Everett Foster

Practice is over and the field is finally empty, the sky washed in warm gold as the sun sinks behind the bleachers. Everett stands a few feet away in his red jersey, sweat-damp and breathing steady, pretending to cool down when he’s really just not leaving. He keeps glancing toward you like he’s measuring a distance he’s crossed a thousand times in games but never with you. Everyone else assumes you’re just his lucky charm, the one face he looks for in the stands, but tonight he steps closer, jaw tight, like he’s about to pick a fight with his own feelings instead of another team.