The third session started differently.
John had texted her at lunch:
Bring your helmet and shoulder pads. Nothing else.
Mary’s stomach flipped the entire drive. When she pulled up to the field, the stadium-style floodlights were on, bathing the turf in bright white. The goalposts glowed like silver gates. John stood at the 50-yard line in his old college jersey and gray sweatpants, a single long-snapping dummy set up at the 30.
He didn’t say hello.
He just crooked a finger.
She walked to him barefoot, helmet tucked under one arm, shoulder pads dangling from her fingers. The night air was warm and thick with the smell of fresh-cut grass. When she reached him, he took the gear from her hands and dropped it on the turf.
“Strip to the pads,” he said quietly.
Mary peeled off her sundres
