Taylor's smile reaches his eyes, which are on full display given his current state. His green irises flood mine and I watch as his body relaxes. His muscles that were once involuntarily flexed stiff against his bones let go of the tension. It's as if he had been waiting to see me, but I push that thought from my mind. As much as I want to relish in it, I can't until he explains what the hell happened and what is going on with him.

"I take it you don't like it?" he says, pushing his hood further off his head and running a hand over his hair. I try to form my words carefully, stepping around the subject lightly.

"It's...different," is all I manage as I continue to study his face. Without the hair framing it, it's a completely different shape. Longer, not so square. But at the same time, his jaw is even more sculpted than before. Each slope meets at an even harsher angle at the corners of his cheeks. His cowlick is more pronounced at the edge of his forehead.

I didn't think it was impossible for his eyes to capture me even more, but like a magical illusion I can't look away. The once sage green has morphed into a full emerald. I used to think his looks were purely manly before, with his dark stubble and thick hair, but without the hair it's like he transformed from boy to man right in front of my eyes. Only Taylor could buzz off his hair and completely alter his looks, somehow modifying himself into an even sexier version as if that were even a possibility. But here he is, standing, living, breathing proof that it was.

I blink to reset my system and take a step away from him. I raise the camera around my neck impulsively and capture an image. I'm here to take pictures for paper, but this is solely for me. It creates a new marker on the timeline. The moment I knew without a doubt Taylor was the hottest man I had ever witnessed. A title previously held by Chris Evans when he did the GQ shoot lying on the coach. Hell, get Taylor a couch and he could pretty closely recreate the exact image in my mind. If I weren't standing in a field surrounded by people, including my dad, I might just ask him to pose for me.
"Sorry," I quickly add, before pulling the camera away from my eye and to study the small screen. Taylor is flawless in the picture, of course. Even caught off guard, his face still managed to form the perfect smile, grinning like the damn devil of my nightmares. I selfishly don't want anyone to ever see it, or this new version of him. I show him quickly before turning the camera back off. I don't give him the chance to gloat about himself, or the obvious affects his new look has on me. With a face like that, he actually deserves to flaunt it.

"So you do like it?" Taylor nudges me with his elbow but my response, or lack thereof, is drowned out by the roar of the band's cover of a pop cong growing closer. It's the signal for everyone to take their places. I would move to find Alyssa, but she's standing with Anderson and his parents. It's a big move, I think, considering they have been dating for a month at most. But the way Anderson's arm is wrapped tightly around her sends the message that he wants her there.

I don't see Taylor's family around, which I guess answers my question about whether or not they are going to make it. I could go to the stands and continue my work for the paper, but I decide to stay with him instead. I can easily take pictures from here, too. Taylor's body relaxes beside me again when he realizes my decision. He scoots closer, just enough that our sides are almost flush. His pinky brushes against mine. I let mine wrap gently around his.

I'm sure it's not easy on him, surrounded by all of the people eager to support their son or grandson when I now know his mom will only watch him on a small screen. I want to tell him that at least her cheering won't get lost in the thousands of others, but I don't. Instead I give his pinky one last gentle squeeze before moving my hands to my camera.

But knowing Taylor, his sudden proximity to me isn't for himself at all, but because my father has now taken his place at the podium. We watch as he shuffles a small stack of notecards in front of him. Katie stands as his shadow behind him. Taylor could probably sense that as the tension left his body it was consumed by my own. I involuntarily straighten my spine and bite my lip. Taylor's gesture is probably nothing more than his protective nature kicking it.
I haven't been present for one of my father's speeches for four years. I think even before then I knew that whatever shit he spewed into the microphone was in fact, shit. Even when my mom was alive, I would question the things he would say to other people who only knew him as coach. No one knew him as a father, not like I did and do. My stomach is a pit, even now all these years later. My father knows I'm here. It's the first time I've seen him since the dinner at his house. Even through brief phone calls, he doesn't know what I've been up to, and because of that whatever he says won't just be filled with lies, but also riddles designed for me to solve.

He begins by greeting the crowd and giving a quote from the University's most treasured coach of all time, one he claims he lives by every day. It's a quote I could recite right along with him. It is, after all, the only piece of advice he's ever given me. Over and over again.

"Success isn't given, it's earned. Success should be the only driving factor in someone's life." He pauses.

When he does continue, his words meld the quote with other heartfelt words about this program, his program. He creates a picture of the tradition and honor that is this school and its football program. It's nonsense about an oath these players take and uphold every time they put on the school colors. Just because I haven't listened in person doesn't mean I haven't listened. He has given the same variation of this speech more times than I can count. I brace myself, knowing what comes next. He wouldn't leave it out, not when attributing factors that lead to his success as a man.

"Success doesn't stop on the field, it is what drives you in everything you do. It's not something you're born with, it's a quality you choose." I watch as he rests his hands on the edge of the podium, allowing for another dramatic pause.

Taylor inches closer to me again. The edge of his pinky is now warming a line on my arm. He confirms the purpose of his presence next to me, as he drags it up and back down in a soothing motion. I allow myself to lean in further.

My father's voice picks back up, "I have had the honor to stand in front of you for eight seasons now, the longest in school history. That means eight Homecoming parades. Eight pieces of tradition, and honor that you have allowed me and my family to share with you." I wonder if the crowd is searching for the family he speaks of like I would. Even my brother isn't standing near him. Cal is standing near Anderson and Alyssa when my eyes find him, but he doesn't share the same response to my father's comments that I do, or at least he's never shown it.

"It is your loyalty to myself and this program and to these boys behind me." His eyes drift our way for the first time and somehow he finds mine right away like he knew exactly where to look. I swallow hard in the millisecond of contact before he turns back to face his audience. "Each day I chose success, no matter the quantity. For the past eight seasons I have worked to instill that in my players and coaches. And it's because each and everyone of them chooses success as their motivator that helps me do my job so well. These player's, their families, and all of you don't settle for anything less, meaning I can't be anything less." My father finishes and the crowd rises to their feet in unison, all applauding his words. But I don't think they caught the way he eyed me as he finished his monologue. If they did, maybe that would question him harder about what happens if you don't live up to the measure of success he strives for daily, or why his daughter disappeared nearly four years into his coaching career here.

I want to vomit. I want to scream. I want to remind him that it's his push for success and dedication to this program that has led to so many consequences. Consequences that he views as positives, while simultaneously leading to negative outcomes for me. I've worked to erase the words from my mind since The Incident. My father has always talked down to me, him the leader, me his civil servant to be seen and not heard. And for most of my life I did what I was told, only I had my mom to overcompensate for the lack of nurture my father provided. When she died, a lot about my life changed. But one thing that I could count on to remain the same was my relationship with my father. Even when I needed him the most, our roles remained the same. He poured himself further into this school and this program and I withdrew. It's what I thought he wanted from me, to no longer be just another burden he needed to handle.

I feel shaky as I think back to the night. When the burden of me became too much. Not just for him, but myself too. As I lay in the hospital bed and let him give me a similar speech, I let him tell me how he was going to handle the problem. The last words he spoke to me, the ones I've tried so hard to rewrite to remember differently, were nearly verbatim to the ones this crowd is so elated over. "You have to choose success, Camryn. You choose less, you are less." It was as if choosing to end my life was the final straw. I'm forever a lesser version of myself in his mind. Like a stone after it's thrown, my father believes he will never get me back. And he doesn't want me back. I feel a tear slip down my face now. I swat it away quickly, not allowing myself to go back there again. I'm not less, I remind myself.

After my father ceremoniously lights the fire, the fans disperse in different directions. Many attempt to catch pictures with players, or to listen to the band play a sneak peek of tomorrow's set at the far end of the field. I follow the latter, trying to blend into the crowd, falling away until I cannot be picked out by anyone. I allow the band to carry me to somewhere far away. It's the only thing I enjoy about this stupid tradition, anyway.

Alyssa finds me a little while later, with Anderson in tow. For being such a behemoth of man, Alyssa has quickly become the leader of their relationship. Anderson is a mastiff puppy following her anywhere and everywhere. Alyssa is always just looking back longingly at him. It's enough to make me hate them for how cute it is.

"Why didn't you tell me Taylor was going to go all oh nine Brittany before his big return?!" She asks as if I wronged her in some way by not sharing the news immediately. The look on my face must convey rather quickly that I didn't know. "He somehow got hotter?" She adds. Anderson shrugs it off, as if Taylor is no competition for him.

I throw my hands out in solidarity, "Right?!" I lean over to Anderson and try to pry him for more information as to how and why this happened considering I still haven't had the chance to pry for the answers myself.

After Taylor silently and protectively comforted me while my father spoke, he quickly retreated to find food. But that was an hour ago. The boy can eat, but even he knows his limits. Anderson's only tip to Taylor is that this is "Just four two before a game." It doesn't explain the sudden change in his appearance, so we're left to create our own theory. Alyssa assumes Taylor wanted to create a sexy comeback look for when his face is pasted all over ESPN tomorrow. That way they are talking about more than his performance if he sucks. I agree with her, but for Taylor's sake I hope it isn't true.

After searching for a little while longer, I finally spotted him with his back leaning against one of the old goal posts at the far end of the field. He isn't facing the action, instead he's looking towards the fence and treeline that meet at the back of the property. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his sweatshirt as I approach him. He doesn't say anything, but as I move to the spot next to him he scoots over enough to give me part of the pole to lean against.

I let my eyes follow his line of vision in an attempt to figure out what it might be that he's looking at, or thinking. I stare at the trees for about ten whole seconds before my curiosity gets the best of me. "Have you always been a big fan of bird watching or is this a new hobby? Because you know, it would be alot easier if the sun was actually out. These stadium lights are hardly bright enough to spot the real unique breeds." I'm rambling, but it does the trick because he speaks up.

"You know how I asked you if it was hard to talk about your mom?" He asks. I nod in recollection, wondering where he is going with this. I prepare to kick him in the shin if he brings up how I was quietly crying into my milkshake after and ended up snorting it up my nose when I sniffed in too hard.

He doesn't though, he doesn't say anything again for another minute. Instead I can see tears forming in his eyes. I'm drowning in the silence around us. I silently plead for him to speak up, to let me in on whatever is showing me this new version of him. I pull him sideways, making him face me. "Taylor, what's going on?"

He doesn't let the tears fall, just sniffs them back into his body. I watch in agony as he swallows hard a few times before even looking me in my eyes. "Taylor, you can talk to me. Whatever it is, just tell me."

"My mom—" He starts, but the tears prick his eyes again bringing some of my own with them.

"What about her, Taylor?" My heart is racing, he can probably feel it through my hand that is gripping his arm. The worst scenarios are running through my mind, through the silence around us. He's about to tell me she's hurt, or worse, dead.

"She's sick." He sniffs, but doesn't continue. I slide my hand down his arm until I find his. He takes it, laces our fingers and begins rubbing circles with his thumb on the back of my mine. He's soothing me, as if I'm the one who needs it.

"Colon cancer. And it isn't the first time either. When I was younger she had it too. But she beat it." I think back to the picture in his room, remembering his mom's short hair in the framed picture. I'm curious if that was taken around the first time she fought the disease. Had the frame been some sort of sentimental gift? Does it serve as a reminder to both of them that their love would prevail through any challenge, even one like cancer.

"This time it's worse though. It was already stage five when they found it. Normal treatment won't work, so the– they," he stutters. "They are using an experimental drug, but if it doesn't work they don't think there is anything else to do." He spits the words as if they leave a bad taste in his mouth. I assume the "they" he is referring to is the doctors who obviously hold his mom's life in their hands.

I find myself in a swirl of emotions and thoughts. So many, I can't quite make any of them clear enough to decipher, let alone speak to him. I can't even imagine what it's like for Taylor and his sister to have to sit back and watch someone else make promises that they know may not be true. The doctors are saying words that they probably don't believe themselves.

I use my hand in Taylor's to pull him down to the ground, to bring us sitting side by side. He's shaking, I don't think he realizes. It's probably from the strain of holding back his tears, but regardless I'm afraid he will collapse. Taylor sits with his back still against the pole and pulls his knees up in front of him. He wraps his forearms around them, hugging himself tightly. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and rest my head on his shoulder. I squeeze him firmly trying to give him the comfort I know he needs. Even though I also know these simple touches aren't nearly enough.

I know what it feels like to have someone ripped from your grasp, but unexpectedly. I didn't have the chance to sit and wonder if and when it would happen. I honestly don't know which is worse. I wonder how long Taylor has struggled with this burden, how long he has had to feel this way.

He's silent for a little while longer and now that I know why, I don't press him. I know Taylor. He'll open up when he wants to. Instead it's my turn to rub lazy circles on his body. I smooth my palm around his back in a circular motion and let him relax into my touch.

When Taylor does finally turn to face me, he finally looks in my eyes. "I just keep telling myself that she will get better, but I think it's because I need her to get better."

"Are you worried?" I ask. Somehow I think he isn't looking for sympathy. It's a trait we share. I'm sorry's only carry so much weight, but commiserating in a shared "this fucking sucks," doesn't tiptoe around the truth.

"Fuck yeah, I'm worried Camryn. I don't know how to handle this shit. And my sister," he pauses and I watch as the muscles in his jaw tense and release a few times. "The way you talk about your mom. I don't want that to be her. I don't want her to feel alone," he says.

My heart aches for him, it's a sick thing to think that time is the only thing he can have but not have simultaneously. The amount of time he has left with his mom will never be enough, while the amount of time he has to sit around and conjure what if's is, I'm sure, too much.

Taylor lowers his legs and I crawl into his lap, straddling him so I can face him. I loop my arms around his neck. He lets me and wraps his arms around my back, pulling me closer. We've never been this close before. We've never crossed this line. It feels natural though, to let eachother in, to find consolation in the other's touch.

"I'm not going to lie to you, Taylor. It won't be easy, for either of you. No kid should have to learn what it's like to lose a parent so young, but Nora will have you. And from what I've seen in the last few months, that's pretty damn close to having a mom," I say.

"Did you just compare me to a grown woman, Quinn?" He says. I get a peak at the first sign of a smile creeping onto his lips.

"I saw the picture in your room. Grow your hair out a little and style it like your moms and you could share a passport." Taylor laughs a full belly laugh that moves both of our bodies, He brings his head to my shoulder for a few seconds. When he pulls back he briefly bites his lip.

"This season was supposed to be my chance to go off, to earn a contract next year. I was supposed to be able to give back to her for everything she's done for me. But we're halfway through the season and I haven't played yet." I try to interrupt and point out the obvious but he continues, "I know, I'm playing tomorrow but I guess it's just one more reminder that nothing has worked like I wanted it to, that I might not be able to make it happen in the timeframe I need it to."

"That's why you said your biggest fear is not being enough," I say it as a statement rather than a question.

He nods, "It was supposed to be my turn to be there for her, but–but I'm worried she won't make it. That everything I've done won't be worth it." The crease between his brows is so deep I'm afraid it's stuck there. I raise a finger to it, attempting to smooth it out. It works for a second, but I can tell his mind is still racing by the way it reappears moments later.

"It is your chance to be there for her," I corrected him. It's a subtle reminder that she is still here, but it also just solidifies how often these worries cloud his mind. He doesn't say anything else. He just nods again, readjusting his hands on my lower back to pull me even closer to him. We both start to lean in further. It's the same song and dance we did against his truck after line dancing. Then Taylor blinked and pulled away, almost as quickly as it started.

But he isn't doing that now. His eyes keep flickering to my lips. The desire is a flame reflecting in his eyes. I can feel his breath on my lips as he slides his tongue across his. I grow impatient waiting for him to close the rest of the distance, to finally put his mouth onto mine and show me everything I knew I was missing. All of these months I've spent resisting his charm, swearing up and down it wouldn't work on me, while simultaneously trying to ignore the fact that it had worked, and has been since the first time I heard him speak.

Taylor's brow is furrowed again as he continues to study me. I can only hope he's committing this moment to memory the way I am. I inhale once more to gather the courage. I lean forward, resting my lips onto his. Soft and gentle, a single tender kiss before I pull away.

"You shouldn't have done that, Capt.," Taylor says, exhaling deeply, his face a mixture of emotions.

"But I really wanted to," I say, before doing it again.