Chasin’ You

Hadley

I’ve lived in Chase Walker’s house for nine years, three months, and nineteen days.

Not that I’m counting.

My bedroom used to be the guest room—white walls, empty closet, no personality. Now it smells like vanilla candles and laundry detergent, my dance trophies crowd the dresser, and there’s a dent in the carpet where Chase flops down every night to steal my charger.

He does it even though his room is right across the hall.

“Your charger works fine,” I tell him, laying on my stomach across my bed while he digs through my nightstand like he owns the place.

“It doesn’t like me,” he says. “Yours does.”

I toss a pillow at his head. He catches it easily, because of course he does.

That’s just how we’ve always been.

Chase and I didn’t meet—we collided. Two kids shoved together by moms who swore their babies would grow up side by side. My mom used to say Janice Walker was the sister she never had. Janice used to say I was her extra kid long before the paperwork made it official.

When my mom died, everything else fell apart.

I was seven. Chase was seven. One minute we were eating cereal at the counter, arguing over the TV. The next, my life fit into trash bags and cardboard boxes.

My dad tried to hold it together after mom died.

But the grief became too much. And one night he made a horrible decision that landed him in prison

Janice stepped in.

She fought for me. For custody. For normal. For a house that still felt like home when mine disappeared. And Chase—he never asked if I was staying. He just moved his stuff so I’d have room.

I roll onto my side and watch him now, sitting cross-legged on my floor, chain glinting faintly under the light.

I bought it for him sophomore year when he made varsity baseball. Told him it was so he’d fit in with all the other jocks.

Truth was, I just wanted him to carry a piece of me when I couldn’t be everywhere at once.

He catches me looking and smirks. “What?”

“Nothing.”

He grins. “Liar.”

Maybe.

But if I start telling the truth about Chase Walker—about how he’s my home, my history, my constant—then I might have to admit that living in his house has never felt temporary.

And that scares me more than anything.

Nine years later, nothing about my life looks the way it used to.

Except Chase.

The house still creaks in the same places. Janice still hums while she cooks. Chase still steals my charger and pretends he doesn’t know exactly where I keep it. And somehow, despite everything that’s changed, we’re here—one week before senior year, standing on opposite sides of a football field in the thick Georgia heat, pretending that what we’ve always been is all we’ll ever be.

I take a deep breath, lace up my dance shoes, and step onto the turf.

Present day doesn’t wait for anyone.

Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

I step out into a clean chassé, grounding through my heel before snapping into a controlled triple pirouette, spotting the Wildcats logo dead center on the fifty. My arms hit fifth without wobble, shoulders down, core locked—everything Coach Miller has drilled into us since June clicking into place.

We transition into a switch leap, legs slicing clean lines through the air before landing softly, weight balanced, knees tracking like they should. No extra noise. No wasted movement.

That’s the difference between dancers who show up for football season and dancers who live for this.

“Sharp, Hadley,” Coach calls as we pass each other.

I nod, already moving.

I hit my counts automatically. Five, six, seven, eight. High kick. Turn. Drop. My body knows this routine better than my brain does. Muscle memory from years of dance competitions and pep rallies and Friday nights under stadium lights.

Still, my eyes betray me.

Because no matter how hard I try not to, I find him.

Chase Walker is running routes on the far hash marks, helmet tucked under his arm while the quarterback barks something I can’t hear. He’s taller than most of the guys on the field, broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his practice jersey. Sweat darkens the curls at his temples, brown hair escaping his helmet in a way that makes half the female population of Easton High suddenly interested in football.

He adjusts the silver chain around his neck between reps.

The one I got him.

I roll my eyes at myself and snap back into focus just in time to catch Coach Miller glaring at me.

“Hadley. Counts.”

“Sorry,” I say, already correcting my timing. Captain mistakes get noticed faster.

From the corner of my vision, I see Chase glance over.

I know because he always does.

Like clockwork.

Our eyes meet for half a second. His mouth tips into that familiar, crooked grin—the one that says you’re fine and I saw that and don’t screw it up all at once. He taps two fingers to his forehead in a lazy salute before jogging back into position.

Annoying.

I turn away, cheeks warm for reasons that have nothing to do with the heat.

A tilt jump carries me forward, followed by a quick illusion turn that snaps my ponytail across my back. I feel the routine rather than think it, counts humming through my bones. Dance has always been the one thing in my life that never left—never got arrested, never died, never disappeared.

Well one of the things.

The other is across the field. Pads collide and whistles cut through the air. I register the noise without looking, the same way I always do. Football practice runs parallel to ours every August. Different worlds sharing the same heat, the same turf, the same countdown to Friday nights.

We drop into a low fan kick sequence, traveling forward in unison before snapping upright into a final pose.

We finish the routine to a chorus of applause from exactly three people: Coach Miller, Assistant Coach Lauren, and some freshman who looks like she might pass out at any second.

Coach claps once. “Better. Water.”

I exhale, hands braced on my thighs as sweat drips down my spine. Around me, the girls scatter toward the sideline, laughter and groans mixing as we collapse onto the grass.

“Your boyfriend is staring again,” Mia says, nudging my knee with her shoe.

I snort, twisting the cap off my bottle. “He is not my boyfriend.”

Mia raises an eyebrow. “You sure about that? Because I just watched him miss a catch.”

I glance up despite myself.

Chase is laughing with his teammates now, helmet off, curls damp and wild. He throws his head back like something’s genuinely funny, and for a split second, I forget how to breathe.

I hate him.

“He’s my best friend,” I say, like I’ve said it a thousand times before. Like I’ll say it a thousand times more. “And he’s distracted because he’s bad at football.”

Mia laughs. “Right. And I’m the head cheerleader.”

I take another sip of water and pretend I don’t see Chase break from the huddle to jog toward the sideline—toward me.

“Hadley!” he calls, voice carrying easily over the noise. “You’re still landing heavy on your left.”

I blink. “I am not.”

“You are,” he says, stopping a few feet away, hands on his hips. Sweat drips down his jawline. “You’re gonna mess up your knee if you keep doing that.”

Coach Miller opens her mouth like she’s about to snap at him, but Chase flashes her that polite, respectful smile that’s gotten him out of more trouble than it should.

“I’m just looking out for my sister,” he adds quickly.

I scoff. “You wish.”

He grins wider, leaning in just enough to drop his voice. “You’re still pretty, though.”

Heat floods my face. “Go catch a ball, Walker.”

He laughs, soft and easy, and presses a quick kiss to my forehead before jogging back to his side of the field like he didn’t just short-circuit my brain in front of half the dance team.

Mia stares at me.

“Best friends,” I say weakly.

She just shakes her head.

And as I watch Chase line up again, chain glinting in the sun, I tell myself the same thing I always do.

We’re just chasing dreams.

Football. Dance. Senior year.

Not each other.

Chase’s laugh carries farther than the whistle.

I don’t look up right away, but I hear it—low and easy, familiar enough that my shoulders loosen without permission. When I finally glance over, he’s bent forward slightly, hands on his knees, talking to the quarterback. There’s a smear of dirt on his thigh, his jersey clinging to him in places that make the freshmen on the bleachers suddenly forget how legs work.

One of the receivers claps him on the shoulder and says something that makes Chase shake his head, curls bouncing. He straightens, scans the field like he’s looking for something he dropped.

Or someone.

His gaze lands near the dance team—never directly on me, but close enough that I feel it anyway. His mouth lifts just a little, like he’s relieved by what he sees, and then he’s adjusting his gloves and turning back to practice like nothing happened.

Like he didn’t just check the field to make sure I was still there.

I tell myself it doesn’t mean anything.

The dance locker room smells like body spray, sweat, and ambition.

“Did you see the new freshman kicker?” someone asks as I shove my shoes into my bag.

“He’s, like, twelve.”

“So?”

I laugh softly, tugging my hair out of its elastic and retying it into a neater ponytail. My legs ache in that good way—the earned way.

Mia drops onto the bench beside me. “Walker’s waiting.”

I don’t ask how she knows.

“Tell him five minutes,” I say, slinging my bag over my shoulder.

She smirks. “I did. He said, ‘Cool,’ and then stayed anyway.”

Of course he did.

By the time I push through the double doors and step back into the thick evening air, the field is mostly cleared. The sun is sinking low, casting everything in gold. Chase is leaning against the fence near his jeep, one hand gripping the strap of his gear bag, the other scrolling through his phone.

He looks up the second he hears the door.

“You’re late,” he says.

“I’m right on time,” I shoot back.

He grins and reaches for my dance bag without even thinking about it, sliding it off my shoulder and swinging it over his own like it weighs nothing—even though his gear is already dragging one side of him down.

“Chase—”

“I got it.”

“You always say that.”

“And I’m always right.”

We walk side by side toward the parking lot, cleats crunching against gravel, cicadas buzzing loud enough to drown out everything else. He smells like sweat and grass and the detergent Janice buys in bulk.

“You eat today?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Real food?”

I bump his shoulder. “I am capable of feeding myself.”

“Just checking,” he says easily. “Mom made chicken and rice. The good kind.”

That gets my attention.

His Jeep is exactly what you’d expect—mud on the tires, cracked leather seats, the faint rattle he refuses to get fixed. He opens my door before circling around to the driver’s side.

Some habits don’t die.

The drive home is quiet, the comfortable kind. Windows down. Music low. The familiar route winding through neighborhoods we’ve known our whole lives.

Janice’s voice hits us the second we open the front door.

“You two better wash up before you touch anything in my kitchen!”

Chase groans. “Love you too, Mom.”

“I mean it,” she calls, but there’s laughter in her voice. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

I kick off my shoes and drop my bag by the stairs, the house wrapping around me like it always does—warm, lived-in, safe.

Chase bumps my arm as we head down the hall. “Race you to the sink.”

“You’re going to lose,” I say, already moving.

He just smiles.

And for a moment, everything feels exactly the way it’s always been.

The kitchen table is already set when we sit down—plates warm, chicken and rice steaming, Janice moving between the stove and the counter like she’s been doing this forever.

Which she has.

Chase drops into his chair across from me, stretching his legs out until his socked foot nudges mine. I kick him under the table without looking.

“Hey,” he says. “Accident.”

“Sure it was.”

Janice slides into her seat at the head of the table, eyes flicking between us with that look she gets—soft, observant, like she’s filing things away for later.

“So,” she says, clapping her hands once. “One week until senior year. How are we feeling?”

“Ready,” Chase says immediately, piling chicken onto his plate. “Over it already.”

I smile. “Excited. Nervous. Both.”

Janice hums. “That sounds about right.” She looks at Chase. “College scouts start coming out more this year. You prepared for that?”

He shrugs, casual as ever. “Just gotta do what I always do.”

She turns to me. “And my dance captain?”

I straighten a little. “Dance camp starts Monday after school. First football game’s in two weeks. We’re doing a new halftime routine.”

“I know,” Janice says, smiling. “You’ve been practicing it in my living room.”

Chase smirks. “She almost kicked over your lamp.”

“Almost,” I say. “But I didn’t.”

Janice laughs and starts eating, the sound of forks against plates filling the space for a moment. It’s comfortable. Easy.

Then Chase says, “Oh—Mom, I might not be home Friday night. I’m probably gonna hang out with this girl from my English class.”

My fork pauses halfway to my mouth.

I don’t look up. I don’t need to.

Janice raises an eyebrow. “A girl?”

“Yeah,” he says lightly. “Nothing serious. Just talking.”

I roll my eyes before I can stop myself.

Chase grins. “What?”

“Nothing,” I mutter, shoveling rice into my mouth.

Janice’s gaze flicks to me. Then back to Chase. “Well,” she says carefully, “just be smart.”

“Always am.”

That earns another eye roll from me.

Chase catches it this time. “You wanna say something, Had?”

“Nope.”

“Because it looks like you do.”

Janice clears her throat. “Eat your dinner.”

We do. Eventually.

After dishes are rinsed and goodnights are said, I head down the hall and shut my bedroom door, peeling out of my practice clothes and collapsing onto my bed. I’m halfway through scrolling my phone when there’s a knock.

Not even a real one.

He pushes the door open a second later.

“Your charger,” Chase says, like it explains everything.

I lift my head. “You have three.”

“They all suck.”

“You were just on your phone.”

“Don’t expose me.”

He plugs in, then flops onto the floor like he belongs there, back against my bed, legs stretched out.

“So,” he says, staring at the ceiling. “Beach this weekend?”

I blink. “What?”

“Before school starts. Me, you, Mia, a couple guys from the team. Last bit of freedom.”

I think about sand between my toes. Salt air. Late nights that don’t end in alarms.

“Yeah,” I say. “That sounds… nice.”

He smiles, just a little. “Good.”

Silence settles in, comfortable and familiar.

Neither of us moves. Neither of us says what we’re really thinking. And for now, that feels safer than anything else.