Run To The Sun
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djp73
Topic author - Posts: 11549
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
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djp73
Topic author - Posts: 11549
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
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djp73
Topic author - Posts: 11549
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Run To The Sun
Chase Pryor Game Stats: 27 Car 185 Yds 1 TD | 1 Rec 14 Yds
Chase Pryor Season Stats: 222 Car 1,586 Yds 7.1 Avg 15 TD | 22 Rec 162 Yds 7.4 Avg
Accolades
Led MAC in Rushing Yards
Tied for MAC lead for Rushing TDs
5th Nationally in Rushing Yards
2nd place for Shaun Alexander Award
Freshman All-American
First Team All-MAC
Freshman All-MAC
2x National Offensive Player of the Week
2x MAC Offensive Player of the Week
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redsox907
- Posts: 3886
- Joined: 01 Jun 2025, 12:40
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djp73
Topic author - Posts: 11549
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Run To The Sun
By Skylar Williams for DSN
Chase Pryor arrived in Buffalo as an underdog, a lightly recruited former high school quarterback turned running back, holding a single FBS offer and a dream. One season later, the dream is very real, and so is the speculation that the Freshman All-American could be headed elsewhere.
Pryor’s stat line from his debut campaign reads like something out of a video game:
222 carries for 1,586 yards (7.1 YPC) and 15 touchdowns, to go along with 22 catches for 162 yards. He led the MAC in rushing yards, tied for the lead in rushing touchdowns, finished 5th nationally in rushing, and claimed First Team All-MAC, Freshman All-American, and Freshman All-MAC honors. Pryor was also a two-time MAC Offensive Player of the Week and twice earned National Offensive Player of the Week, culminating in a 2nd-place finish for the Shaun Alexander Award, given to the nation’s top freshman.
All that production came after Pryor took over in Week 4 following an injury to starter Al-Jay Henderson against Troy. He immediately made the most of his opportunity, closing out that game with 38 bruising yards on seven carries to secure the win.
Pryor never looked back. He reeled off seven straight 100-yard games followed, including a jaw-dropping 292-yard, 4-touchdown demolition of Akron in a driving rainstorm, the game that put him firmly on the national radar.
Now, the whispers are growing louder: Power Five schools have taken notice. And in an era where transfer movement is common, even expected, for breakout stars at Group of Five schools, many believe Pryor’s time in Buffalo may be coming to an end.
He didn’t help quiet the rumors when he initially declined to answer questions about his future following the Bulls' regular season finale. And when Buffalo accepted a bid to the Game Above Sports Bowl, most assumed Pryor would sit, opting to protect his health and draft stock for what many thought would be a likely transfer.
Instead, he strapped up.
Asked why, Pryor’s answer said everything about the kind of player, and person, he is:
“I’ve dreamed of playing college football for as long as I can remember,” he said. “I wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to do it. I can’t relate to anyone who wouldn’t want to strap up and go into battle one more time with their teammates.”
That moment, heartfelt, raw, and deeply authentic, has added an unexpected wrinkle to the transfer speculation. Could Pryor stay?
For now, there’s no formal announcement. But while the football world is bracing for the portal news to drop, there’s a growing belief in Buffalo that maybe, just maybe, Chase Pryor isn’t done chasing greatness with the Bulls.
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redsox907
- Posts: 3886
- Joined: 01 Jun 2025, 12:40
Run To The Sun
Pryor before the bowl game
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djp73
Topic author - Posts: 11549
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Run To The Sun
The numbers on the sheet looked good, quite a bit better than Chase had expected, honestly.
He sat across from the Blueprint Sports rep in a quiet corner of the facility’s meeting lounge, a space that still smelled faintly of fresh paint and industrial carpet glue from a recent remodel. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, and outside the nearby window, gray clouds rolled low over Lake Erie. Inside, the mood was calm, businesslike.
The rep, mid-thirties, pressed shirt, clean-shaven with the kind of posture that suggested he spent most of his day in meetings like this, flipped through a glossy, branded folder, the pages inside crisp and freshly printed. Each page was a neat breakdown: estimated NIL earnings by category, sliding scale bonuses based on follower counts, seasonal spikes during the fall, structured incentives tied to performance and media exposure.
Chase followed along on his own copy of the materials, his calloused fingers occasionally flipping a page. His eyes lingered on a few of the bolded names: a well-known local auto dealership, two regional grocery chains, a mid-size gym franchise looking to expand across the state. Even a partnership proposal with a camp series targeting high school athletes. His image. His story. Marketable now, it seemed.
He nodded occasionally, absorbing the details with quiet interest, but his face remained unreadable. When the rep started talking about his "brand potential" and “positioning as a humble, blue-collar success story with national upside,” Chase tuned out for a moment, not rudely, just reflexively. He knew what this was. He knew what they saw in him: the diamond-in-the-rough, underdog-turned-star narrative, ready for monetization.
He glanced back down at the sheet. Modest across year one, with potential growth by year two if he stayed healthy and continued to produce. His image on digital signage. Personal appearances. Camp walkthroughs. Social media tie-ins.
He asked a few questions, jotted some notes in the margins, just enough to feign interest. One about content posting frequency. Another about who negotiated licensing rights on his behalf. A third about whether he had to wear branded gear during off-days.
Each answer came quickly, smoothly, with practiced reassurance. The rep had done this before. He didn’t press too hard, didn’t sell too hard. Just let the numbers and the paper do the talking.
But Chase had already made up his mind.
He’d made it two weeks ago, lying in bed, staring at the same ceiling he’d grown up beneath back in Sleepy Hollow during visits home, thinking about what this season had meant, not just to him, but to this team
This city.
This program.
About what it felt like to hear his name roar through UB Stadium after that fourth touchdown against Akron. About Lembo’s words. About what it meant to lead.
This meeting wasn’t about persuasion. It was about respect.
When the rep wrapped up the pitch and slid the folder toward him, Chase closed his own copy and placed it neatly back into the manila envelope. He offered a small smile and extended his hand.
“I appreciate you taking the time,” he said, voice calm and polite. “I’ll be in touch.”
The rep smiled back, standing to shake. “We’ll be here whenever you’re ready. And just so you know, whatever you decide, you’ve already made a hell of a name for yourself. People love this type of story
Chase gave a soft chuckle and nodded.
“Still got more to write.”
He turned and walked out of the lounge, the folder tucked under his arm, the echoes of his steps soft against the polished floor. Outside, the wind had picked up. A storm was coming, but Chase Pryor had never run from weather.
---
Coach Lembo’s office always felt like it belonged to someone older. The wood-paneled walls, the MAC Championship plaque from last season hanging just off-center behind his desk, the subtle scent of old leather, coffee, and a faint touch of liniment, it gave the place a sense of permanence. Of legacy. Of quiet authority.
Lembo sat behind his desk, fingers steepled, his usual game-day visor swapped for a pair of slim reading glasses now resting on top of a Buffalo football notepad. Coach Johnson was in the seat to Chase’s left, leaned back just enough to look relaxed, but his foot tapped gently on the carpet, nerves or anticipation, Chase couldn’t tell.
They weren’t trying to sell him. Not anymore.
“We know the portal’s been buzzing,” Lembo began, voice low but direct. “And I’ll be real with you, Chase, we probably can’t match what some of those other schools are offering. Bigger brands. Flashier TV deals. Bigger markets. It’s the nature of the beast.”
He let the words settle, then leaned forward, elbows on the desk.
“But there’s something to be said for finishing what you started. For going from unheralded freshman to a program-defining leader. You’ve got a chance to bring us back to another conference title. Maybe more than that. We’ve got the talent. You’ve got the juice.”
Chase exhaled slowly, nodding.
“I appreciate you being straight with me,” he said.
He leaned forward, mirroring Lembo’s posture, his forearms resting on his knees. He looked between the two men, two coaches who had given him the ball when few others would’ve. Who hadn’t hesitated when Harris went down. Who hadn’t put a leash on the playbook or the moment.
“I want to thank both of you,” he said. “Not just for offering me the scholarship, though that meant everything. But for trusting me when Al-Jay went down. For putting the ball in my hands and letting me lead this team as a freshman. That belief... it changed everything for me.”
He paused, letting his gaze settle on Lembo.
“That being said…”
His lips curled into a small smile.
“I’m not done here. I’m looking forward to running it back. And taking us to the next level.”
There was a beat of silence, and then it broke.
Johnson clapped his hands and let out a sharp “WOO!” as he shot out of his chair, tossing his clipboard onto the couch like it offended him.
“Let’s f---ing go!” he shouted, grabbing Chase in a quick, shoulder-shaking hug before stepping back, grinning ear to ear. “That’s what I’m talking about!”
Lembo stood too, slower, but the grin on his face was pure pride. He stepped around the desk, extended a hand, then pulled Chase into a full embrace.
“You just made my damn year,” Lembo said into his ear. “Now let’s make theirs hell.”
Chase laughed, overwhelmed but steady. The room felt alive now, buzzing with renewed energy, with belief.
When they broke apart, Lembo clapped him on the back and pointed toward the championship plaque.
“Let’s make room for another one.”
---
The spring game was part formality, part fireworks. A chance to dress it up for the fans, get a look at the new faces, and remind everyone what the fall might hold.
For Chase, it was little more than a live tune-up, but he treated it like a showcase.
Wearing the Blue jersey, a fresh, familiar number 2 across the front, he jogged onto the field for the opening drive. His helmet gleamed in the afternoon sun, the crowd already buzzing. Students packed the lower bleachers, some shirtless, some holding signs that read PORTER, and others just yelling his name. Cameras clicked. A local radio team called the game from a foldout table under a canopy on the concourse, their voices rising with every snap.
On the second play from scrimmage, Buffalo lined up in a tight shotgun set. The defense shifted slightly, trying to disguise coverage. It didn’t matter.
Chase took the handoff on an inside zone, jabbed inside, then planted his left foot and burst through a sliver of daylight. It was one of those moments where the field seemed to tilt. He sliced through the second level with a violent elegance, hips low, eyes up, cleats barely skimming the turf.
By the time the safety took a proper angle, Chase was already gone.
Sixty-one yards. Touchdown. Blue sideline erupted.
The crowd noise was instant and rising, a roar that felt louder than a spring scrimmage had any right to be. Chase tossed the ball gently to the referee, nodded to his offensive line, and jogged back to the sideline with that calm, contained grin that said, Yeah. I’m still him.
Later in the quarter, they dialed up something wider, an old-school toss sweep with motion from the slot. Chase caught it in stride like it was drawn in a dream, followed his pulling guard around the edge, and then turned upfield with a suddenness that caught even his own sideline by surprise. One cut. Two broken angles. Forty-five yards. Gone.
Another touchdown. Another reminder.
They pulled him before halftime, his stat line practically glowing: five carries, two scores, nearly 120 total yards. A handful of defenders came over to dap him up as he unbuckled his chin strap and grabbed his red Gatorade.
No one needed to see more.
Everyone in the building already knew exactly who the offense ran through, and who was ready to take Buffalo to another level.
---
It was sometime after midnight when Chase opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.
The fan spun overhead with a lazy rhythm, the blades casting slow-moving shadows across the pale walls of Sophie’s bedroom. The light from the street outside filtered through the blinds in broken stripes, cutting across his chest and the edge of the bed. Beside him, he could hear her breathing, steady, even. But something about it felt far away.
He blinked, once. Twice.
Something had changed.
They’d talked about summer since late January. Not in big, dramatic declarations, but in the quiet ways people in love do. Sending each other memes about beach trips. Saying "once we're done with finals..." or "can’t wait to have real mornings together." It was supposed to be their reset button. A few weeks to be Chase and Sophie again, not running back and full-time student, not late-night FaceTimes and half-slept weekends.
But now, lying here in the quiet, he couldn’t ignore the distance. It wasn’t just the physical space, though she’d been pulling away there, too. It was in her eyes, the way she looked at him less and through him more. The way she answered texts a little slower. Laughed a little less. Not angry. Not cold.
Just... not the same.
Chase tried to chalk it up to stress. Maybe she was overwhelmed and just hadn’t said anything. Maybe she was tired. Maybe it was nothing. But deep down, in that still, vulnerable silence only night can bring, he knew it wasn’t nothing.
He ran back mental tapes like game film, small moments from the last two weeks. A text she didn’t respond to. A joke he made that didn’t land. Last Saturday night when she said she needed to be alone. Had he done something? Missed something?
Maybe he was the one who hadn’t been present. Maybe, in all the excitement around staying at Buffalo, the NIL meetings, the spring game buzz, he’d gotten wrapped up in himself. Maybe she felt like she was being left behind.
He turned slightly, just enough to look at her. Her face was turned away, hair draped over the pillow, one arm curled up near her chin. Peaceful. But closed off.
His throat tightened.
He thought about whispering something, just a question to break the tension. "Are you okay?" or "Is there something I’ve done?" He thought about reaching out, placing a hand on her shoulder. Letting her know he could feel the space growing, and he didn’t want it.
He rehearsed it all in his head, every version. The gentle tone. The vulnerable honesty. The part where she sighed and told him what was wrong and they talked it through and maybe, just maybe, things felt right again.
His lips parted.
And just then, she stirred. Rolled away from him without a word. Slipped out of bed and padded softly across the floor. The bathroom door clicked shut a second later.
The silence that followed felt heavier than before.
Chase stayed where he was, staring at the ceiling again, pulse steady but low. The words dissolved on his tongue. He could wait. Maybe tomorrow would be better. Maybe it was nothing after all.
He turned onto his side, pulled the sheet up to his chest, and let the moment pass, surrendered it, like a receiver letting a ball hit the turf.
The fan kept spinning.
He sat across from the Blueprint Sports rep in a quiet corner of the facility’s meeting lounge, a space that still smelled faintly of fresh paint and industrial carpet glue from a recent remodel. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, and outside the nearby window, gray clouds rolled low over Lake Erie. Inside, the mood was calm, businesslike.
The rep, mid-thirties, pressed shirt, clean-shaven with the kind of posture that suggested he spent most of his day in meetings like this, flipped through a glossy, branded folder, the pages inside crisp and freshly printed. Each page was a neat breakdown: estimated NIL earnings by category, sliding scale bonuses based on follower counts, seasonal spikes during the fall, structured incentives tied to performance and media exposure.
Chase followed along on his own copy of the materials, his calloused fingers occasionally flipping a page. His eyes lingered on a few of the bolded names: a well-known local auto dealership, two regional grocery chains, a mid-size gym franchise looking to expand across the state. Even a partnership proposal with a camp series targeting high school athletes. His image. His story. Marketable now, it seemed.
He nodded occasionally, absorbing the details with quiet interest, but his face remained unreadable. When the rep started talking about his "brand potential" and “positioning as a humble, blue-collar success story with national upside,” Chase tuned out for a moment, not rudely, just reflexively. He knew what this was. He knew what they saw in him: the diamond-in-the-rough, underdog-turned-star narrative, ready for monetization.
He glanced back down at the sheet. Modest across year one, with potential growth by year two if he stayed healthy and continued to produce. His image on digital signage. Personal appearances. Camp walkthroughs. Social media tie-ins.
He asked a few questions, jotted some notes in the margins, just enough to feign interest. One about content posting frequency. Another about who negotiated licensing rights on his behalf. A third about whether he had to wear branded gear during off-days.
Each answer came quickly, smoothly, with practiced reassurance. The rep had done this before. He didn’t press too hard, didn’t sell too hard. Just let the numbers and the paper do the talking.
But Chase had already made up his mind.
He’d made it two weeks ago, lying in bed, staring at the same ceiling he’d grown up beneath back in Sleepy Hollow during visits home, thinking about what this season had meant, not just to him, but to this team
This city.
This program.
About what it felt like to hear his name roar through UB Stadium after that fourth touchdown against Akron. About Lembo’s words. About what it meant to lead.
This meeting wasn’t about persuasion. It was about respect.
When the rep wrapped up the pitch and slid the folder toward him, Chase closed his own copy and placed it neatly back into the manila envelope. He offered a small smile and extended his hand.
“I appreciate you taking the time,” he said, voice calm and polite. “I’ll be in touch.”
The rep smiled back, standing to shake. “We’ll be here whenever you’re ready. And just so you know, whatever you decide, you’ve already made a hell of a name for yourself. People love this type of story
Chase gave a soft chuckle and nodded.
“Still got more to write.”
He turned and walked out of the lounge, the folder tucked under his arm, the echoes of his steps soft against the polished floor. Outside, the wind had picked up. A storm was coming, but Chase Pryor had never run from weather.
---
Coach Lembo’s office always felt like it belonged to someone older. The wood-paneled walls, the MAC Championship plaque from last season hanging just off-center behind his desk, the subtle scent of old leather, coffee, and a faint touch of liniment, it gave the place a sense of permanence. Of legacy. Of quiet authority.
Lembo sat behind his desk, fingers steepled, his usual game-day visor swapped for a pair of slim reading glasses now resting on top of a Buffalo football notepad. Coach Johnson was in the seat to Chase’s left, leaned back just enough to look relaxed, but his foot tapped gently on the carpet, nerves or anticipation, Chase couldn’t tell.
They weren’t trying to sell him. Not anymore.
“We know the portal’s been buzzing,” Lembo began, voice low but direct. “And I’ll be real with you, Chase, we probably can’t match what some of those other schools are offering. Bigger brands. Flashier TV deals. Bigger markets. It’s the nature of the beast.”
He let the words settle, then leaned forward, elbows on the desk.
“But there’s something to be said for finishing what you started. For going from unheralded freshman to a program-defining leader. You’ve got a chance to bring us back to another conference title. Maybe more than that. We’ve got the talent. You’ve got the juice.”
Chase exhaled slowly, nodding.
“I appreciate you being straight with me,” he said.
He leaned forward, mirroring Lembo’s posture, his forearms resting on his knees. He looked between the two men, two coaches who had given him the ball when few others would’ve. Who hadn’t hesitated when Harris went down. Who hadn’t put a leash on the playbook or the moment.
“I want to thank both of you,” he said. “Not just for offering me the scholarship, though that meant everything. But for trusting me when Al-Jay went down. For putting the ball in my hands and letting me lead this team as a freshman. That belief... it changed everything for me.”
He paused, letting his gaze settle on Lembo.
“That being said…”
His lips curled into a small smile.
“I’m not done here. I’m looking forward to running it back. And taking us to the next level.”
There was a beat of silence, and then it broke.
Johnson clapped his hands and let out a sharp “WOO!” as he shot out of his chair, tossing his clipboard onto the couch like it offended him.
“Let’s f---ing go!” he shouted, grabbing Chase in a quick, shoulder-shaking hug before stepping back, grinning ear to ear. “That’s what I’m talking about!”
Lembo stood too, slower, but the grin on his face was pure pride. He stepped around the desk, extended a hand, then pulled Chase into a full embrace.
“You just made my damn year,” Lembo said into his ear. “Now let’s make theirs hell.”
Chase laughed, overwhelmed but steady. The room felt alive now, buzzing with renewed energy, with belief.
When they broke apart, Lembo clapped him on the back and pointed toward the championship plaque.
“Let’s make room for another one.”
---
The spring game was part formality, part fireworks. A chance to dress it up for the fans, get a look at the new faces, and remind everyone what the fall might hold.
For Chase, it was little more than a live tune-up, but he treated it like a showcase.
Wearing the Blue jersey, a fresh, familiar number 2 across the front, he jogged onto the field for the opening drive. His helmet gleamed in the afternoon sun, the crowd already buzzing. Students packed the lower bleachers, some shirtless, some holding signs that read PORTER, and others just yelling his name. Cameras clicked. A local radio team called the game from a foldout table under a canopy on the concourse, their voices rising with every snap.
On the second play from scrimmage, Buffalo lined up in a tight shotgun set. The defense shifted slightly, trying to disguise coverage. It didn’t matter.
Chase took the handoff on an inside zone, jabbed inside, then planted his left foot and burst through a sliver of daylight. It was one of those moments where the field seemed to tilt. He sliced through the second level with a violent elegance, hips low, eyes up, cleats barely skimming the turf.
By the time the safety took a proper angle, Chase was already gone.
Sixty-one yards. Touchdown. Blue sideline erupted.
The crowd noise was instant and rising, a roar that felt louder than a spring scrimmage had any right to be. Chase tossed the ball gently to the referee, nodded to his offensive line, and jogged back to the sideline with that calm, contained grin that said, Yeah. I’m still him.
Later in the quarter, they dialed up something wider, an old-school toss sweep with motion from the slot. Chase caught it in stride like it was drawn in a dream, followed his pulling guard around the edge, and then turned upfield with a suddenness that caught even his own sideline by surprise. One cut. Two broken angles. Forty-five yards. Gone.
Another touchdown. Another reminder.
They pulled him before halftime, his stat line practically glowing: five carries, two scores, nearly 120 total yards. A handful of defenders came over to dap him up as he unbuckled his chin strap and grabbed his red Gatorade.
No one needed to see more.
Everyone in the building already knew exactly who the offense ran through, and who was ready to take Buffalo to another level.
---
It was sometime after midnight when Chase opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.
The fan spun overhead with a lazy rhythm, the blades casting slow-moving shadows across the pale walls of Sophie’s bedroom. The light from the street outside filtered through the blinds in broken stripes, cutting across his chest and the edge of the bed. Beside him, he could hear her breathing, steady, even. But something about it felt far away.
He blinked, once. Twice.
Something had changed.
They’d talked about summer since late January. Not in big, dramatic declarations, but in the quiet ways people in love do. Sending each other memes about beach trips. Saying "once we're done with finals..." or "can’t wait to have real mornings together." It was supposed to be their reset button. A few weeks to be Chase and Sophie again, not running back and full-time student, not late-night FaceTimes and half-slept weekends.
But now, lying here in the quiet, he couldn’t ignore the distance. It wasn’t just the physical space, though she’d been pulling away there, too. It was in her eyes, the way she looked at him less and through him more. The way she answered texts a little slower. Laughed a little less. Not angry. Not cold.
Just... not the same.
Chase tried to chalk it up to stress. Maybe she was overwhelmed and just hadn’t said anything. Maybe she was tired. Maybe it was nothing. But deep down, in that still, vulnerable silence only night can bring, he knew it wasn’t nothing.
He ran back mental tapes like game film, small moments from the last two weeks. A text she didn’t respond to. A joke he made that didn’t land. Last Saturday night when she said she needed to be alone. Had he done something? Missed something?
Maybe he was the one who hadn’t been present. Maybe, in all the excitement around staying at Buffalo, the NIL meetings, the spring game buzz, he’d gotten wrapped up in himself. Maybe she felt like she was being left behind.
He turned slightly, just enough to look at her. Her face was turned away, hair draped over the pillow, one arm curled up near her chin. Peaceful. But closed off.
His throat tightened.
He thought about whispering something, just a question to break the tension. "Are you okay?" or "Is there something I’ve done?" He thought about reaching out, placing a hand on her shoulder. Letting her know he could feel the space growing, and he didn’t want it.
He rehearsed it all in his head, every version. The gentle tone. The vulnerable honesty. The part where she sighed and told him what was wrong and they talked it through and maybe, just maybe, things felt right again.
His lips parted.
And just then, she stirred. Rolled away from him without a word. Slipped out of bed and padded softly across the floor. The bathroom door clicked shut a second later.
The silence that followed felt heavier than before.
Chase stayed where he was, staring at the ceiling again, pulse steady but low. The words dissolved on his tongue. He could wait. Maybe tomorrow would be better. Maybe it was nothing after all.
He turned onto his side, pulled the sheet up to his chest, and let the moment pass, surrendered it, like a receiver letting a ball hit the turf.
The fan kept spinning.
-
djp73
Topic author - Posts: 11549
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Run To The Sun
Sophie sat on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, twisting the drawstring of her hoodie between her fingers like it was the only thing tethering her to the ground. Her knuckles were pale from the tension, her gaze fixed on a spot near the floor. She hadn't looked up once.
Chase stood a few feet away, rooted like he’d stepped onto ice too thin to move. Part of him wanted to reach for her. The other part was bracing for impact, heart already flinching in preparation for a goodbye. A breakup. Something final.
The air felt too still. The fan overhead spun uselessly, not stirring a thing.
The lump in his throat grew, he tried to clear it.
His eyes flicked around the room. Her hoodie tossed on the desk chair. His gym bag slouched in the corner. Their coffee mugs side by side on the windowsill, hers with the chipped handle she never threw away. A mental inventory bloomed: what was his, what was hers, what they'd have to divide like grownups pretending it didn’t hurt.
Then her voice, brittle as glass.
“I need to tell you something.”
Chase straightened. His heartbeat doubled.
She took a breath like it burned to hold it in. She closed her eyes for a beat. The words came slowly, reluctantly, like each syllable had to claw its way out.
“I’m… I’m pregnant.”
The silence that followed wasn’t just quiet, it was vacuum-sealed. His brain stopped. His lungs forgot how to function. For a second, he swore the floor shifted beneath him.
The word hovered in the room like smoke.
Pregnant.
His stomach twisted itself into knots. Thoughts tried to form but dissolved as fast as they came. Practice reps, playbooks, interviews, NIL projections, none of it mattered now. Every ounce of clarity he thought he’d earned scattered like dust.
He couldn’t think. Only feel.
And what he felt was everything all at once, fear, awe, panic, a strange flicker of love, and a rush of cold reality.
His mouth opened but nothing came.
Still, he moved. His body led before his mind caught up. He crossed the room and knelt in front of her slowly, like he was approaching something sacred and fragile.
His hands trembled as he reached out, but he didn’t let them hesitate. One found the small of her back. The other cradled the base of her neck, gentle but firm.
He pulled her into him.
Sophie didn’t resist. She folded into his chest like she’d been waiting for it.
Then she let go. He felt the tears on the side of his face. Her chest rose and fell in uneven gasps, caught between breath and sob. She shook. He held her tighter.
“It’s okay,” he whispered, even though his pulse was pounding and the word felt like a lie in his mouth. “It’s okay.”
He closed his eyes, forehead resting on hers, and for a moment, let the storm pass through him in silence.
He had no idea what came next.
But for now, this was enough. Holding her. Letting her know she wasn’t alone.
Even if he felt like the ground had opened up beneath both of them.
---
The next few days passed in fragments. Conversations blurred together. Practice reps felt slower. The world hadn’t changed, but his had.
Thoughts came in flurries, impossible to pin down. They drifted in and out of focus during meals, in the locker room, mid-lift. A baby.
A baby.
He thought of the stress. Of the stories that would spin out. The spotlight. Headlines not about touchdowns, but fatherhood. He imagined telling his mother, telling Coach Lembo, his teammates. He thought of his scholarship, his calendar, his life, splitting into before and after.
But then other thoughts crept in too. Quiet ones. The way Sophie had looked when she told him. The way she shook in his arms. The thought of a tiny blue hat. Of holding something small and helpless that needed him. The weight of responsibility. The possibility of love.
By the third night, something inside him had shifted, not peace exactly, but a fragile form of acceptance. The kind that came with breathing deeply, slowly. He’d started to see the shape of it. The outlines of a new future.
That night, he came home early from the facility. He put on music, something low and wordless, and moved around the small kitchen with unfamiliar purpose. Pasta. Garlic bread. Bagged salad with real dressing. Nothing fancy, but he cleaned the counter, wiped down the sink, even lit the candle Sophie always forgot was there.
Then he set the table, one plate for her, one for him, and placed a small gift bag just behind her fork.
When the front door opened, Chase glanced up from the sink. Sophie stepped in, eyes narrowing with curiosity as they swept the room.
“You cooked?” she asked, half amusement, half disbelief.
Chase shrugged with a crooked smile.
She laughed softly and slipped her shoes off. He watched her walk toward the table, her hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair tied loose. He couldn’t read her expression, neutral, maybe tired, but he hoped the gesture would say more than words could.
They ate quietly. The food wasn’t great, but it was warm. Chase tried to read her mood between bites, but she didn’t give him much. She thanked him once, then drifted into silence. He let it be.
After a few moments, he reached for the small bag and slid it gently toward her.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Just something I saw,” he said, casually. Too casually. He held his breath.
She peeled back the tissue paper slowly, like she already knew it carried weight.
Inside, folded with care, was a soft baby blue onesie, Buffalo’s bold “B” stitched across the chest. Simple. Playful.
Sophie stared at it for a long time. Long enough that Chase shifted, suddenly uncertain.
Then, without a word, she began to cry.
Chase felt a rush of emotion swell in his chest and reached across the table for her hand, thinking he’d nailed it, hit that tender nerve of joy, of shared hope. His thumb brushed her knuckles gently.
But when she looked up, her face didn’t match the tears he’d envisioned. Her expression was far away, contorted by something heavier. She looked… haunted.
“Thank you,” she said softly, her voice almost breaking. “I’m just… nervous.”
Chase’s smile faltered, but he held it. He nodded, slowly, gently. “Nervous is normal,” he said, squeezing her hand. “But we’ll be okay. I promise.”
He wanted to believe it.
But something in her tone, the way her fingers barely curled back around his, made his stomach twist. A quiet alarm went off in the background of his thoughts, nothing loud, nothing clear. Just unease. A shadow in the corner of the room.
Still, he said nothing more. He didn’t press. Didn’t ask.
He just held her hand a little tighter, the onesie between them like a fragile promise neither of them knew how to keep.
---
Later that night, in the quiet folds of the dark, Chase lay on his back with Sophie curled into his side, her head rising and falling gently with the rhythm of his breath. The room felt still, suspended in a kind of breathless calm. The fan above ticked softly as it spun slow circles, slicing shadows across the ceiling, across their skin, across the uncertain future they hadn’t asked for.
Outside, a distant car passed, tires hissing on damp pavement. Somewhere down the hall, a pipe groaned. The world carried on.
Inside their room, time felt heavy.
Sophie hadn’t said much since dinner, since the onesie. She had thanked him, hugged him, even smiled through her tears. But she hadn’t said much else. Chase hadn’t pushed. Part of him was scared of what would come out if he did.
He stared at the ceiling, his hand absently tracing gentle circles on her shoulder, more out of habit than intent. His thoughts raced in quiet bursts, names, logistics, football, doctors, second bedrooms, offseason plans, baby-proofing, interviews, diapers, campus visits.
It was all noise. Hopeful, chaotic, overwhelming noise.
Then, like a blade through fog, her voice slipped through the dark.
“I don’t want to keep it.”
The words didn’t echo. They just sat there between them, final, small, and devastating.
For a moment, Chase didn’t react. Couldn’t. His mind stumbled over itself, fumbling for footing that no longer existed. He blinked, eyes wide open now, staring blankly as the ceiling fan carried on, indifferent to the collapse inside his chest.
His throat tightened instantly, closing around whatever words had been forming. There was no speech for this. No script, no playbook. Just silence.
His arm, which had draped gently around her waist, now clung to her like a life raft. He pulled her closer, not possessively, but desperately. A gesture rooted in some primal part of him that still believed if he just held on tight enough, he could hold everything together.
Sophie didn’t pull away. She stayed against him, her body trembling now with the release of the thing she’d been holding in. Her tears were warm against his chest. Chase felt each one like a tiny bruise, sinking deeper with every second.
His own tears came quietly. No gasps. No broken sobs. Just a slow, steady stream, slipping down his temple into his hairline as he blinked against the ache in his chest.
He wanted to say something, to ask why, to plead, to scream, to understand, but nothing came. Not yet. There was no right question. No right time. Just her pain. And his.
No debate. No shouting. No bargaining or ultimatums.
Just heartbreak. Pure and still.
So he stayed there, silent in the dark, holding her like she might disappear if he let go. Like she might drift away from the shape of the life he’d just begun to believe in. And in the silence between them, something shifted. Not just their plans. But the space between hope and grief.
He kissed her hair. Held her tighter.
And said nothing at all.
---
Days later, Chase sat at his parents kitchen table, the same one he’d done homework on. It hadn’t changed much. The corners were still worn smooth. A small chip still marked the edge closest to the fridge. The table was familiar. Solid.
Chase, however, was not.
He sat hunched forward, his elbows braced on the table, his fingers twisted around a crumpled napkin like it might unravel some clarity if he held on tight enough. His eyes were raw, red from days of silent tears and nights spent staring at the ceiling. His hoodie hung loose off one shoulder, the strings chewed and frayed. He looked like he hadn’t slept. He hadn’t, not really.
His mother stood at the counter for a moment, pouring tea into a mug before quietly walking over and sitting across from him. She didn’t speak right away. She never did. She had the kind of calm that came from years of raising a child of her own—of navigating bills, scraped knees, coaching schedules, and late-night heartaches with the same quiet patience.
The clock ticked loudly in the silence. Outside, a dog barked once and then was gone.
Finally, she reached for her mug, warming her hands around it.
“I know this is hard, baby,” she said gently, not looking at him yet. “Probably one of the hardest things you’ll ever go through.”
Chase nodded, but it was faint, like he wasn’t sure it counted.
His mother’s voice stayed soft, but steady. “But this is her body. Her choice. That’s not a slogan, it’s not politics, it’s just... the truth. And I know it hurts. I know it’s not fair. But sometimes love, real love, means letting someone else choose the path, even if it’s one you wouldn’t pick.”
Chase blinked hard, then wiped at his eyes with the napkin again, but it was already soaked and useless.
“I wanted to be ready,” he said quietly, voice cracking mid-sentence. “I started to feel… excited, you know? Like maybe I could do this. Be a dad. Build something.”
She nodded slowly, the corners of her mouth tight, the kind of expression that comes with knowing exactly how your child feels and not being able to fix it.
“You were ready,” she said, finally meeting his eyes. “And that counts. That matters. It says everything about the kind of man you are. But this moment, this decision… it’s hers. And your job, even if it breaks your heart, is to meet her where she is. To walk beside her, not pull her.”
Chase looked down at the table, tracing the groove of the chip near the edge. His thumb passed over it once, then again.
“I don’t know how to do that,” he admitted.
“You do,” she said softly. “You just don’t want to.”
Silence fell again, heavy but not cold. She reached across the table and laid her hand over his. His knuckles were white, clenched around the napkin like a lifeline. Slowly, he let go.
She squeezed his hand gently. “You’re allowed to feel this. You’re allowed to grieve what could’ve been. But don’t confuse grief with failure. You didn’t fail.”
Chase nodded again, firmer this time. A tear slipped down his cheek, and he didn’t bother wiping it away.
They sat like that for a while, hands clasped across the old wood, the tea cooling between them. Nothing solved. Nothing undone.
But not alone.
---
Chase sat on the worn bench, the low hum of fluorescent lights above buzzing like static in his ears. The locker room around him pulsed with energy, cleats stomping, shoulder pads clacking, voices rising and falling in bursts of bravado and nerves. Coaches paced. Music thumped faintly from someone’s speaker. But for Chase, it all blurred into background noise.
He bent forward, tugged at the tongue of his cleat, and began lacing slowly, deliberately, as if the motion alone could bring order to the chaos inside him. He double-knotted, then did it again. Then he stood and rolled his shoulders, the familiar weight of the blue #2 jersey stretching over his pads. He adjusted the fit at the neckline, then flexed his fingers and shook out his arms.
The jersey fit just like always.
But nothing else did.
The past few weeks had unraveled him in ways no blitz pickup or game plan ever had. No coach had ever drawn up a playbook for this kind of pain. He’d tried to be steady, to be kind, to be there for Sophie in the ways he thought she needed. He sat with her. Held her. Said all the right things, or tried to. But somewhere in those long silences and soft apologies, something in him had gone quiet too.
He didn't blame her. He wouldn't let himself.
But the truth, that sharp, unavoidable truth, was that the version of himself he’d built, the man who was ready to rise to a moment, had nowhere to go. The anticipation, the instinct to protect, to provide, to love fiercely and without fear, it had nowhere to land.
And the silence had grown.
Sophie said she was okay. And maybe she was. But Chase felt the distance like a weight pressing on his ribs. Conversations were shorter. Eyes lingered less. Texts came slower. He tried to rationalize it, give her time, give her space but the emotional math never added up.
He told himself it would pass.
He told himself he understood.
He told himself, again and again, that he wasn’t angry.
But there were cracks in the surface. Tiny fractures. And in the quietest moments—, alking back to his dorm after workouts, staring at the ceiling long after midnight, waiting for her to say something that never came, resentment pooled beneath his ribs like water under a sinking boat.
Not at her. Not really.
At the situation.
At the sense of powerlessness.
At the version of a future that had flickered on and off like a shorted-out lightbulb.
Now, beneath the concrete belly of the stadium, the sounds of the crowd bled in, muffled but growing. PA announcements echoed. The percussion of the marching band rolled like distant thunder. Teammates bumped helmets and called out pregame chants. The smell of turf, sweat, and football filled the air.
Chase tightened the chinstrap on his helmet and stood.
He inhaled deeply, held it, then let it out slow. His pulse settled into rhythm.
Out there, on that field, there were no words to misinterpret. No texts left on read. No impossible expectations or moments where he had to pretend he was okay when he wasn’t.
Out there, things made sense.
The ball was snapped. A read was made. A hole opened or it didn’t. The scoreboard told the truth.
As he jogged toward the tunnel, the light from the stadium opening stretched in front of him, painting the concrete in blue and white.
He didn’t know what would come tomorrow, or next week, or when the next hard conversation would arrive like a storm he couldn’t outpace.
But tonight, this game, was something he could control.
And sometimes, control was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
He picked up speed as he neared the light, legs waking up, lungs opening wide. His breath steamed in the night air.
Whatever waited outside the lines could wait a little longer.
Tonight, he would run.
Tonight, he would be free.
Even if only for a few quarters.
Chase stood a few feet away, rooted like he’d stepped onto ice too thin to move. Part of him wanted to reach for her. The other part was bracing for impact, heart already flinching in preparation for a goodbye. A breakup. Something final.
The air felt too still. The fan overhead spun uselessly, not stirring a thing.
The lump in his throat grew, he tried to clear it.
His eyes flicked around the room. Her hoodie tossed on the desk chair. His gym bag slouched in the corner. Their coffee mugs side by side on the windowsill, hers with the chipped handle she never threw away. A mental inventory bloomed: what was his, what was hers, what they'd have to divide like grownups pretending it didn’t hurt.
Then her voice, brittle as glass.
“I need to tell you something.”
Chase straightened. His heartbeat doubled.
She took a breath like it burned to hold it in. She closed her eyes for a beat. The words came slowly, reluctantly, like each syllable had to claw its way out.
“I’m… I’m pregnant.”
The silence that followed wasn’t just quiet, it was vacuum-sealed. His brain stopped. His lungs forgot how to function. For a second, he swore the floor shifted beneath him.
The word hovered in the room like smoke.
Pregnant.
His stomach twisted itself into knots. Thoughts tried to form but dissolved as fast as they came. Practice reps, playbooks, interviews, NIL projections, none of it mattered now. Every ounce of clarity he thought he’d earned scattered like dust.
He couldn’t think. Only feel.
And what he felt was everything all at once, fear, awe, panic, a strange flicker of love, and a rush of cold reality.
His mouth opened but nothing came.
Still, he moved. His body led before his mind caught up. He crossed the room and knelt in front of her slowly, like he was approaching something sacred and fragile.
His hands trembled as he reached out, but he didn’t let them hesitate. One found the small of her back. The other cradled the base of her neck, gentle but firm.
He pulled her into him.
Sophie didn’t resist. She folded into his chest like she’d been waiting for it.
Then she let go. He felt the tears on the side of his face. Her chest rose and fell in uneven gasps, caught between breath and sob. She shook. He held her tighter.
“It’s okay,” he whispered, even though his pulse was pounding and the word felt like a lie in his mouth. “It’s okay.”
He closed his eyes, forehead resting on hers, and for a moment, let the storm pass through him in silence.
He had no idea what came next.
But for now, this was enough. Holding her. Letting her know she wasn’t alone.
Even if he felt like the ground had opened up beneath both of them.
---
The next few days passed in fragments. Conversations blurred together. Practice reps felt slower. The world hadn’t changed, but his had.
Thoughts came in flurries, impossible to pin down. They drifted in and out of focus during meals, in the locker room, mid-lift. A baby.
A baby.
He thought of the stress. Of the stories that would spin out. The spotlight. Headlines not about touchdowns, but fatherhood. He imagined telling his mother, telling Coach Lembo, his teammates. He thought of his scholarship, his calendar, his life, splitting into before and after.
But then other thoughts crept in too. Quiet ones. The way Sophie had looked when she told him. The way she shook in his arms. The thought of a tiny blue hat. Of holding something small and helpless that needed him. The weight of responsibility. The possibility of love.
By the third night, something inside him had shifted, not peace exactly, but a fragile form of acceptance. The kind that came with breathing deeply, slowly. He’d started to see the shape of it. The outlines of a new future.
That night, he came home early from the facility. He put on music, something low and wordless, and moved around the small kitchen with unfamiliar purpose. Pasta. Garlic bread. Bagged salad with real dressing. Nothing fancy, but he cleaned the counter, wiped down the sink, even lit the candle Sophie always forgot was there.
Then he set the table, one plate for her, one for him, and placed a small gift bag just behind her fork.
When the front door opened, Chase glanced up from the sink. Sophie stepped in, eyes narrowing with curiosity as they swept the room.
“You cooked?” she asked, half amusement, half disbelief.
Chase shrugged with a crooked smile.
She laughed softly and slipped her shoes off. He watched her walk toward the table, her hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair tied loose. He couldn’t read her expression, neutral, maybe tired, but he hoped the gesture would say more than words could.
They ate quietly. The food wasn’t great, but it was warm. Chase tried to read her mood between bites, but she didn’t give him much. She thanked him once, then drifted into silence. He let it be.
After a few moments, he reached for the small bag and slid it gently toward her.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Just something I saw,” he said, casually. Too casually. He held his breath.
She peeled back the tissue paper slowly, like she already knew it carried weight.
Inside, folded with care, was a soft baby blue onesie, Buffalo’s bold “B” stitched across the chest. Simple. Playful.
Sophie stared at it for a long time. Long enough that Chase shifted, suddenly uncertain.
Then, without a word, she began to cry.
Chase felt a rush of emotion swell in his chest and reached across the table for her hand, thinking he’d nailed it, hit that tender nerve of joy, of shared hope. His thumb brushed her knuckles gently.
But when she looked up, her face didn’t match the tears he’d envisioned. Her expression was far away, contorted by something heavier. She looked… haunted.
“Thank you,” she said softly, her voice almost breaking. “I’m just… nervous.”
Chase’s smile faltered, but he held it. He nodded, slowly, gently. “Nervous is normal,” he said, squeezing her hand. “But we’ll be okay. I promise.”
He wanted to believe it.
But something in her tone, the way her fingers barely curled back around his, made his stomach twist. A quiet alarm went off in the background of his thoughts, nothing loud, nothing clear. Just unease. A shadow in the corner of the room.
Still, he said nothing more. He didn’t press. Didn’t ask.
He just held her hand a little tighter, the onesie between them like a fragile promise neither of them knew how to keep.
---
Later that night, in the quiet folds of the dark, Chase lay on his back with Sophie curled into his side, her head rising and falling gently with the rhythm of his breath. The room felt still, suspended in a kind of breathless calm. The fan above ticked softly as it spun slow circles, slicing shadows across the ceiling, across their skin, across the uncertain future they hadn’t asked for.
Outside, a distant car passed, tires hissing on damp pavement. Somewhere down the hall, a pipe groaned. The world carried on.
Inside their room, time felt heavy.
Sophie hadn’t said much since dinner, since the onesie. She had thanked him, hugged him, even smiled through her tears. But she hadn’t said much else. Chase hadn’t pushed. Part of him was scared of what would come out if he did.
He stared at the ceiling, his hand absently tracing gentle circles on her shoulder, more out of habit than intent. His thoughts raced in quiet bursts, names, logistics, football, doctors, second bedrooms, offseason plans, baby-proofing, interviews, diapers, campus visits.
It was all noise. Hopeful, chaotic, overwhelming noise.
Then, like a blade through fog, her voice slipped through the dark.
“I don’t want to keep it.”
The words didn’t echo. They just sat there between them, final, small, and devastating.
For a moment, Chase didn’t react. Couldn’t. His mind stumbled over itself, fumbling for footing that no longer existed. He blinked, eyes wide open now, staring blankly as the ceiling fan carried on, indifferent to the collapse inside his chest.
His throat tightened instantly, closing around whatever words had been forming. There was no speech for this. No script, no playbook. Just silence.
His arm, which had draped gently around her waist, now clung to her like a life raft. He pulled her closer, not possessively, but desperately. A gesture rooted in some primal part of him that still believed if he just held on tight enough, he could hold everything together.
Sophie didn’t pull away. She stayed against him, her body trembling now with the release of the thing she’d been holding in. Her tears were warm against his chest. Chase felt each one like a tiny bruise, sinking deeper with every second.
His own tears came quietly. No gasps. No broken sobs. Just a slow, steady stream, slipping down his temple into his hairline as he blinked against the ache in his chest.
He wanted to say something, to ask why, to plead, to scream, to understand, but nothing came. Not yet. There was no right question. No right time. Just her pain. And his.
No debate. No shouting. No bargaining or ultimatums.
Just heartbreak. Pure and still.
So he stayed there, silent in the dark, holding her like she might disappear if he let go. Like she might drift away from the shape of the life he’d just begun to believe in. And in the silence between them, something shifted. Not just their plans. But the space between hope and grief.
He kissed her hair. Held her tighter.
And said nothing at all.
---
Days later, Chase sat at his parents kitchen table, the same one he’d done homework on. It hadn’t changed much. The corners were still worn smooth. A small chip still marked the edge closest to the fridge. The table was familiar. Solid.
Chase, however, was not.
He sat hunched forward, his elbows braced on the table, his fingers twisted around a crumpled napkin like it might unravel some clarity if he held on tight enough. His eyes were raw, red from days of silent tears and nights spent staring at the ceiling. His hoodie hung loose off one shoulder, the strings chewed and frayed. He looked like he hadn’t slept. He hadn’t, not really.
His mother stood at the counter for a moment, pouring tea into a mug before quietly walking over and sitting across from him. She didn’t speak right away. She never did. She had the kind of calm that came from years of raising a child of her own—of navigating bills, scraped knees, coaching schedules, and late-night heartaches with the same quiet patience.
The clock ticked loudly in the silence. Outside, a dog barked once and then was gone.
Finally, she reached for her mug, warming her hands around it.
“I know this is hard, baby,” she said gently, not looking at him yet. “Probably one of the hardest things you’ll ever go through.”
Chase nodded, but it was faint, like he wasn’t sure it counted.
His mother’s voice stayed soft, but steady. “But this is her body. Her choice. That’s not a slogan, it’s not politics, it’s just... the truth. And I know it hurts. I know it’s not fair. But sometimes love, real love, means letting someone else choose the path, even if it’s one you wouldn’t pick.”
Chase blinked hard, then wiped at his eyes with the napkin again, but it was already soaked and useless.
“I wanted to be ready,” he said quietly, voice cracking mid-sentence. “I started to feel… excited, you know? Like maybe I could do this. Be a dad. Build something.”
She nodded slowly, the corners of her mouth tight, the kind of expression that comes with knowing exactly how your child feels and not being able to fix it.
“You were ready,” she said, finally meeting his eyes. “And that counts. That matters. It says everything about the kind of man you are. But this moment, this decision… it’s hers. And your job, even if it breaks your heart, is to meet her where she is. To walk beside her, not pull her.”
Chase looked down at the table, tracing the groove of the chip near the edge. His thumb passed over it once, then again.
“I don’t know how to do that,” he admitted.
“You do,” she said softly. “You just don’t want to.”
Silence fell again, heavy but not cold. She reached across the table and laid her hand over his. His knuckles were white, clenched around the napkin like a lifeline. Slowly, he let go.
She squeezed his hand gently. “You’re allowed to feel this. You’re allowed to grieve what could’ve been. But don’t confuse grief with failure. You didn’t fail.”
Chase nodded again, firmer this time. A tear slipped down his cheek, and he didn’t bother wiping it away.
They sat like that for a while, hands clasped across the old wood, the tea cooling between them. Nothing solved. Nothing undone.
But not alone.
---
Chase sat on the worn bench, the low hum of fluorescent lights above buzzing like static in his ears. The locker room around him pulsed with energy, cleats stomping, shoulder pads clacking, voices rising and falling in bursts of bravado and nerves. Coaches paced. Music thumped faintly from someone’s speaker. But for Chase, it all blurred into background noise.
He bent forward, tugged at the tongue of his cleat, and began lacing slowly, deliberately, as if the motion alone could bring order to the chaos inside him. He double-knotted, then did it again. Then he stood and rolled his shoulders, the familiar weight of the blue #2 jersey stretching over his pads. He adjusted the fit at the neckline, then flexed his fingers and shook out his arms.
The jersey fit just like always.
But nothing else did.
The past few weeks had unraveled him in ways no blitz pickup or game plan ever had. No coach had ever drawn up a playbook for this kind of pain. He’d tried to be steady, to be kind, to be there for Sophie in the ways he thought she needed. He sat with her. Held her. Said all the right things, or tried to. But somewhere in those long silences and soft apologies, something in him had gone quiet too.
He didn't blame her. He wouldn't let himself.
But the truth, that sharp, unavoidable truth, was that the version of himself he’d built, the man who was ready to rise to a moment, had nowhere to go. The anticipation, the instinct to protect, to provide, to love fiercely and without fear, it had nowhere to land.
And the silence had grown.
Sophie said she was okay. And maybe she was. But Chase felt the distance like a weight pressing on his ribs. Conversations were shorter. Eyes lingered less. Texts came slower. He tried to rationalize it, give her time, give her space but the emotional math never added up.
He told himself it would pass.
He told himself he understood.
He told himself, again and again, that he wasn’t angry.
But there were cracks in the surface. Tiny fractures. And in the quietest moments—, alking back to his dorm after workouts, staring at the ceiling long after midnight, waiting for her to say something that never came, resentment pooled beneath his ribs like water under a sinking boat.
Not at her. Not really.
At the situation.
At the sense of powerlessness.
At the version of a future that had flickered on and off like a shorted-out lightbulb.
Now, beneath the concrete belly of the stadium, the sounds of the crowd bled in, muffled but growing. PA announcements echoed. The percussion of the marching band rolled like distant thunder. Teammates bumped helmets and called out pregame chants. The smell of turf, sweat, and football filled the air.
Chase tightened the chinstrap on his helmet and stood.
He inhaled deeply, held it, then let it out slow. His pulse settled into rhythm.
Out there, on that field, there were no words to misinterpret. No texts left on read. No impossible expectations or moments where he had to pretend he was okay when he wasn’t.
Out there, things made sense.
The ball was snapped. A read was made. A hole opened or it didn’t. The scoreboard told the truth.
As he jogged toward the tunnel, the light from the stadium opening stretched in front of him, painting the concrete in blue and white.
He didn’t know what would come tomorrow, or next week, or when the next hard conversation would arrive like a storm he couldn’t outpace.
But tonight, this game, was something he could control.
And sometimes, control was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
He picked up speed as he neared the light, legs waking up, lungs opening wide. His breath steamed in the night air.
Whatever waited outside the lines could wait a little longer.
Tonight, he would run.
Tonight, he would be free.
Even if only for a few quarters.
-
redsox907
- Posts: 3886
- Joined: 01 Jun 2025, 12:40
Run To The Sun
Boy got a get out of jail free card and is mad at ol girl for it 
setting up his excuse to leave after the season, good or bad
setting up his excuse to leave after the season, good or bad
-
The JZA
- Posts: 9078
- Joined: 07 Dec 2018, 13:10
Run To The Sun
Congrats on the successful season and grabbing AA
Tough Hokies had to play spoiler but
At least it wasn't a massive blowout
Tough Hokies had to play spoiler but
At least it wasn't a massive blowout