CHAPTER 2
SMALL TOWN SHADOWS
POV: Aiden Hart
The next morning, the memory of Friday's 42–7 victory still buzzed through my veins as I eased Dad's Lexus out of the Hart driveway. The Charger would've been fun to drive to school, but Mayor Hart insisted on a more… presidential image for mornings. Inside the kitchen, Dad sat at the table, campaign flyers spread before him like a general's map. Mom hovered by the counter, adjusting my tie with practiced care.
"State scouts might've noticed you last night," Dad said without looking up, folding a flyer into a perfect square. His tone was pride diluted by purpose, always another goal to hit. Mom brushed a stray hair from my forehead. "Don't overdo it, honey," she whispered, though her eyes flickered with something else, worry, maybe.
"Don't worry," I said, swallowing my eggs and leaning forward. "I've got the youth mayor speech next Wednesday, float designs due Friday, and pep rally duties all week." I tried for a grin; I wanted to believe I could handle it. I wanted Dad to believe it, too.
After a quick kiss on Mom's cheek, I headed to Kingswood High. The halls smelled like bleach and promise. Lockers clanged open as seniors claimed their spots, and somewhere behind me, someone yelled, "Seniors rule!" I bumped into Vanessa Moore at my locker, her cheer skirt swishing. "Aiden! Homecoming float needs a captain," she batted her lashes. "Officially date me?"
Taylor, leaning against the next locker, laughed. "Sorry, Vanessa. He's got his queen right here." Her pastel phone was already out, ready to capture my "first day glow." Trey Collins slipped past us with a quiet thumbs up; Brandon Holt lingered in the shadows, arms crossed, scowl in place. Rivalry lived in his eyes, alive as Friday night lights.
By mid-morning, I was in Student Council, sitting under flickering fluorescent bulbs while Principal Jenkins barked orders about floats, rallies, and donation drives. My hand shot up before I caught myself. "I'll head the Float Committee and coordinate the speech," I said, voice steady. Teachers exchanged nods and murmurs; a few classmates rolled their eyes. But I'd volunteered, I'd claimed more responsibility than anyone else dared.
Tyler found me outside, a bottle of water in each hand. He dropped into the quad bench beside me and tossed me one. "You good?" he asked, voice low. "Or do you need to recycle all that ambition into a nap?"
I cracked the cap. "I'm fine. Just thinking ahead." I wanted everything perfect: the float decked in orange and black, the speech delivered without a stutter, Scout Day marked as the moment I became more than 'the mayor's kid.'
He shook his head, tucking a lock of sandy blond hair behind his ear. "Promise me you'll call if you start drowning."
I laughed. "I'll float."
Practice with Coach Ramirez was brutal. "Hart, state scouts may come any second, don't peek too early!" he shouted as I launched another spiral down the field. My arm burned, my legs shook, but I nailed it again. Every play was a test: precision, power, perseverance. If I wanted that scholarship, there was no room for second place.
When the final whistle blew, Tyler and Taylor met me at Jessie's Joint. The neon sign buzzed like an old friend. We slid into a booth, fries and shakes clattering onto the Formica. Taylor snapped four pictures before approving one. "#SeniorGoals," she said, tapping 'post.' Tyler popped a fry into his mouth. "You sure you're not hiding a clone somewhere? You've been at top speed since sunrise."
I took a slow sip of a chocolate shake. "Senior year only comes once." I knew he was teasing, but I couldn't shake the tight coil in my chest. This wasn't just about football or a parade float. It was about proving I could measure up to Caleb's white coat legacy and earn Dad's pride the way my brother always had.
Back at home, I retreated to the study. The walls were lined with books: policy papers, playbooks, speech guides. I spread out Caleb's white coat ceremony photo on my desk. In it, Dad's chest swelled with pride on stage at the hospital, clapping Caleb into his future. I touched the glass and felt a pang, wondering if I could ever wear that pride myself.
I flipped open my notebook and sketched out the speech's opening lines, then jotted float ideas in the margin: miniature goalposts, pennants, a giant '24 painted in orange. My phone buzzed with a reminder for tomorrow's pep rally prep. I smiled. It felt good to be this busy, this known.
But as I turned off the desk lamp, a whisper seemed to drift through the oak-paneled room. Tomorrow would bring more cheers, more tasks, more eyes on me. And somewhere in those shadows of Kingswood, a new current was stirring, ready to pull me off my perfect course.
I closed my eyes, anticipation and something else, something I couldn't name, humming beneath the surface.