Chapter 1
Late July in Saranac Lake always surprised him.
Even in summer, the air carried a coolness that never quite left—clean, pine-cut, thin enough that breathing felt deliberate. It settled into the lungs and stayed there. The equestrian fields stretched wide beneath a pale blue sky, grass trimmed short and uneven where hooves had once torn it up. Temporary rugby pitches lay in white paint. Posts bolted down. Sidelines defined by folding chairs, coolers, and parents who didn’t quite understand the game but liked the noise it made.
The Can-Am semifinals.
Matt stood near the touchline, pulling his jersey over his head, sweat already cooling along his spine. Number 9. Scrum half. The pivot. The job wasn’t to hit hardest—it was to see everything before it mattered.
His eyes moved the way they always had. Wind direction. Sun angle. The way the opposing forwards shifted their weight just before the whistle, heels lifting a fraction too early. He felt calm. Tuned. Ready.
“Mac.”
He turned, caught off guard.
Bella stood just beyond the rope, hands cupped around her mouth like she was twelve again. Sunglasses pushed up into her hair. Jeans, sneakers, a college sweatshirt despite the weather. She carried bright, effortless energy, like she’d brought summer with her in the car.
“You didn’t tell me you were playing this weekend,” she said, with a wink and smiling like it didn’t matter.
“I can’t believe you drove up,” he said.
“Ipswich isn’t the moon,” she replied. “Besides, I wanted to see you play for real.”
She hooked her thumb over her shoulder. A couple of her friends hovered near a cooler, unsure what rugby was but committed to cheering anyway.
“You gonna win?” she asked.
He shrugged. “We’ll see.”
She rolled her eyes. “You always say that.”
The whistle cut through the field, sharp and final.
The memory jumped.
The game moved the way it should when everything worked. Clean ball out of the scrum. Quick hands. Calls shouted and answered without hesitation. Matt fed the backs, adjusted tempo, slowed the play when the forwards needed air, snapped it wide when the defense compressed.
He didn’t think. He executed.
The opposition pushed early—heavy, loud, trying to impose themselves—but discipline outlasted aggression. By halftime they were ahead. By the final whistle, the score sat clean and decisive: 27–13.
Semifinals done. Finals next.
Hands slapped his back. Mud streaked his calves. Breath burned pleasantly in his chest. His body felt used in the right way.
Bella found him again near the sideline, clapping like she’d understood every phase.
“That was awesome,” she said. “You’re like… the boss out there.”
“That’s not how it works,” he said.
“It is to me.”
They walked toward the parking lot while the team packed up behind them. Bella talked the way she always did—fast, unguarded, filling space so no one else had to.
She asked about Ted.
“He still locked up in his head?” she said lightly, but her eyes checked his face anyway.
“He’s working,” Matt said. Which was true enough.
“Did you talk to him?”
“Yeah.”
She nodded and called their parents. She knew Matt wouldn’t. Dan’s voice on the phone. Laura reminding them to hydrate, even though neither of them ever did. Normal things. Anchors.
That night they wandered through the Olympic village, past facilities and plaques that meant more to visitors than locals. They ended up at a pub where the floors stuck to their shoes and the beer was cold enough to forgive everything else.
Bella laughed too loud. Matt smiled when appropriate.
It was easy. It was clean. It didn’t ask anything from him.
The memory released him the way it always did—without warning, without apology.
The field vanished. The air thickened. The present returned.
Matt stood alone again, the weight of the now settling back into place.
Rugby had taught him discipline. Timing. Control. How to move pieces without being seen as the force behind them.
Some lessons stayed useful.
Some memories were allowed.
Then they were gone