**Stacy**
The excitement of a first big game is a feeling like no other. I can still remember the chilly wind swirling around the stadium, the roar of the crowd, and that electric tension in the air. From the moment the game began, it was clear that nothing would come easily. Our opponents seized an early lead with aggressive plays, each drive a constant battle against a seemingly impenetrable defense. Every kick-off, every snap was a test of our resolve. We missed passes, stumbled through our plays, and the scoreboard reminded us that we were falling behind.
But during the second half, as fatigue began to blur the boundaries of pain and determination, something stirred within me. With only a few minutes remaining and the score stubbornly tied, I felt that buried spark ignite. I scanned the field and caught sight of Killian sprinting into open space along the sideline. With my heart pounding like a drum, I knew that this was our last chance. Gathering every ounce of courage and skill, I controlled the ball as if it were an extension of myself, then sent forth a perfectly arcing pass—a pass that embodied hope, countless hours of practice, and every dream I had dared to hold. The ball sailed gracefully in the tense air; Killian, with a burst of speed and determination, caught it just before it touched the ground and dashed towards the end zone. That touchdown sealed the win, and the stadium erupted in a tumult of cheers. For one breathtaking moment, we all lived in the pure, unadulterated joy of triumph.
In the midst of our celebration that evening, I found solace in the company of my two greatest supporters. In a quiet corner of the locker room, my mother and Nana pulled me aside. Their eyes shimmered with a mixture of pride and sadness, as if they sensed that these might be our final shared moments. My mother gently clasped my hand and said,
> "Stacy, promise me you'll always chase your dreams—but never forget who you are. Remember, every victory on that field is built on the love and sacrifices of those who came before you."
Nana's voice was soft yet insistent:
> "My dear, you shine brighter than any trophy, any winning pass. Hold on to that strength, even on the darkest days. Our love will always be with you."
I tried to smile through the welling tears, not knowing how much I would cling to these words in the days to come.
That night, as the echoes of our earlier celebration mingled with whispered goodbyes, fate dealt a devastating blow. On the ride home, an unforeseen accident shattered our small world. In a matter of minutes, I learned that both my mom and Nana had been taken from me. I was left stunned in a cold hospital waiting room, my cries mingling with the hushed urgency of doctors and police. The reality was impossible to grasp—those two irreplaceable souls, the foundation of my existence, were gone.
In the chaos that followed, the Andersens—friends who had helped me in countless ways since middle school—stepped forward with tireless compassion. They arranged everything: managing legal details, comforting me through endless phone calls, and even taking me in when I had nowhere else to go. Their steady presence was the only light in those long, dark hours.
Yet as the days blurred together, I found that the ache in my chest deepened. Every time I stepped onto the field, the memory of that game's victory—once a beacon of hope—transformed into a painful reminder of what I had lost. The roar of the crowd, which had once urged me to greatness, now only echoed with sorrow and emptiness. I began to dread each practice, the field becoming an arena of ghosts rather than camaraderie. Although my teammates, including Killian, Ian, and Sean, did everything they could to pull me back with gentle encouragement and support, I felt my passion for football slipping away.
In quieter moments, depression wrapped around me like a suffocating shroud. I would replay that game over and over in my mind—remembering the moment when I passed the ball to Killian as if it were the culmination of my hope—and then feel the crushing weight of my loss. I became a shadow of the person I once was, unable to celebrate the triumph that had defined my future.
Eventually, the pain became too overwhelming. I made the gut-wrenching decision to step away from football altogether. The sport that had once given me purpose and belonging now only reminded me of the life I had lost. As I closed that chapter of my life, I couldn't help but wonder if I was running from my grief or simply surrendering to it. I still have a part of me that will always cherish that unforgettable pass, that final moment of brilliance shared with Killian—but it no longer carries the weight of promise and hope that it once did.
The field grew silent, and I learned that sometimes even the brightest victories come shadowed by the deepest losses.
---
After I left the team, my daily routine became a series of calculated moves designed to minimize interactions with the Andersens. At first, living with them felt like a refuge—warm, safe, and a welcome distraction from the overwhelming grief that threatened to consume me. But as weeks turned into months, the atmosphere in their house shifted. The initial kindness faded into strained smiles, awkward silences, and whispered conversations that stopped whenever I entered the room. The neighbors didn't help; their prying eyes followed me wherever I went, their hushed voices feeding the growing discomfort in the Andersen household.
I woke up before dawn, moving quietly through the kitchen to avoid any chance of breakfast with the family. School was an escape, but even there, I felt suffocated by the stares and murmurs—especially about Killian and me. Our closeness became a topic of gossip, though nothing had changed between us. We were always together, tied by shared classes and unspoken understandings. But Melinda saw it differently.
She started watching me, her gaze lingering a little too long, her sudden appearances at the pool house too frequent to be coincidence. One evening, as I was gathering my books before heading to work, she finally confronted me.
Melinda: Stacy, we need to talk.
Stacy: (keeping her voice neutral) About what?
Melinda: You and my boys.
Stacy: (exhales) What about them?
Melinda: You're too close to them. People talk.
Stacy: People will always talk. That doesn't mean they know the truth.
Melinda: (pressing forward) You live under my roof, surrounded by my sons. It's inappropriate.
Stacy: (tensing) It's temporary. I stay out of your way.
Melinda: You may think so, but they are attached to you in ways that worry me.
Stacy: (laughs softly, bitterly) Like siblings.
Melinda: (firmly) No, Stacy. Not like siblings.
Stacy: (stiffens)
Melinda: I don't want trouble. I don't want confusion. You should make friends elsewhere, spend time with other girls.
Stacy: (coldly) I don't have time for social distractions. My focus is on finishing school.
Melinda: Then maybe you should start planning for life beyond Hill City.
Stacy: (pauses) What does that mean?
Melinda: I know you applied to California. You thought I wouldn't find out?
Stacy: (pulse quickens) That's—
Melinda: You won't be going.
Stacy: (voice tightens) What did you do?
Melinda: You're going to NY.
Stacy: (voice breaking) You interfered.
Melinda: I ensured what was best for everyone.
The truth hit like a punch to the gut. Melinda had manipulated the system to force me out of Killian's life. I confirmed my suspicions when I found my shredded California acceptance letter, painstakingly piecing it back together. The proof was undeniable—she had pulled strings, made donations, and orchestrated my acceptance to NY.
Before I left, I spent a final week with the boys, pretending everything was normal. I knew it wasn't. On my last night, I slipped away, leaving behind a letter for Killian, the twins and his father, the torn-up application, and a USB drive with the proof of Melinda's interference.
Without looking back, I took the bus to NY.
I left behind pieces of my heart, carving a path toward a future I hadn't planned—but maybe, one I needed.