Blue Eyes at the Game

Eden

Mom jumps back at the sound of my voice, a flush creeping up her neck, but she recovers her composure in an instant. She crosses the sprawling kitchen space between us and wraps a comforting arm around my shoulder, pulling me close to officially introduce me to Garrett.

Garrett takes a few unhurried steps in our direction, wiping his hands on a nearby dish towel. I study him from the doorway, taking in the man who has turned my mom's world upside down. I cannot deny that he is an attractive older man. He has broad, capable shoulders, a strong jawline, and a dusting of silver at his temples that gives him a rugged, distinguished look. But what truly captures my attention are his bright blue eyes. Right now, those eyes are looking at my mom with so much pure, unadulterated adoration that a sharp pang of guilt hits my chest. She deserves this happiness, even if this sudden move across the state has uprooted my entire senior year.

"Eden, honey, this is Garrett," Mom says, a massive, glowing grin stretching across her face. She shifts her gaze back to the man beside her. "Garrett, my daughter, Eden."

I straighten my spine, wanting to make a decent first impression despite my foul mood earlier, and politely offer my hand. "It’s nice to meet you, Sir."

A deep, rumbling sound builds in Garrett’s chest before he chuckles. He bypasses my outstretched hand without a second thought. Instead, he steps in and pulls me into a warm, encompassing hug. He smells like cedar and fresh air, a grounding combination.

"We hug in this family," he declares warmly, giving my shoulders a firm squeeze before releasing me. He offers an easy, welcoming smile. "And let's drop the 'Sir' stuff. I might be older than your mom, but I’m not that old. Garrett is perfectly fine."

"Sorry," I murmur, pulling back and trying to shake off the awkward transition. The affection is unexpected, but I have to admit it puts me at ease. Still, I shift my weight from side to side, feeling stifled and restless. The grueling, long move from Monument, combined with being cooped up in a small car surrounded by taped-up boxes for days, has left my nerves frayed. The massive, pristine kitchen suddenly feels a little too warm.

"Do either of you mind if I go out and explore the local area?" I ask, gesturing vaguely toward the front hallway. "After getting everything unloaded, I could really use some much-needed fresh air. It might be good to get a feel for the neighborhood before school starts."

Mom hesitates, her protective instincts kicking in. She opens her mouth, her brow furrowing, likely preparing to list a dozen reasons why wandering an unfamiliar town at dusk is a bad idea.

Garrett immediately supports the idea, cutting off whatever argument she is forming. "I think that’s a fantastic idea." He shoots Mom a reassuring look, wrapping his arm back around her waist. "She’ll be fine. Let her explore."

He reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, pulling out a worn leather wallet, and extracts a few crisp bills. He hands me the cash to cover an Uber ride.

"If you're heading out," Garrett says, his tone thoughtful as he hands over the money, "you should check out the local high school football game happening tonight. The stadium isn't far." He pauses, tapping his chin. "Your mom mentioned you used to be a cheerleader at your old school. Going to the game might be a good way to see what the student body is like."

"Okay, that sounds like a plan," I agree, genuinely liking the idea of getting out of the house.

Following his solid advice, I step out into the cool evening air, order an Uber, and head straight to the stadium.

The short ride takes me through the heart of Hawthorne. The town is quintessential and charming, with tree-lined streets and historic brick storefronts, but my stomach still twists with a heavy dose of new-girl anxiety. The driver drops me off near the front gates, wishing me a good night before pulling away. I stand alone for a moment, taking in the local scene. The stadium lights glow like a brilliant beacon against the darkening autumn sky, casting long shadows across the pavement. The air smells like roasted peanuts and crisp leaves. I pay my admission at the ticket booth, pass through the rusted metal turnstiles, and climb the steep concrete steps of the bleachers.

I crest the top step and take in the sight. The place is packed with roaring fans. The sheer volume of the crowd is staggering, vibrating through the cold metal benches beneath my feet. I squeeze past groups of face-painted teenagers and find an open spot near the fifty-yard line, giving me a perfect, unobstructed view of the field. The home team—the Vipers, dressed aggressively in striking black and yellow uniforms—are currently on offense.

Almost immediately after I find a spot to watch, the center snaps the ball. A specific player in the backfield takes the handoff and blazes down the field. He moves with a lethal, fluid grace, flawlessly evading every single defender in his path. He dodges a linebacker, stiff-arms a safety, and keeps his momentum driving forward. A massive guy in silver and blue dives for his ankles, but the Viper player spins, planting his cleats into the artificial turf, and leaves the defender eating dirt. He crosses the line into the endzone for a spectacular touchdown.

The stadium erupts into deafening cheers. The band strikes up a victorious tune, and the cheerleaders on the track launch into a synchronized routine.

When the offensive line switches out, the scorer jogs over to the sidelines, high-fiving a few hyped-up teammates before pulling off his helmet. I lean forward, reading the bold numbering on the back of his jersey: Vance #44.

He walks over to the orange water cooler, tipping his head back. Sweat glistens on his throat as he guzzles water from a paper cup, his Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow. He crushes the cup in his padded hand and tosses it aside. Then, he turns his head toward the packed stands.

His piercing, bright blue eyes lock dead onto mine across the distance.

My breath catches in my throat. Even from rows away, the intensity of his stare pins me in place. With his dark, perfectly styled hair clinging slightly to his forehead from the sweat and a chiseled jawline that looks carved from rough stone, he is undeniably gorgeous. His athletic build, accentuated by the massive shoulder pads and tight uniform, exudes a magnetic, dangerous kind of energy.

His full lips slowly pull up into a confident, knowing smirk. He holds my gaze, making sure I know exactly who he is looking at, and shoots me a deliberate, panty-melting wink.

A sudden rush of heat floods my veins, sparking an intense physical attraction. I swallow hard, my heart kicking up a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I try to convince myself that he must be looking at someone else behind me. I cast a quick glance over my shoulder, but there is only a group of arguing parents and a few distracted freshmen paying no attention to the field.

When I look back down at the sidelines, Vance #44 turns and nudges a teammate standing next to him. I squint at the second guy’s jersey, noting the same black and yellow colors. He bears the exact same last name, Vance, printed across his broad shoulders.

The second boy leans in, listening closely as the first boy murmurs something into his ear. Then, the second boy turns around and scans the crowd. He locks those exact same piercing blue eyes on me and offers a wide, brilliant smile that reaches all the way to his eyes.

My jaw practically hits the bleachers. They look so identical that I would bet anything they are twins. They share the same dark hair, the same sharp, striking features, and the same effortless arrogance radiating from their frames.

The realization sends a fresh wave of anticipation rushing through my system. Having not paid much attention to the actual rules of the game before, I suddenly find myself heavily invested. I spend the rest of the game enraptured. Every time the Vance twins take the field, I track their movements with hungry curiosity. The Vipers dominate the field, operating like a ruthless machine while the opposing team struggles to maintain their defensive line. The crushing tackles, the precision passes, the explosive speed—the Vipers are unstoppable, eventually taking the win with a crushing score of 43-18.

During the halftime break, I had managed to overhear some kids sitting a few rows down gossiping loudly about a team after-party. They mentioned a bonfire at a specific address and bragged that half the senior class would be attending. I figured crashing it would be the perfect way to meet the people I’ll be going to school with next week. It would also serve as a prime opportunity to bump into the Vance brothers off the field.

However, after the final whistle blows and the game ends, my plan falls apart.

The stadium empties in a chaotic rush of excited teenagers and cheering families. I stand around awkwardly in the dimly lit parking lot, watching groups of friends pile into sedans and lifted Jeeps, laughing and blasting music from their open windows. I hover near the main exit, hoping to spot a friendly face from the bleachers to beg a ride from, but the crowd thins out much faster than I anticipated. I pull out my phone to order another Uber, only to find the ride-sharing app spinning endlessly, searching for drivers in the busy post-game rush. There are zero cars available.

I pace near a flickering streetlamp, waiting for another twenty minutes. Nothing changes.

Giving up with a heavy sigh, I shove my phone into my back pocket and start the long, lonely walk back toward my unfamiliar new house.

The post-game adrenaline slowly fades from my system, leaving me hyper-aware of my isolated surroundings. The streetlights are sparse out here, casting long, eerie shadows across the cracked pavement. Without a proper sidewalk, I am forced to stick close to the edge of the road. I cross my arms over my chest, pulling my jacket tighter around myself to ward off the biting chill in the air. The wind rustles through the thick canopy of trees lining the street, sounding a little too much like creeping footsteps. My sneakers scuff against the gravel shoulder of the dark road, the rhythmic sound doing nothing to calm my mounting nerves. The further I walk away from the high school, the darker the winding road becomes. The houses are spread far apart, their porch lights offering very little comfort in the sprawling darkness.

I’m only about a block down the dark road when the low, powerful rumble of a heavy engine breaks the quiet night air right behind me.

A massive, lifted black truck slowly pulls up right beside me. The oversized tires crunch loudly against the loose dirt, pacing my walking speed with deliberate precision. My pulse spikes in my chest, a sudden jolt of fear shooting through my veins. I grip the edge of my jacket, my mom’s parting warning about carrying pepper spray suddenly echoing loud and clear in my mind. I try to keep my gaze focused straight ahead, pretending not to notice the imposing vehicle stalking my steps.

The tinted passenger window rolls down with a soft mechanical hum, revealing the dark interior of the cab.

"Need a ride somewhere?" a deep, masculine voice asks.

Instant, intense butterflies erupt in the pit of my stomach. The voice alone sends a shiver straight down my spine—rich, smooth, and laced with casual confidence. I stop dead in my tracks, my fingers curling into tight fists at my sides, and turn toward the voice.

My breath forcefully hitches in my chest.

Looking back at me from the driver’s seat, illuminated faintly by the soft glow of the dashboard lights, is one of the Vance boys, his arrogant smirk firmly back in place.