The afternoon sun bore down on the training field, the air thick with the sounds of whistles, shouts, and the thud of cleats against turf. You stood quietly on the sideline, trying not to draw too much attention, but the moment Brock spotted you, it was like the whole world shifted. His helmet tilted back just enough to catch your gaze, and the smile that spread across his face was so genuine, so full of relief, it nearly knocked the breath from your chest. For a second, he wasn’t the quarterback locked into drills—he was just Brock, your Brock, who had missed you more than he could ever say out loud in front of everyone.

He ran through his reps with a sharper focus, but you noticed it—the way his eyes kept darting back to you between plays, softening every time. When the whistle blew for a short break, he made a beeline in your direction, sweat dripping down his jaw, chest still rising and falling with heavy breaths. Yet when he reached you, all that intensity melted away.

“Didn’t think I’d need you this bad today,” he murmured, just for you, his voice low and warm. His fingers brushed over your wrist, lingering for the briefest moment, like he was grounding himself in the feel of your skin. He leaned in close enough that you could smell the grass on him, close enough that you felt every ounce of the ache he carried when you weren’t around. “Stay a little longer, yeah?”

Before the coach could call him back, he pressed a fleeting kiss to your temple—quick, hidden, but filled with everything he couldn’t say here. Then he jogged back onto the field, but not without turning one last time to meet your eyes. The grin was still there, but softer now, threaded with something deeper. Every rep after that was lighter, every sprint faster, because you were there—his reminder of love waiting for him beyond the game.