Chapter 1: The Bridge Where We First Kissed
The ache was a living thing.
It curled in the hollow of Drake Maddox’s left shoulder, a persistent, grinding echo of the hit that ended everything. He walked with a slight, unconscious hitch on that side, a barely-there tilt away from the pain as he made his way down the gravel path to the creek. His right hand automatically came up, fingers pressing into the knot of scar tissue beneath his t-shirt. Six months, and it still felt like yesterday.
The town of Cedar Creek slept in the honey-gold light of late afternoon. He’d been back a week, house-sitting for his parents while they cruised the Baltic, and he already felt the walls of his old bedroom closing in. The place smelled like lemon polish and nostalgia, a museum of his former self. Trophies in the cabinet. A framed jersey on the wall. All of it glass-case quiet.
He needed air that didn’t feel still.
The path ended at the covered bridge. Willow Creek Bridge, officially, though everyone just called it the Kissing Bridge. Its red paint, faded to a dusty rose, bled into the green of the overhanging maples. It swayed, just a little, a deep sigh of timber and cable as he stepped onto the planks.
The wood groaned under his boots. A different sound than he remembered. Louder, more tired. Inside, the light was strips of gold and shadow, the air cool and thick with the scent of damp wood and wild honeysuckle drifting through the open sides. Creek water glittered like scattered dimes below.
He walked to the middle. Stopped.
Here.
His boots were planted on the exact spot. He could feel the ghost of a harvest moon on his skin, the crush of a girl in a soft sweater against his letterman jacket, the reckless, terrifying joy of leaning in. His thumb found the railing, traced the grooves in the wood.
D + M
The carving was warped now, the lines softened and blurred by a decade of winter ice and summer sun. The ‘D’ was almost gone. He wondered if Mandy Peters ever came here anymore. If she brought her kids, pointed at the creek, told them stories that didn’t include him. If she’d erased him as cleanly as the rain had tried to erase his initial.
“Figured I’d find you here.”
The voice, dry and familiar, came from the entrance. Drake didn’t turn. He let his hand drop from the railing. “It’s a public bridge, Cole. Last I checked.”
Cole Peters’ boots thumped on the planks as he walked over. He leaned against the opposite railing, crossing his arms. Mandy’s older brother hadn’t changed much. Same watchful eyes, same stance that said he was waiting for you to explain yourself.
“Public, yeah. But you’re kinda a creature of habit, Maddox.”
“Is that right?”
“Yep. Five-thirty. Like clockwork. Mrs. Gable saw you yesterday from her garden. Tim Wheeler saw you the day before that.” Cole shrugged. “Small town. You’re the most interesting thing that’s happened since the Johnson’s cow got loose.”
Drake forced a grin, the one he practiced in the mirror. All teeth, no eyes. “And here I thought I was being stealthy. Should’ve worn a disguise.”
“Should’ve picked a less obvious spot to brood.” Cole pushed off the railing. “Look, man. We’re glad you’re back. Everyone is. But you gotta… I don’t know. Come into the diner. Say hi to people. Buy a damn newspaper. This…” He gestured at the bridge, the creek, the solitary figure Drake cut. “This isn’t living. It’s visiting a graveyard.”
The words landed, a sharp, clean hit right in the gut. Drake kept the smile plastered on, but it felt brittle. “Just enjoying the peace and quiet. You remember that? Quiet? No cameras, no screaming fans, no doctor telling you your career’s over before you’re twenty-five. It’s nice.”
“It’s hiding.”
“It’s convalescing.”
“From what? Your shoulder’s shot, not your legs. Not your brain.” Cole’s voice softened, just a degree. “Mandy asks about you, you know.”
That got him to turn. “She does?”
“Yeah. Worries you’re out here turning into a sad, handsome bridge troll.” A faint smile touched Cole’s mouth. “She’s in Charlotte now. Two kids. Husband’s in finance.”
“Good. That’s… that’s great for her.” He meant it. The pang he felt was for himself, for the parallel universe where maybe that was him, not some guy in finance. It was a dull, old ache. Familiar.
“The point is,” Cole continued, “life went on. For her. For everyone. It can for you, too. You just gotta step off this damn bridge.”
A long silence stretched between them, filled by the gurgle of the creek and the creak of the cables. A single streetlamp at the far end of the bridge flickered and buzzed to life, painting Cole’s face in sudden, stark yellow.
“What’s it look like?” Drake asked, his voice quieter now. The cheerful mask finally slipped. “When life goes on? What does that even look like for me? I was a left-handed quarterback. That was the whole thing. Now my left arm is a weathervane that only points to ‘storm coming’. I don’t know how to do anything else.”
Cole was quiet for a moment. Then he fished in his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded, weathered piece of paper. He held it out. “Jenny over at the elementary school is desperate. Her P.E. teacher just quit to follow a band to Portland. It’s part-time. Coaching the little kids. Soccer, kickball, basically just herding cats in gym shorts.”
Drake stared at the paper like it might bite. “You’re joking.”
“I am not. Pay is garbage. The kids will probably ask you for autographs for a week, then get bored and ask why you aren’t on TV anymore. It’ll be annoying and messy and absolutely nothing like the NFL.” Cole shook the paper. “But it’s a thing to do. It’s a start.”
Drake didn’t take it. He looked past Cole, out through the bridge’s opening to where the first fireflies were blinking over the creek. A start. The word felt foreign, impossible. His whole life had been a middle—the middle of a drive, the middle of a season, the middle of a dream. He didn’t know the first thing about beginnings.
“Herding cats,” he repeated, finally.
“With occasional dodgeball.”
Drake let out a breath, a real one, that he felt he’d been holding since he walked onto the bridge. The ghost of the harvest moon faded. The ache in his shoulder settled into its usual, tolerable thrum. He reached out and took the paper.
It was just a flyer, crinkled from Cole’s pocket. WANTED: Assistant Coach for Youth Sports. Enthusiasm a must. Experience with chaos management preferred.
“Enthusiasm a must,” Drake read aloud, a dry, almost-laugh in his throat.
“See? You’re already overqualified with that bullshit smile of yours.” Cole clapped him on his good shoulder. “Think about it. Or don’t. Just do something, Drake. Before you become a permanent fixture here. We already have one historical landmark.” He nodded at the bridge around them, then turned and walked back the way he came, his footsteps fading.
Alone again, Drake folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket. His fingers brushed against the warped carving one last time. D + M. Almost gone.
He turned his back on it and walked toward the flickering streetlamp, toward the town, the gravel crunching under his boots with a new, uncertain rhythm. The bridge groaned behind him, a long, low sound that was either a goodbye or a warning.