Dylan’s pretty buzzed, and I’m completely sober when we finally leave the bar. I drive us back to the V Motel, and he rambles on during the ride, mostly about the guys who grabbed him on our way out the door, the ones he hasn’t kept up with.

“Can’t believe Dirk’s wife left him. And Carl—another baby, and he got fired again? I don’t know how to help more. I always offer, but he won’t ever take money. I understand; I’ve never liked taking hand-outs, either, but I’ve known him my whole life. We’ve never been close, but still.”

I look over at Dylan. “You okay?” I ask as I touch his leg.

He starts as if he’d almost forgotten I was there. “Yeah.” He shakes his head. “Sorry. That bar brings back old memories. I love seeing my cousins, but most of them aren’t even from here, and Brayden doesn’t live in our hometown anymore. But all the guys who stayed…”

“I get it. It’s like you’re stuck in the past with them temporarily.” We pull into a parking space at the motel. Hardly anyone’s here, and I appreciate the quiet as we walk through the empty parking lot and back to our room.

Dylan insists on us sleeping in the same bed. “I won’t be able to sleep without you by my side.”

“You’ll be so uncomfortable,” I say as I climb in next to him. “You don’t fit in this bed as it is.”

I point to his feet hanging off the end.

Like this town, the bed’s too small for Dylan. He’s too big for it. Maybe he always was. It’s difficult for me to comprehend because this whole experience is so the opposite of my childhood.

“You’re treated like a God here, aren’t you?” I say.

He turns me away from him so he can pull my back into his chest. He puts his arm over me and curls his body against mine. “Outside of my cousins, who are there for me no matter what, the rest of it doesn’t mean anything. It’s not like I’d call anyone in my hometown up in the middle of the night with a problem. It is what it is. And what it’s always been is football.”

I wake up early. I glance at the time, but the clock’s not set correctly. I never noticed last night, but right now the time reads three p.m. Not very helpful. I crawl out of bed to go pee and then turn on my phone.

Eight o’clock. I grab my clay and roll of paper towels. Then I sit down on the floor by the bathroom sink, which is outside the actual bathroom.

I’ve been sculpting for about an hour when Dylan, all sleepy and adorable-looking and wearing nothing but his boxers, finds me. “You could have done this on the other bed. You wouldn’t have woken me.”

I smile at him. “It’s okay. This spot was perfect.”

“What’d you make?” He sits down next to me and gives me a kiss.

“Bill. Not Bill all the time, just this specific side of him. Pretty much the worst side of him.” I show him Bill’s angry face and curled lip. “But it’s not for keeps. I promised Lilla I’d do this…” I take my fist and smash the sculpture back into just clay.

Dylan reaches out like he wishes he’d stopped me. “But you could have put that into your collection.”

“I don’t want Bill in my collection. I don’t need it. I can sculpt something else.”

Dylan tentatively touches the clay. “I only used clay once. For art class in junior high. The teacher said I didn’t have any creative talent.”

I frown. “That’s why I dropped out of art school. Teachers don’t always know what they’re talking about.”

“Really? I thought they were like coaches.”

“I don’t know about that. I just know they’re not always right. Nobody has no creative talent.”

I take the clay and put it in front of him. “Try it. I’m going to take a shower.”

Dylan’s hands are full of clay when I come out of the bathroom. “I don’t know,” he says with a laugh. “But I’m pretty sure this takes some talent.” He shows me his mound of a hunched-over person. “Okay. Now we’ll crush mine, too.”

“Wait, let me see it.” I sit down with him and look for a minute. Then I turn to him. “The burdens?”

He studies the figure he sculpted. “You think?”

“This man is straining under the burdens, the pressure to be perfect, to uphold the town and his family.” I touch it gently. “It’s good, Dylan. Really.”

Dylan stares at it and then takes his fist and smashes it back to nothing.

“Like a fresh start,” he says as he kisses me. He stands up and goes to wash his hands. “You want to grab some breakfast and then go see my uncle?”

“Sure.”

He goes over to his suitcase and pulls something out. “Can’t forget this,” he says, holding up his MVP trophy.

“Oh, my God.” I get up and go touch the metal lightly with my finger. “I never saw you pack this. It feels very powerful.”

“I know it’s just a trophy. But yeah, it’s pretty cool.”

“Can I hold it for a second?” I ask him.

When he hands the trophy to me, I’m amazed by how enormous it is. “Wow. This thing’s freaking heavy, Dylan.”

Of course I can hold the trophy up, but it certainly doesn’t feel light and airy like I’d imagined when I’ve seen players hoist their trophies on television.

“I don’t know where the heck I’m going to put it. It’s been in a box ever since we won.”

“You could display it in your living room,” I say. “Although maybe that’s not safe. Sometimes people steal those things, don’t they?”

“Yeah, I never understood that,” he says. “It has my name on it. Why would somebody want to take something that doesn’t belong to them?”

I love the mountains in Montana. I love the stillness and the big sky even more. L.A. is so crowded most of the time. Dylan says he misses that part of where he grew up, too.

“I’d like to have a second home eventually,” he says. “Around here somewhere.”

And I’d like to live here with you.

Dylan’s eyes flick to mine like he knows exactly what I’m thinking, and he smiles.

Our visit with Uncle Irv is short and relatively sweet. He’s a grouchy man and doesn’t seem to like me much, so I take a seat by the window while Dylan sits in the chair next to the bed and talks about the championship game. As much as I try to act like I’m not listening, I’m actually hanging on every word.

“What was it like?” Uncle Irv asks breathlessly.

Some of the breathlessness is because he’s on oxygen, but I can tell the rest is excitement. He’s lying flat and looking up at Dylan.

“It was incredible,” Dylan tells him. “The greatest high.”

Uncle Irv seems to like that answer. They sit in silence for a moment until he asks Dylan, “It looked like a warm day. Was it warm?”

“Mid-sixties,” Dylan says. “It was sunny and clear. Perfect playing weather.”

“The sportscasters said the same thing,” Irv agrees. “Said it was great throwing weather.”

“True. Hardly a breeze, actually. I should thank the weather gods.”

Irv chuckles and then goes into a coughing fit. I look over at Dylan nervously, but a nurse comes in and settles Irv down. “Let’s prop up the pillows. Make it easier for you to talk to your famous nephew.”

When she leaves, Irv says, “I miss playing you know.”

“I know.” Sadness passes through Dylan’s eyes. “But at least you know what it felt like.”

“Oh, I remember those days,” Irv says. “I was no good, mind you. Not a star like you are. I was backup receiver to my cousin. But I loved being out there on the grass with the sun shining, the fans in the stands. The whole thing was…” He pauses to breathe. “Euphoric.”

“Yes,” Dylan says immediately. “Exactly.”

Irv looks over in my direction now. “Was she in the stands?”

Dylan smiles at me. “I didn’t know Jasalie then. We met just after.”

Irv says, “And the feeling?”

Dylan answers easily as he looks right at me. “Euphoric.”

Irv reaches out to take Dylan’s hand and holds it until we have to leave.

Dylan pops open the back porch door easily and we step inside his parents’ house, the place where he grew up.

“Did you ever worry about burglars?” I say nervously. “That seemed a little too easy.”

“We know everybody in town. So not really.”

“This is definitely not Los Angeles,” I say as I follow him through the living room and into the kitchen.

“That’s the downstairs.” Dylan gestures with his arm. “The whole house is pretty much the same, in every way, since I lived here. I’ve tried to get my parents to move a million times—I’ve offered to buy them something larger, something newer, to have a place custom-built for them, or even to upgrade what they do have, but they won’t budge. They’re stubborn like that. Although they’ve finally agreed to let me buy them a cabin in the mountains. Dad’s supposed to start looking this spring once the snow’s gone.” He heads for the stairs. “My bedroom’s up here.”

Dylan’s room looks like a shrine, like it’s been completely untouched since he was a kid. Football stuff is everywhere, and an old twin bed sits in the corner.

“Do they use this room?” I ask.

“Maybe for guests? My brother’s room’s the same.”

We walk down the hall to Matt’s room. It has the same twin bed as Dylan’s, but the walls have motorcycles and punk rock posters instead.

“It looks like you guys felt comfortable here,” I observe.

“Yeah,” Dylan says. “I think we did. My parents did a good job with that part.”

He takes my hand and leads me back to his bedroom. We take a seat on the bed. “Thanks for coming here with me. You were right. It was a good idea.

His dark eyes shine with so much emotion when he looks at me that I grip his shirt with both fists. I love him so much in this moment that it hurts.

“I love you, Dylan,” I whisper to him. “I can’t express how much in words.”

So I try to show him. I lean in and put my lips on his. His hands go to my ass, and he lifts me up and onto his lap. Then we lie down on his childhood bed and make love, and as I hold him tightly, I feel the euphoria he mentioned at the hospital. I feel the indescribable high, and I know I’ll never be able to forget it.

We’ve just boarded the plane to take us back to Arizona when Dylan’s cell phone rings.

He picks up right away. “Hi Tim, I remember about the interview. I was going to do it by phone. Jasalie and I are on our way back to Tucson for our last night there.”

I’m busy putting my bag into the overhead, so I don’t catch what he says next.

But when I turn to glance at him, his face is hard as stone. He glances at me quickly, and then drops into his seat.

“What is it?” I say, sitting next to him and touching his knee. “What’s wrong?”

“Yep,” he says into the phone. “But what can I do…”

Another panicked glance in my direction.

“Is it your uncle?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“I’ll call you back,” he says into the phone before hanging up.

Instead of saying anything to me about that weird-ass phone call, he busies himself for the next few minutes with his bag and then adjusting his seat belt.

Finally, I tap his arm. “Dylan. What happened? You’re white as a ghost.”

“Change of plans,” he says in a clipped tone. “I have a damn magazine interview in L.A., and apparently I can’t do it by phone after all. I need to talk to the pilot about changing our route. I know you want to get back to Tucson so you can focus on what to do with your mom. Are you okay to wait a few more hours?”

“Of course. I’ll wait for you in Malibu while you do your interview. As long as you come home to me afterward.”