tacked to the corkboard, names crossed out and scribbled over.
It used to feel alive in here.
He cleared his throat.
Coach looked at him.
“What am I supposed to do?” Chase asked, quiet. “I never thought about football ending. I mean… I knew I’d be done eventually. But not like this. I thought I had more time.”
Marchand nodded slowly, letting the words settle.
“There’s more to you than just a football player, Chase.”
Chase didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he believed that.
Marchand leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“I know it doesn’t feel like it now. But the game’s not going anywhere. It’s part of you. Always will be. Maybe it’s not in this jersey or on this field. But it’ll find its way back to you. Or you’ll find your way back to it.”
Chase looked away, jaw tight.
He wanted to believe that. He wanted it to be enough.
But all he could see was the empty field. The dark Friday nights. The quiet locker room that used to hum with life.
“Doesn’t feel like it,” he said.
Marchand didn’t push. Just nodded again. Eventually he returned to the task at hand.
Chase stood without saying anything and started packing up items on a dusty shelf behind the door, pausing to look at an old roster or picture from time to time. They worked in silence—packing tape, shoeboxes full of playbooks, photos slid out of frames.
At some point, the sky outside the windows turned from blue to orange to gray.
Eventually, Marchand checked his watch and stood up straight.
“We should get going,” he said.
Chase walked out first, backpack slung over his shoulder. Marchand followed a few steps behind.
At the doorway, he paused. Looked once around the office.
He reached up, peeled the small white label with his name off the door, folded it once, and tucked it into his jacket pocket.
Then he switched off the light.
And closed the door behind them.
Run To The Sun
hitting the transfer portal in HS 
Run To The Sun
The school gym turned board meeting room was packed tight, the kind of crowd that only showed up for two things: tax hikes and football drama.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering occasionally like they were as tired of the tension as everyone else. The walls were lined with old team photos and plaques, remnants of past glory.
Folding chairs creaked under the weight of townspeople, coaches, teachers, and former players. Cell phones were silenced. Eyes were forward. Everyone was waiting.
A gavel cracked sharply on the wooden podium.
“Next item of business—discussion regarding head football coach Robert Ella,” the chairperson announced. “Walt?”
A few heads turned.
Walt Menard stood slowly, smoothed the front of his sport coat, and walked to the microphone. His polished boots clicked sharply on the linoleum floor.
“Four years,” he began, voice steady and sharp. “That’s how long it’s been since our football team made the playoffs.”
He paused, letting the silence build.
“We just wrapped our first losing season in over two decades. And yet, we’ve got a head coach who continues to run the same system he did fifteen years ago. A system that relies on a quarterback we haven’t had—and clearly can’t develop.”
He gestured toward the board.
“I’ve sat here long enough, watching this program fall further behind while other schools evolve. Ella hasn’t adapted. His playbook is built for the kind of pocket passer that’s rare even at the college level. We’ve got athletes. We’ve got talent. But it’s being wasted under a coach who refuses to change.”
He shifted slightly, eyes narrowing.
“What we need is new blood. Someone younger. Someone who understands the direction the game is going. Not someone clinging to the past.”
He stepped away from the microphone without another word, settling back into his seat with arms crossed. His jaw was tight. He didn’t look at anyone.
A hush fell over the room.
Then the board chair opened the floor.
Several former players stood up, one by one.
A man in his twenties, wearing a faded letterman jacket, walked to the mic. “Coach Ella didn’t just teach me football,” he said. “He taught me how to show up. How to work. How to be accountable when nobody’s watching.”
Another stepped forward. “My junior year, when my dad got laid off, Coach Ella picked me up for every practice. Every game. Never said a word about it. Just showed up.”
A third. “He’s the kind of coach who calls you years after you graduate just to ask how you’re doing. Not how your job is. Not how your stats look. How you’re doing.”
Walt Menard sat stone-faced, fists clenched in his lap.
Finally, Donnie Kilgore, the athletic director, stepped forward. He looked older than he had a few years ago. The seasons had worn on him just like they had on Ella. He adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat.
“I’ve known Robert Ella a long time,” Kilgore said. “We played together here in the ‘90s. Two state titles. Hell of a run. Walt was on those teams too.”
He paused. The room shifted uncomfortably.
“Walt contributed. No one denies that. But he always felt like he was playing in someone else’s shadow. And I think, deep down, that never sat right with him.”
The air got tighter. Menard’s face flushed.
Kilgore pressed on.
“Coach Ella has tried, more than once, to patch things up with Walt. To move forward. Walt didn’t want reconciliation. He wanted Ella out. And if he could get me too? Even better.”
He gestured to the group of players who’d spoken—and the quiet ones still seated, backs straight, eyes forward.
“But this isn’t about personal history. It’s about the kind of man you trust with your kids. The kind of man who’s been doing this the right way for decades. You’ve heard the stories. You’ve seen the impact.”
Kilgore exhaled.
“I didn’t stand up here because Robert and I are friends. I did it because he’s earned this chance to keep building.”
No one else spoke.
The board thanked everyone for their comments and tabled the motion for formal review. The meeting adjourned with a quiet clack of the gavel.
Coach Ella never said a word. But when he stood to leave, he met Kilgore’s eyes and nodded once.
===
A few days later, Robert Ella sat across from Donnie Kilgore in the athletic director’s cramped office. The space was a shrine to past glory: faded team photos, old trophies, a yellowing newspaper clipping of their second state championship. Behind Kilgore’s desk was a framed photo of the three of them—Kilgore, Ella, and yes, even Menard—helmets off, arms raised in victory.
Ella gestured toward it. “Hard to believe we used to have hair like that.”
Kilgore chuckled. “And knees that didn’t click every time we stood up.”
They were quiet for a moment, the comfortable kind of silence that only old teammates could share.
Kilgore leaned forward, lacing his fingers on the desk.
“You know I had to fight for you.”
Ella nodded. “I figured.”
“Not just because we go way back. But because I’ve seen what you’ve built here. I’ve seen the kids who come back years later to thank you. The families who trust you. That doesn’t go unnoticed.”
Ella sighed. “Still doesn’t change the record books. One playoff win in the last five seasons. Just wrapped up our first losing season. Walt’s not wrong about everything.”
“He’s wrong about the most important thing,” Kilgore said. “Your value doesn’t end with your playbook.”
Ella looked out the window at the practice field. The grass was patchy, worn from months of hard work that was betrayed by the results on game day.
“So what now?”
Kilgore slid a folder across the desk.
“The board agreed to give you another year. But they want results. I’ve got until November to hand them a review.”
Ella didn’t react. He just stared at the folder.
“I know it’s not fair,” Kilgore said. “But it’s what we’ve got.”
After a long moment, Ella smiled faintly.
“Far as plans go,” Ella said, “all I’ve got is the need for a new one.”
Kilgore grinned. “Well then. Let me know what you need.”
They sat back, reminiscing for a few more minutes—old war stories, dumb plays that turned into touchdowns, teammates long since gone. They were still in the fight. At least for now.
===
Later that week, Coach Ella sat alone in his office, the walls quieter than usual. He was watching film—again. His eyes scanned the footage, looking for something different, something he’d missed.
Bad throws. Missed blocks. Routes that didn’t break open. Quarterbacks rolling out into pressure. Receivers blanketed in double coverage.
Play after play stalled.
The defense had played well in most games. But they were always gassed by the fourth quarter. Too many possessions. Too many plays. Not enough help.
Ella rubbed his temples and sighed. The old system wasn’t working. He’d resisted that truth, but now it stared him in the face.
He turned to the depth chart on the wall. One by one, he pulled off the names of graduating seniors. By the time he was done, there were more gaps than players.
He sat back and stared at the bare spots, wondering for a moment if maybe it was time to walk away. To make it easier on everyone.
But then he looked at the names that remained—those underclassmen, the ones who still had time. Still had potential. Still believed.
He paused at one name—Johnny Doughty, a sophomore guard who never stopped running sprints even after everyone else had tapped out. That kind of kid deserved a chance at something more.
He wasn’t ready to leave them behind. Not like this.
Ella stood, stretched, and felt something unfamiliar in his chest.
A spark.
He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a stack of blank note cards. Playbook ideas. Personnel notes. Training schedules. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it his way—but better. Smarter.
He thought briefly of Menard’s speech at the board meeting—not the words, but the bitterness behind them. Walt might’ve wanted him out, but Ella wasn’t done proving he belonged.
He wasn’t done yet.
===
That weekend, back home in his study, the lights were dim and the TV played softly in the background. Ella had put on the college games hours ago, but somewhere along the line, he’d gotten buried in paperwork—player evaluations, weight room attendance, offseason goals.
He rubbed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, catching the sound of an announcer’s voice.
“…Reynolds takes the snap, holds it out to Swain, then pulls it back and he’ll keep it himself…”
Ella turned his head just in time to see the Navy quarterback burst into the open field. The defense collapsed behind him.
“…has blockers at the 30, the 25… bursts into space and they won’t catch him…”
Touchdown.
Ella raised an eyebrow, intrigued. He reached for the remote, finally finding it beneath a stack of notebooks, and rewound the play.
Then again.
And again.
He turned up the volume and listened closely.
“Keenan Reynolds with his third rushing touchdown of the game. Navy can retake the lead here with the extra point…”
Ella leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees.
By the time the third overtime started, he’d already opened a new browser tab and typed “Navy option offense playbook” into the search bar.
The wheels were turning.
And for the first time in a long time, Coach Ella was smiling.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering occasionally like they were as tired of the tension as everyone else. The walls were lined with old team photos and plaques, remnants of past glory.
Folding chairs creaked under the weight of townspeople, coaches, teachers, and former players. Cell phones were silenced. Eyes were forward. Everyone was waiting.
A gavel cracked sharply on the wooden podium.
“Next item of business—discussion regarding head football coach Robert Ella,” the chairperson announced. “Walt?”
A few heads turned.
Walt Menard stood slowly, smoothed the front of his sport coat, and walked to the microphone. His polished boots clicked sharply on the linoleum floor.
“Four years,” he began, voice steady and sharp. “That’s how long it’s been since our football team made the playoffs.”
He paused, letting the silence build.
“We just wrapped our first losing season in over two decades. And yet, we’ve got a head coach who continues to run the same system he did fifteen years ago. A system that relies on a quarterback we haven’t had—and clearly can’t develop.”
He gestured toward the board.
“I’ve sat here long enough, watching this program fall further behind while other schools evolve. Ella hasn’t adapted. His playbook is built for the kind of pocket passer that’s rare even at the college level. We’ve got athletes. We’ve got talent. But it’s being wasted under a coach who refuses to change.”
He shifted slightly, eyes narrowing.
“What we need is new blood. Someone younger. Someone who understands the direction the game is going. Not someone clinging to the past.”
He stepped away from the microphone without another word, settling back into his seat with arms crossed. His jaw was tight. He didn’t look at anyone.
A hush fell over the room.
Then the board chair opened the floor.
Several former players stood up, one by one.
A man in his twenties, wearing a faded letterman jacket, walked to the mic. “Coach Ella didn’t just teach me football,” he said. “He taught me how to show up. How to work. How to be accountable when nobody’s watching.”
Another stepped forward. “My junior year, when my dad got laid off, Coach Ella picked me up for every practice. Every game. Never said a word about it. Just showed up.”
A third. “He’s the kind of coach who calls you years after you graduate just to ask how you’re doing. Not how your job is. Not how your stats look. How you’re doing.”
Walt Menard sat stone-faced, fists clenched in his lap.
Finally, Donnie Kilgore, the athletic director, stepped forward. He looked older than he had a few years ago. The seasons had worn on him just like they had on Ella. He adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat.
“I’ve known Robert Ella a long time,” Kilgore said. “We played together here in the ‘90s. Two state titles. Hell of a run. Walt was on those teams too.”
He paused. The room shifted uncomfortably.
“Walt contributed. No one denies that. But he always felt like he was playing in someone else’s shadow. And I think, deep down, that never sat right with him.”
The air got tighter. Menard’s face flushed.
Kilgore pressed on.
“Coach Ella has tried, more than once, to patch things up with Walt. To move forward. Walt didn’t want reconciliation. He wanted Ella out. And if he could get me too? Even better.”
He gestured to the group of players who’d spoken—and the quiet ones still seated, backs straight, eyes forward.
“But this isn’t about personal history. It’s about the kind of man you trust with your kids. The kind of man who’s been doing this the right way for decades. You’ve heard the stories. You’ve seen the impact.”
Kilgore exhaled.
“I didn’t stand up here because Robert and I are friends. I did it because he’s earned this chance to keep building.”
No one else spoke.
The board thanked everyone for their comments and tabled the motion for formal review. The meeting adjourned with a quiet clack of the gavel.
Coach Ella never said a word. But when he stood to leave, he met Kilgore’s eyes and nodded once.
===
A few days later, Robert Ella sat across from Donnie Kilgore in the athletic director’s cramped office. The space was a shrine to past glory: faded team photos, old trophies, a yellowing newspaper clipping of their second state championship. Behind Kilgore’s desk was a framed photo of the three of them—Kilgore, Ella, and yes, even Menard—helmets off, arms raised in victory.
Ella gestured toward it. “Hard to believe we used to have hair like that.”
Kilgore chuckled. “And knees that didn’t click every time we stood up.”
They were quiet for a moment, the comfortable kind of silence that only old teammates could share.
Kilgore leaned forward, lacing his fingers on the desk.
“You know I had to fight for you.”
Ella nodded. “I figured.”
“Not just because we go way back. But because I’ve seen what you’ve built here. I’ve seen the kids who come back years later to thank you. The families who trust you. That doesn’t go unnoticed.”
Ella sighed. “Still doesn’t change the record books. One playoff win in the last five seasons. Just wrapped up our first losing season. Walt’s not wrong about everything.”
“He’s wrong about the most important thing,” Kilgore said. “Your value doesn’t end with your playbook.”
Ella looked out the window at the practice field. The grass was patchy, worn from months of hard work that was betrayed by the results on game day.
“So what now?”
Kilgore slid a folder across the desk.
“The board agreed to give you another year. But they want results. I’ve got until November to hand them a review.”
Ella didn’t react. He just stared at the folder.
“I know it’s not fair,” Kilgore said. “But it’s what we’ve got.”
After a long moment, Ella smiled faintly.
“Far as plans go,” Ella said, “all I’ve got is the need for a new one.”
Kilgore grinned. “Well then. Let me know what you need.”
They sat back, reminiscing for a few more minutes—old war stories, dumb plays that turned into touchdowns, teammates long since gone. They were still in the fight. At least for now.
===
Later that week, Coach Ella sat alone in his office, the walls quieter than usual. He was watching film—again. His eyes scanned the footage, looking for something different, something he’d missed.
Bad throws. Missed blocks. Routes that didn’t break open. Quarterbacks rolling out into pressure. Receivers blanketed in double coverage.
Play after play stalled.
The defense had played well in most games. But they were always gassed by the fourth quarter. Too many possessions. Too many plays. Not enough help.
Ella rubbed his temples and sighed. The old system wasn’t working. He’d resisted that truth, but now it stared him in the face.
He turned to the depth chart on the wall. One by one, he pulled off the names of graduating seniors. By the time he was done, there were more gaps than players.
He sat back and stared at the bare spots, wondering for a moment if maybe it was time to walk away. To make it easier on everyone.
But then he looked at the names that remained—those underclassmen, the ones who still had time. Still had potential. Still believed.
He paused at one name—Johnny Doughty, a sophomore guard who never stopped running sprints even after everyone else had tapped out. That kind of kid deserved a chance at something more.
He wasn’t ready to leave them behind. Not like this.
Ella stood, stretched, and felt something unfamiliar in his chest.
A spark.
He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a stack of blank note cards. Playbook ideas. Personnel notes. Training schedules. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it his way—but better. Smarter.
He thought briefly of Menard’s speech at the board meeting—not the words, but the bitterness behind them. Walt might’ve wanted him out, but Ella wasn’t done proving he belonged.
He wasn’t done yet.
===
That weekend, back home in his study, the lights were dim and the TV played softly in the background. Ella had put on the college games hours ago, but somewhere along the line, he’d gotten buried in paperwork—player evaluations, weight room attendance, offseason goals.
He rubbed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, catching the sound of an announcer’s voice.
“…Reynolds takes the snap, holds it out to Swain, then pulls it back and he’ll keep it himself…”
Ella turned his head just in time to see the Navy quarterback burst into the open field. The defense collapsed behind him.
“…has blockers at the 30, the 25… bursts into space and they won’t catch him…”
Touchdown.
Ella raised an eyebrow, intrigued. He reached for the remote, finally finding it beneath a stack of notebooks, and rewound the play.
Then again.
And again.
He turned up the volume and listened closely.
“Keenan Reynolds with his third rushing touchdown of the game. Navy can retake the lead here with the extra point…”
Ella leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees.
By the time the third overtime started, he’d already opened a new browser tab and typed “Navy option offense playbook” into the search bar.
The wheels were turning.
And for the first time in a long time, Coach Ella was smiling.
Run To The Sun
The house was too quiet again.
It wasn’t a new quiet. It was the kind that had crept in after football ended—soft, still, and heavy. It filled the spaces between footsteps and door clicks, between what was said and what was left hanging in the air.
Chase had noticed it more and more. The way his parents spoke in half-sentences when they thought he couldn’t hear. The strained smiles. His mom’s laughter fading faster. His dad spending more time in the garage, not fixing anything—just being out of the way.
That quiet broke tonight.
They were waiting in the living room.
His mom sat upright on the couch, a thick folder in her lap, her fingers shuffling through glossy pages. His dad stood in the doorway, arms crossed—not defensive, just steady. Bracing.
Chase paused near the stairs, still in his basketball hoodie, duffel bag over one shoulder.
“Can you sit down for a minute?” his mom asked gently.
That phrase never led to anything good.
He dropped the bag and crossed the room, settling into the old armchair across from them.
His mom exhaled. “So… I’ve been offered a new position.”
Chase glanced at the folder. He didn’t speak.
“It’s at a hospital I’ve always admired. Great reputation. They’ve been after me for a while, and now it’s official.”
“That’s… good,” Chase said carefully.
She nodded. “It is. It really is.”
She turned the folder toward him—salary info, benefit breakdowns, relocation details, photos of houses and schools.
“They’re offering a full relocation package. Help with moving. A housing stipend. And the pay—” she stopped, regrouped. “It’s more than I ever imagined for our family.”
Chase’s stomach twisted.
“Where is it?” he asked, already bracing for the answer.
His mother hesitated. “New York.”
Everything in the room shifted.
She launched into the details—about the town, the school, the athletic facilities, private coaching opportunities. She painted it like a fresh start. A gift. A step up.
Chase listened, sort of. But his mind wandered: to the old sideline, the locker room, the cafeteria table he always shared with Carter and Dre, Robert’s flat jokes between classes.
His dad chimed in. “My company has a satellite office about twenty minutes from the hospital. I can work remotely most of the time.”
The conversation blurred—deadlines, paperwork, enrollment. He caught fragments: “...after winter break,” “...good school rankings,” “...you’ll like the area.”
Then a pause.
“Chase?” his mom asked softly.
He blinked. “Sorry—what?”
“What do you think?” his dad repeated.
He exhaled. All the emotions were there—sadness, resentment, fear—but none sharp enough to come out as anger.
“I mean… I don’t want to leave. Not gonna pretend I do. My friends, my team, my life—it’s all here.”
His mom’s face softened.
“But when they shut the football program down, it felt like… like someone ripped something out of me. Like I lost part of who I was. I’ve been walking around trying to fake normal, but it’s been hard. Really hard.”
He looked at them both.
“And now… this? It’s not what I imagined. But it’s something. It’s a chance. For you,” he said, nodding to his mom, “to do something amazing. And for me… maybe to keep playing. To chase something I’m not ready to let go of.”
He stared out the window, voice quieter.
“I’m sad. But this feels like more than a move. It feels like it’s supposed to happen.”
His mother’s eyes glistened. His dad gave a quiet, proud nod.
They didn’t hug. But the air was lighter now.
Chase wasn’t walking away from something anymore.
He was walking toward it.
===
The next few weeks passed too quickly.
Once the decision was made, everything moved—boxes, paperwork, goodbyes.
Chase didn’t talk about it much at school. Word got out, of course. It always did in a small town like Livermore Falls.
By second period the next day, everyone knew.
Most reactions were the same: “That sucks,” “New York?” “You serious?”
Chase just shrugged. “Yeah… it’s weird.”
He started noticing things he’d never really given the time of day before: the slightly crooked trophy case, the scuffed stairwell, the snowmelt pooling in the parking lot. He lingered longer in the halls, paused at his locker like he could memorize its dents and scratches.
The basketball team threw him a small sendoff—store-bought cupcakes, a pizza box scrawled with “GOOD LUCK CHASE” in blue icing. Robert gave a short speech. Called him the heartbeat of the team. Told him not to disappear.
They all hugged him. Even Dre.
The next day, Carter picked him up early and they took the long way to school. Back roads, windows fogged.
When they finally pulled into the school parking lot the sat in silence for a while, watching students and staff funnel in.
Eventually Carter cleared his throat.
“You ready?” Carter asked.
“No,” Chase said honestly.
“You’ll do big things,” Carter said. “Just don’t forget where you came from.”
“I won’t.”
Carter just nodded, grabbed his bag and hopped out.
Chase got out and stood there a while, taking it all in before walking inside.
===
A few days before the move, Chase met Robert at the field. No plan. They just showed up.
The bleachers were crusted with snow. They sat quietly, their breath fogging in the cold.
“You remember your first touchdown here?” Robert asked.
Chase thought for a minute, replaying the moment in his head.
“29 toss,” Chase said. “Benny got lit up trying to get the edge. I barely made the pylon.”
“You ran straight through me on the way back to the sideline.”
“You were in the way.”
They laughed quietly.
“I think about that Hebron game a lot,” Chase said.
“All the time.”
“I should’ve gone down. Just taken what I had.”
Robert shook his head. “You don’t carry that alone. We were all out there.”
Chase nodded.
Robert leaned forward. “New York’s lucky. They’re getting a dog.”
Chase smiled.
“I don’t know what’s waiting for me out there.”
“You don’t have to. Just do what you always do—run through it.”
Chase bumped his fist. “I’ll keep in touch.”
“You better.”
They stood, brushed off the snow, and walked away.
===
On his last day, Chase wandered the halls alone. No books, no schedule. The school was abuzz with holiday celebrations, the last day before winter break. Chase’s footsteps felt hollow, echoing past his old classrooms, locker doors, and memories.
His English teacher gave him a journal. “Write it down,” she said. “You’ll want it someday.”
He nodded, unsure if he believed her.
Chase paused for a long time outside Coach’s old office. It was mostly empty, boxes of papers lined one wall. The sight made his throat tighten.
===
That night, the house was packed tight with boxes. His room looked hollow.
His mom found him there.
“You okay?” she asked.
“I think so,” he said.
She hugged him.
===
The next morning, the truck pulled away.
Chase sat in the back seat, earbuds in, hood up.
As they passed the “Welcome to Livermore Falls” sign one last time, he looked out the window.
What he felt wasn’t sadness or relief.
It was readiness.
Whatever waited on the other side, he was ready to meet it—head down, legs churning, eyes forward.
Just like always.
It wasn’t a new quiet. It was the kind that had crept in after football ended—soft, still, and heavy. It filled the spaces between footsteps and door clicks, between what was said and what was left hanging in the air.
Chase had noticed it more and more. The way his parents spoke in half-sentences when they thought he couldn’t hear. The strained smiles. His mom’s laughter fading faster. His dad spending more time in the garage, not fixing anything—just being out of the way.
That quiet broke tonight.
They were waiting in the living room.
His mom sat upright on the couch, a thick folder in her lap, her fingers shuffling through glossy pages. His dad stood in the doorway, arms crossed—not defensive, just steady. Bracing.
Chase paused near the stairs, still in his basketball hoodie, duffel bag over one shoulder.
“Can you sit down for a minute?” his mom asked gently.
That phrase never led to anything good.
He dropped the bag and crossed the room, settling into the old armchair across from them.
His mom exhaled. “So… I’ve been offered a new position.”
Chase glanced at the folder. He didn’t speak.
“It’s at a hospital I’ve always admired. Great reputation. They’ve been after me for a while, and now it’s official.”
“That’s… good,” Chase said carefully.
She nodded. “It is. It really is.”
She turned the folder toward him—salary info, benefit breakdowns, relocation details, photos of houses and schools.
“They’re offering a full relocation package. Help with moving. A housing stipend. And the pay—” she stopped, regrouped. “It’s more than I ever imagined for our family.”
Chase’s stomach twisted.
“Where is it?” he asked, already bracing for the answer.
His mother hesitated. “New York.”
Everything in the room shifted.
She launched into the details—about the town, the school, the athletic facilities, private coaching opportunities. She painted it like a fresh start. A gift. A step up.
Chase listened, sort of. But his mind wandered: to the old sideline, the locker room, the cafeteria table he always shared with Carter and Dre, Robert’s flat jokes between classes.
His dad chimed in. “My company has a satellite office about twenty minutes from the hospital. I can work remotely most of the time.”
The conversation blurred—deadlines, paperwork, enrollment. He caught fragments: “...after winter break,” “...good school rankings,” “...you’ll like the area.”
Then a pause.
“Chase?” his mom asked softly.
He blinked. “Sorry—what?”
“What do you think?” his dad repeated.
He exhaled. All the emotions were there—sadness, resentment, fear—but none sharp enough to come out as anger.
“I mean… I don’t want to leave. Not gonna pretend I do. My friends, my team, my life—it’s all here.”
His mom’s face softened.
“But when they shut the football program down, it felt like… like someone ripped something out of me. Like I lost part of who I was. I’ve been walking around trying to fake normal, but it’s been hard. Really hard.”
He looked at them both.
“And now… this? It’s not what I imagined. But it’s something. It’s a chance. For you,” he said, nodding to his mom, “to do something amazing. And for me… maybe to keep playing. To chase something I’m not ready to let go of.”
He stared out the window, voice quieter.
“I’m sad. But this feels like more than a move. It feels like it’s supposed to happen.”
His mother’s eyes glistened. His dad gave a quiet, proud nod.
They didn’t hug. But the air was lighter now.
Chase wasn’t walking away from something anymore.
He was walking toward it.
===
The next few weeks passed too quickly.
Once the decision was made, everything moved—boxes, paperwork, goodbyes.
Chase didn’t talk about it much at school. Word got out, of course. It always did in a small town like Livermore Falls.
By second period the next day, everyone knew.
Most reactions were the same: “That sucks,” “New York?” “You serious?”
Chase just shrugged. “Yeah… it’s weird.”
He started noticing things he’d never really given the time of day before: the slightly crooked trophy case, the scuffed stairwell, the snowmelt pooling in the parking lot. He lingered longer in the halls, paused at his locker like he could memorize its dents and scratches.
The basketball team threw him a small sendoff—store-bought cupcakes, a pizza box scrawled with “GOOD LUCK CHASE” in blue icing. Robert gave a short speech. Called him the heartbeat of the team. Told him not to disappear.
They all hugged him. Even Dre.
The next day, Carter picked him up early and they took the long way to school. Back roads, windows fogged.
When they finally pulled into the school parking lot the sat in silence for a while, watching students and staff funnel in.
Eventually Carter cleared his throat.
“You ready?” Carter asked.
“No,” Chase said honestly.
“You’ll do big things,” Carter said. “Just don’t forget where you came from.”
“I won’t.”
Carter just nodded, grabbed his bag and hopped out.
Chase got out and stood there a while, taking it all in before walking inside.
===
A few days before the move, Chase met Robert at the field. No plan. They just showed up.
The bleachers were crusted with snow. They sat quietly, their breath fogging in the cold.
“You remember your first touchdown here?” Robert asked.
Chase thought for a minute, replaying the moment in his head.
“29 toss,” Chase said. “Benny got lit up trying to get the edge. I barely made the pylon.”
“You ran straight through me on the way back to the sideline.”
“You were in the way.”
They laughed quietly.
“I think about that Hebron game a lot,” Chase said.
“All the time.”
“I should’ve gone down. Just taken what I had.”
Robert shook his head. “You don’t carry that alone. We were all out there.”
Chase nodded.
Robert leaned forward. “New York’s lucky. They’re getting a dog.”
Chase smiled.
“I don’t know what’s waiting for me out there.”
“You don’t have to. Just do what you always do—run through it.”
Chase bumped his fist. “I’ll keep in touch.”
“You better.”
They stood, brushed off the snow, and walked away.
===
On his last day, Chase wandered the halls alone. No books, no schedule. The school was abuzz with holiday celebrations, the last day before winter break. Chase’s footsteps felt hollow, echoing past his old classrooms, locker doors, and memories.
His English teacher gave him a journal. “Write it down,” she said. “You’ll want it someday.”
He nodded, unsure if he believed her.
Chase paused for a long time outside Coach’s old office. It was mostly empty, boxes of papers lined one wall. The sight made his throat tighten.
===
That night, the house was packed tight with boxes. His room looked hollow.
His mom found him there.
“You okay?” she asked.
“I think so,” he said.
She hugged him.
===
The next morning, the truck pulled away.
Chase sat in the back seat, earbuds in, hood up.
As they passed the “Welcome to Livermore Falls” sign one last time, he looked out the window.
What he felt wasn’t sadness or relief.
It was readiness.
Whatever waited on the other side, he was ready to meet it—head down, legs churning, eyes forward.
Just like always.
Run To The Sun
the triple option is son's new innovation?