[chance]

GULPS! This one has some swear words in it too. I admit, this was written as a reflection of myself as I´ve been through a tough spot emotionally and I relate to Chase Ambrose´s past as a character. I´m a Chase kinnie. Hope this isn´t too OOC...

--

The field always looked different under stadium lights.

Cleaner, somehow—less like the muddy, torn-up patch of grass it was during practice and more like something out of a movie. Chase Ambrose bounced a little on the balls of his feet, shaking out his arms as the warm-up laps ended. The crowd was still filing in, but he could already hear the buzz, that low hum of excitement that always made his chest feel a little too tight.

He loved this. Football wasn’t about being the best or even winning every game—it was about the energy, the momentum, the way everything else dropped away when the whistle blew. It was simple. Clear. Nothing like real life. The second he stepped on the field, he knew what to do. Block, pass, run. It was easy to be someone good here.

Chase jogged over to the water table and grabbed a quick drink, squeezing the bottle hard enough to spray himself in the face. Cold droplets hit his cheeks, and he grinned. He caught Joey Petronus rolling his eyes, arms crossed, but with the hint of a smirk.

“What?” Chase asked, tossing the bottle aside. “Gotta cool the money-maker.”

Landon snorted, swatting Chase away. “Your face isn’t even in the top five best things about you.”

“Gee, thanks,” Chase scoffed, pretending to be wounded. “Where would I be without my teammates to humble me?”

“With a modeling contract,” Joey muttered, tugging on his jersey.

Chase laughed. It felt good—natural. They didn’t look at him like they were waiting for him to relapse. They just… liked him. Or they acted like it, at least. That was enough.He stretched out his shoulders, feeling the ache from the week’s practice settle into something manageable. Game days were like hitting pause on everything else. No drama. No Video Club vs. Football Team tension. No ex-best-friends standing twenty yards away like they were still allowed to breathe the same air.

Except they were still allowed. That was the problem.

Chase’s gaze flicked across the field: brief, unintentional, automatic. And there they were.

Aaron Hackiman and Bear Bratsky. Laughing at something one of the linemen said, Bear slapping someone’s helmet. Aaron stretching his arms behind his back like he didn’t have a care in the world.

For a moment, Chase just watched them. No thoughts, no judgments. Just the shapes of them. Their movements, the way they talked to the others, the way nothing ever seemed to stick to them.

Then the thoughts started crawling in.

He could’ve been over there, if none of it had happened. If he hadn’t fallen. If he hadn’t woken up in a hospital bed with no memory and a fresh start dangling right in front of him. He could’ve laughed along with them, made fun of Joey, messed with Landon, been part of the “cool crowd.” They would’ve accepted him again. Probably. Maybe. That was the thing—he didn’t know.

And the worst part? Sometimes he still wanted to.

Even now, even after everything, there was a part of him that craved what they had. Or what he thought they had. That blind loyalty. That sick, stupid trust. That feeling of invincibility. He looked away. Joey tossed him a ball, snapping him back. “Hey. Earth to Ambrose.”

Chase caught it clean. “What?”

“You zoning out or manifesting your next touchdown?”

“Little bit of both,” Chase remarked with a grin. It was automatic. It had to be.

He started tossing the ball lightly with Joey, working his shoulders again. The motion helped. It always helped. He focused on the feeling of the ball in his hands, the way the laces pressed against his fingers, the familiar rhythm of pass, catch, pass again. He let his thoughts fade to the background, shoved them down where they belonged. This wasn’t the time.

“You good?” Landon asked, jogging up next to him. He tapped his helmet. “You’ve got that look again.”

“What look?”

“The ‘I’m thinking way too hard about something depressing’ look.”

“I don’t have that look.”

“Yeah you do. Shoshanna said so.”

Chase huffed a laugh. “Okay, maybe I have that look.” He rolled the football between his hands. “I’m fine, though. Just got in my head for a sec.”

“Get out of it,” Joey shot back impatiently. He lightly pushed Chase ahead. “Game’s starting soon. You can spiral after we win.”

“Solid plan,” Chase replied, nodding.

He turned his focus back to the field. Players were starting to line up, captains heading out for the coin toss. His ribs were buzzing with energy—nervous, excited. His cleats dug into the turf, steady. Stable. Stay here. Stay in the moment.

He didn’t look back at Aaron and Bear. He didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. He didn’t want to give himself the temptation. They didn’t get to have him back. Not even a glance. Instead, he leaned into Landon’s shoulder, bumping him lightly. “Let’s kill it tonight.”

“Let’s murder ‘em with style,” Landon replied encouragingly.

Joey held up his hand for a high-five. “Leave no survivors.”

Chase smacked his palm hard, grinning. “No mercy.”

And for a few minutes, it worked. The laughter came back. The confidence. The feeling that he belonged somewhere, even if he still didn’t know where exactly. Chase´s smile slightly dropped as he saw Aaron and Bear again. Well, his smile rarely ever dropped, but he had to force himself to keep the smile again.

Fuck, Chase missed them, as stupid and silly that sounded now, knowing what they did. Why couldn't they just never tell him? Why couldn't they just keep their stupid mouth shut as they drove the metaphorical knife deeper into his stomach, twisting and digging despite his burbling agony. They could've just never told Chase anything, never informed him of his past self, and he could've died betrayed, but blissfully unaware of how he was misled. Not aware of what a terrible person he was in the past, how he deserved everything that came to him. 

Chase wished this was all a figment of his imagination, and he could wake up in his bed where being unaware was so much easier. When it was so much easier to digest his actions and he´d be able to spend the morning lazing around, and maybe he´d be able to make breakfast and watch TV. 

 

He missed being free from the burden of his past, as fucked up as that was. And as the memories had trickled in—sluggish, broken things at first—he remembered how he felt then. The rush of power. The ease. The lack of thought. When he first fell off the roof, he hadn’t wanted his old life back, because he didn’t know what it was. But now, now that he knew?

 

He still didn’t want it. But God, sometimes he wanted to want it. Just to be done with this constant unease. To stop looking over his shoulder like someone might remind him of something worse he’d forgotten.

 

It was so, so much easier to not care than it was to try to make it up to everyone. He was tormented by the memories of his past actions, the cruel things he did to other people. Instead, Aaron and Bear had handed him the knife, pointed to his own stomach, and smiled as he sank it in himself. He could've stayed in that blurry place where he didn't have to know. Where he could just be happy, simple, and clueless. 

 

And yet, he knew better than that. Falling off his roof was the best thing that ever happened to him. The old Chase Ambrose would’ve never had the life he had now—the people, the real friends, the second chance. That was something worth holding onto.

 

But even knowing that… it didn’t stop the weird, twisting guilt in his stomach whenever Aaron or Bear looked at him in the halls. Like they knew a version of him he didn’t, and sometimes he caught himself caring. Caring that they didn’t laugh together anymore. That they didn’t call him “Ambrose” like it was some badge of honor.

 

He didn’t want to forgive them.

 

But he still wanted to understand them. And that might’ve been worse.

 

 

---

 

It was late in the third quarter when Chase took the hit.

The sun beared down on Chase, his lungs burning with cold air as he ran through the field at top speed. Football was his pride and joy, and he was happy he could associate his skill with something other than his past. 

A blindside block he didn’t see coming—helmet to ribs, then shoulder to turf, and the world spun like someone hit fast-forward on the sky. For a second, all he could hear was wind in his ears and the pressure of someone shouting—his name maybe, or a play call, or nothing at all.

He didn’t black out, not really, but everything went fuzzy at the edges. His ears rang. The world lagged half a beat behind. And then, like some sort of middle finger from the universe, the first two people kneeling over him were the last people he ever wanted to see again. He blinked slowly. Their faces swam into view, silhouettes against the blinding sun.

Aaron Hackiman and Bear Bratsky.

Aaron was saying something, loud and anxious. Aaron was uncharacteristically cursing to himself as he frantically looked between people, and Chase had to assume that the person he's talking to is someone else he cares about. “Chase? You good, man? Can you hear us?”

Bear hovered behind him, trying to look helpful and not terrible at it. “Don’t move your neck. Coach is calling the medic.”

Chase stared, dazed. His body hadn’t caught up with his brain yet. Aaron's hand was on his shoulder. Steady. Familiar. Friendly.

God damn it. He missed them.

As stupid and pathetic as that sounded, Chase missed them. Not for who they were—but for what they had been. Or what he thought they were. The easy camaraderie, the inside jokes, the blind loyalty. He wanted to kill them. He wanted to ask them why. He wanted them to tell him that none of it had been real, and all of it had. That they’d never meant to hurt him, that they were his best friends once. That they were sorry.

And maybe he wanted to laugh again, like they used to.

But all he could do was lie there with Aaron’s hand on his shoulder, Bear’s voice in his ear, and a horrible, yawning emptiness in his chest that no memory could fill. The grin came automatically. Tight, crooked. Wobbly around the edges. Chase laughed—barely. A breathy sound. “This is so… stupid.”

“You hit your head,” Bear said, concerned. “Just lie back.”

“No,” Chase spoke up, or tried to. It came out hoarse. “No, I—just—don’t touch me.”

But he didn’t move. And he didn’t push Aaron away. Because for one sick, fragile second, he wasn’t sure he wanted them gone. He wasn’t sure he didn’t want to go back. To before the roof. To before the guilt. To when he could grin and hurt people and no one expected anything else. To when the three of them would get themselves in trouble for the fun of it.

Yet, something nagged at the back of Chase´s mind. Without thinking, or maybe with some thought in mind, Chase snatched Aaron by the wrist. You made me run. Aaron reeled back like he had been burned. The words rested on Chase´s tongue. Let's climb a cliff edge and jump again. 

And then—

“CHASE!” Brendan’s voice cut through the fog. Footsteps rushed the field.

“Someone let us through!” Shoshanna’s voice followed. Suddenly there were other faces. Real ones. His people. Shoshanna dropped to her knees beside him. Her hand brushed his forehead, pushed sweaty hair away from his eyes. “Are you okay? Can you see me? I think you can see me, right? Okay.”

His grin faltered. He hoped they hadn’t seen. He hoped she hadn’t noticed that he hadn’t spoken up. That he hadn’t shoved Aaron away. That some part of him had still been reaching for the boys who betrayed him. “Yeah,” he said, voice cracking. “I’m good.”

“Are you crying?” Shoshanna frowned, her eyes narrowing as she stared at him intensely.

Chase reacted on overpilot, straightening himself up from where he was sitting. A wave of embarrassment flushed through him at everyone in the video club staring at him. “Sorry,” he smiled, rubbing his neck. “I don’t know what got into me.”

The medic arrived, started asking him questions. He answered them all correctly. No loss of consciousness, no memory issues, no nausea. Just a headache and a sore shoulder. “Let’s sit you up,” they said.

He sat up, eventually. His helmet had been peeled off. Someone handed him water. His head was still fogged and slightly buzzing, but he could hear the roar of the crowd, the voice of the coach shouting something to a ref, Shoshanna whispering something quick and urgent to the medic, Brendan wheezing softly beside him.

Aaron and Bear lingered a little ways off. They weren’t talking anymore. Just watching. Bear looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t. Aaron kept glancing over like Chase was an unsolvable equation, eyebrows drawn, mouth tight. They had the decency not to get any closer. Or maybe they were waiting. For what? Chase didn’t know. Maybe they thought this was it. That now, since Chase hadn’t snapped at them or spit in their faces or punched them square in the jaw, the door was unlocked. Cracked open again.

And for a moment—just a flicker—he thought about how easy it would be to let them back in. The three of them again. Boys who didn’t ask questions. Who didn’t expect apologies. Who could be cruel together without consequences. He hated them. He loved them.

He wanted them far, far away. He wanted to go back in time and lock himself in a room with them again, thirteen years old and stupid, listening to their dumb jokes and eating chips off Bear’s basement floor.

I prefer you over the world, Chase thought, staring hard at the grass. I want you all the time.
The thought disgusted him. But it was honest.

He flinched as Brendan sat beside him, clutching his inhaler, still trying to catch his breath. “You scared the crap out of us,” Brendan muttered, voice raspy. He grinned weakly, still wheezing. Chase could hear his breath rasping and—yeah, the guy had definitely run full speed from the bleachers to the field without taking his inhaler. That was dedication. That was Brendan.

“Sorry,” Chase replied automatically. The grin snapped into place again, tired and twitchy. “Didn’t mean to take a dive.”

“Yeah, well,” Brendan snapped back. “You did. And I ran here. Like. Actually ran.” He inhaled again sharply through the inhaler. “I think I’m dying.”

Chase’s laugh was real this time—small, grateful. “You’re not dying.”

“You sure?” Brendan pressed a hand to his chest dramatically, eyes glassy and wheezy. Brendan clawed at Chase’s arm, gagging on the air that flooded his lungs. He leaned against Chase like he’s dying, unsteady and confused. Chase wrapped an arm around him in response, taking note of Brendan’s behavior.

“Yeah, you’re just—” And then Brendan gagged. Chase blinked once, twice, pale and wild-eyed. “Brendan?”

And then Brendan vomited. All over Chase’s shoes. His brand-new, white cleats. Absolutely destroyed. The whole group reeled back with a mixture of groans and laughter. “Dude,” Chase whispered, frozen.

“Oh my god,” Brendan gasped between retches, mortified beyond repair. “I— I’m— I’m so— I think I— I chugged too much Gatorade—”

Shoshanna started laughing, pinching her nose and turning away. “He did, too,” she muttered. “Three bottles.”

Chase looked down at the mess on his shoes. And then he looked at Brendan’s panicked face. His shoulders shook—once, twice—and he started laughing too. Real laughter. Ugly, breathless, painful laughter that made his head throb and his ribs ache. 

The laughter didn't stop right away. Shoshanna wheezed into her hands, Brendan was still babbling apologies and wiping his mouth with his sleeve, and even the medic cracked a grin as they looked for a towel. Someone offered Chase a bottle of water and muttered something about biohazard protocols. It was funny. It was gross. It was exactly the kind of thing that should’ve lightened the mood.

And it did. For a second. But the more Chase laughed, the emptier it felt.

Because they used to laugh like this. Him, Aaron, and Bear. Back when the world was cruel and everything was funny. Stupid inside jokes, horrible pranks, loud, echoing laughter that filled locker rooms and hallways and rooftops. The same laugh as they sprinted down the halls after they got caught ditching detention. 

Why couldn’t they laugh now like they did then?

Why couldn’t things just go back?

He didn’t want to go back. That wasn’t it. He knew what they did. He knew who he was. But it didn’t change the fact that those laughs had meant something. That part of him missed them so hard it made his chest hurt. His smile faltered again. He wiped at it like it might be crooked, like it might betray him.

“You alright?” The voice was quiet. Close. Chase looked up. Joel Weber had moved in closer without him noticing, crouched beside him now with a bottle of water in one hand and a subtle furrow in his brow.

Joel, of all people. Joel Weber, his biggest victim. The one Chase used to shove into lockers. Used to call “baby hands” because he played piano like it was some kind of weakness. The same Joel who now sat with him at lunch, laughed at his dumb jokes, and asked about football even though he didn’t get it.

Chase didn’t deserve him. But he was there. Chase cleared his throat, blinked hard, and reached for the water. “Yeah. Just feeling… off.”

Joel didn’t say anything right away. He just nodded a little and glanced back toward the field, where Aaron and Bear had finally disappeared behind the bleachers. He saw it. Chase knew he saw it.

“Want me to stick around?” Joel asked after a long moment of silence.

Chase opened his mouth to say no. It’d be the polite thing. The smiley, easy, Chase-is-fine thing. But instead, he shrugged. “Yeah. I’d like that.” Joel sat cross-legged in the grass beside him. No pressure. No questions. Just… there.

Chase took a long sip from the water bottle, then looked down at his shoes again. Still gross. Brendan was still apologizing in circles. Shoshanna was arguing with the medic about whether Brendan needed to be benched.

Finally, he spoke up. “…You’re paying for my shoes.”

 

Hi,

More good fan fiction, a little heavy on the details that most middle grade readers skip over, but really well done.      --GK--