Chapter 3 — Memories on the Field

Meg

The Greenhill Football Field looked exactly the same as it had three years ago, as if time had stopped for this one stretch of emerald grass. The bleachers, with their peeling paint and rust-streaked supports, stood like aging sentinels, unchanged and unmoving. The scoreboard still flickered stubbornly, skipping numbers as though it, too, was protesting the relentless passing of time. It was almost comforting, this sameness—until it wasn’t. The faint scent of freshly cut grass mingling with the warm summer breeze didn’t just tug at my memories; it wrapped around me, squeezing tight until I could barely breathe.

Emily darted ahead of me, practically skipping toward the field, her oversized green jersey flapping behind her like a superhero’s cape. The bold number seven on her back caught the sunlight, the stitching almost too bright to look at. It was more than a number—it was a gravitational pull, dragging me back to everything I’d been trying to bury.

“C’mon, Meg! You’re walking so slow!” she called over her shoulder, her grin as boundless as her energy. She didn’t slow down, didn’t wait, didn’t even glance back to see the storm raging inside me.

I adjusted the strap of my messenger bag, feeling its weight dig into my shoulder. “I’m coming,” I said, though the words sounded hollow even to me. Each step closer to the field felt heavier, like wading through invisible quicksand. The sharp blast of a whistle, the rhythmic thud of footballs hitting turf, and the chatter of kids and parents wrapped around me, each sound pricking at my chest. The field wasn’t just a field. It was a monument, a museum of memories both cherished and unbearable.

Emily raced onto the grass, her ponytail bouncing like a metronome. She waved once, wildly and joyfully, before joining a cluster of kids around a tall figure with a whistle hanging from his neck. I paused at the edge of the bleachers, the sun at my back making the gravel beneath my sneakers glow faintly. I thought about turning around, about walking away and leaving this moment behind before it could sink its claws into me.

But then Emily turned back to wave again, her grin wide and hopeful, and something sharp twisted in my chest. My hand rose automatically into a halfhearted wave, even as my throat tightened. Dad’s number. His legacy. And somehow, Emily wore it like it was hers now, like it had always been hers.

I stayed.

Hovering near the bleachers, my arms crossed, I scanned the field. The kids buzzed around him—Tobias Harper. I hadn’t seen him up close before. He looked younger than I expected, late twenties maybe, with effortless confidence in the way he moved. The sunlight caught the edge of his whistle as he directed the kids with a mix of firmness and warmth that carried across the field. Emily stood next to him, her curls bouncing as she laughed at something he said. His easy grin matched her joy, and for a moment, they looked like they belonged in a Norman Rockwell painting.

A flicker of a smile tugged at my lips, uninvited but steady. But the sight of them—Emily leaning in, Tobias gesturing with open hands—was like a snapshot from another life. A memory pushed its way forward before I could stop it: Dad crouching next to me on this same field, his steady voice explaining coverages while I clutched a football too big for my hands. The memory was too jagged to hold for long. I swallowed hard and turned toward the bleachers, hoping the familiar creak of the old metal would anchor me.

“Must be weird, huh?” The voice, familiar and teasing, cut through my thoughts.

I turned to see Lisa, her dark curls pulled back into a loose bun, her expression equal parts curious and knowing. She wore her old Greenhill High hoodie, sleeves pushed up to her elbows like she was ready to tackle the world, or at least me.

“Weird how?” I asked, though I knew what she meant.

Lisa raised an eyebrow, jerking her chin toward the field. “Being back here. All of this.”

I sighed, gripping the strap of my bag tighter. “Weird doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

She plopped down on the bleachers beside me, her weight making the metal groan faintly. “You don’t have to look so miserable, you know. It’s just a practice.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one standing here being steamrolled by…” I waved vaguely at the field, “…memories.”

Her smirk softened into something gentler as she leaned back, her elbows propped on the bleacher behind her. “You know, Meg, it’s been three years. Maybe it’s time to stop running from the memories. Let them in a little.”

I stiffened, my gaze fixed firmly on the dirt beneath my sneakers. “I’m not running from anything.”

“Right,” Lisa said, her tone dry. “You’re just avoiding it. Totally different.”

I rolled my eyes but kept my mouth shut, my attention drifting back to the field. Tobias was pacing now, his whistle swinging from its lanyard as the kids ran drills. Emily was at the front of the line, clutching the football like it was her lifeline. Her small frame was surprisingly quick and agile as she darted through a set of cones, her determination palpable even from here.

“Emily’s good,” Lisa said, her voice softer now. “She’s got the Wilson genes, that’s for sure.”

The comment hit like a sucker punch. My jaw tightened. “Yeah,” I muttered, bitterness creeping into my tone. “Let’s hope she doesn’t end up like me.”

Lisa straightened, her sharp gaze locking onto me. “Meg. Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” I shot back. “Don’t tell the truth?”

“Don’t talk about yourself like that,” she said firmly. “You’re not a failure. And you’re definitely not what this town thinks you are.”

My throat tightened, but before I could respond, a whistle cut through the air. Tobias called the kids into a huddle, his easy smile visible even from here. Emily jogged to join the group, her jersey billowing behind her like a proud banner.

And then his eyes flicked toward the bleachers, landing on me. He nodded—a small, polite gesture that somehow felt loaded. My chest tightened as I quickly looked away, pretending to adjust my bag.

“Looks like Coach Toby noticed you,” Lisa said, her smirk returning.

“Don’t call him that,” I muttered, heat creeping up my neck. “It’s weird.”

She laughed. “Whatever you say. But you know, he seems decent. Emily’s obsessed. Keeps saying he’s the best coach ever.”

“She doesn’t have anyone to compare him to,” I said automatically.

Lisa let the subject drop, but her perceptive gaze stayed on me a moment longer than I liked. I shifted uncomfortably, the weight of everything pressing down harder with each second. The field, the sounds, the memories—they were suffocating me.

“I should go,” I said abruptly, standing and slinging my bag over my shoulder.

Lisa frowned. “You just got here.”

“I’ve seen enough.” I was already stepping away, gravel crunching under my sneakers. “I’ll catch you later.”

“Meg—” she started, but I didn’t stop. Tobias’ whistle cut through the summer air again, sharp and clear. It followed me all the way to the parking lot, its sound tugging at buried memories I wasn’t ready to face.

But maybe—just maybe—those memories weren’t done with me yet.