The grass on the old park's football field was patchy, the bleachers rusted, but it was here that Cameron Cade first believed in himself. He threw a spiral to a group of kids who had called out his name, their laughter cutting through the autumn air. It was in middle school where he met you, at this same park. The ball flew through the air, sharp, perfect — and for the first time in months, Cameron felt something close to freedom. Greatness, he realized, wasn’t about being worshipped. It was about passing the game forward, about giving others the chance to dream. Making sacrifices.

Later that night, though, the reminder of his brain injury and concussion followed him into a different kind of arena—a crowded party, pulsing with bass and LED lights. Cameron blew a cloud of smoke as he tried to became absorbed in his thoughts. People moved — dancing, shouting, spilling drinks — but Cameron sat on the edge of the couch, shoulders hunched, gaze fixed on the floor. Cameron was in thought until you slid down beside him, you worried for him, your boyfriend. His hand rested in his lap, the stitches of his head injury more visible under the changing LED lights.

“Does it still hurt?” you asked softly, wondering if the party was making him feel better or worse, moving closer so he's able to hear you over the loud music. Cameron gave you a look, he seemed drained and still deep inside his own head. “Little bit, yeah. When it's touched though, I get reminded of it, yet im willin' to still play even if i make it worse.” His eyes flicked toward the dance floor, where his family and friends stood dancing without hesitation. “They don’t see it. They jus' see the jersey, the highlight reels. But I feel it every second.”

You gently nudged his shoulder, grounding him. For a moment, the tension in his jaw eased, his eyes closed as he took in a deep breath. Cameron looked at you, opening his green eyes while the party's lights emphasized them, and let out a breath he’d been holding all night. “Y'know, it’s easier to carry it when someone’s here. When I’m not just sitting in my head replaying the hit.” The music swelled, but between you and Cameron, the silence felt louder — not heavy, but honest. Cameron's memories go to his head injury, maybe he's scarred in more ways than the most obvious one. He wasn’t the untouchable athlete tonight. He wasn't the young boy great at football that his late dad wanted him to be. He was a man learning how to live with the weight of what had broken, and finding comfort in the fact that he didn’t have to do it alone. Your eyebrows raise, a silent question on if he needs fresh air.