Page 23 of Home Game

“Oh shoot, Peyt. You know I won’t buy him any more of those. I’m just as interested in him sticking around as y’all are.” My Grandpa Buck snuck a lot of extra smokes after his first heart attack. And he got away with a few more after the first stroke. One batch was delivered by me, but in my defense, I was six and thought it was a box of chocolate. Not that he should be eating that, either.

The bag finally drops with the weight, and I reach in to pull out one of several boxes of sparklers. A sea of memories tickles my upper lip, and I’m smiling before I’m aware of it.

“What is it?” Wyatt scooches in close. Mint again. Warmth.

I hand over one of the boxes.

“Sparklers? You know, the fourth was . . . “ He glances up under his lashes, and his head bobs with his silent counting. “Three months ago?”

“Buck asked me to keep some from the holiday stock.” Cliff winks at me, and I can’t help but feel this sudden urge to tear up for all sorts of happy reasons. I stave off the full unloading of emotions by giving our old family friend a hug.

“Thanks. It will make my day,” I say softly.

“Good,” Cliff responds. “Oh, and don’t forget your order.”

“I got it,” Wyatt says, rushing into the storage space before I have a chance to make the move myself. He stacks my boxes and carries them in pairs, loading the back of the Jeep while I tuck the sparkler box back into the bag.

I help Cliff lower the sliding door and turn to find Wyatt waiting by my driver’s side door. He opens it and leans against the edge as I near, his eyes glancing down to my bare legs at least twice before I reach him.

“So, are you gonna tell me what the big deal is with those, or not?” He taps on the plastic handle of the bag where it wraps around my finger. I hold my story in for a breath and consider keeping it to myself, but something about Wyatt Stone makes me want to share personal things.

“It’s my birthday on Sunday, and ever since I was maybe two or three, my grandpa and I light sparklers and try to spell things in the air while my mom takes slow-exposure photos.” I look up from the bag in my hands, half expecting him to look uninterested or to maybe find my tradition lame. But his smile . . . it’s soft.

“What’s the longest word you captured on film?”

His question sounds genuine, and the way he’s now wrapped his arm through the open window of the Jeep, his weight fully resting on the steel, makes me believe he’s not just putting on an act to get in my pants.

I blink slowly and hold my tongue behind my teeth as I riffle through the years of fire-writing, as my grandpa calls it. Then it hits me, and I laugh out hard.

“Was it a bad word?” Wyatt teases.

I shake my head.

“No, not like that, at least. My dad was playing for Detroit, and I was a pre-teen and always angry at him for something, and well . . .”

“You didn’t,” Wyatt says, seeming to have an idea about where my story is going.

I nod.

“I wrote GO COWBOYS.” I slap my hands over my face and cringe.

“Ohhhhh, that’s . . . Peyton, no!” He lets go of my door and crouches down, his hand covering his eyes. He peeks at me through the spaces in his fingers on one hand while he bites the thumbnail of the other.

“It took two photos to piece it together. I actually spent time on my mom’s laptop merging them into one. And I emailed it to him.” I cover my face again, laughing at the memory and also feeling a slight burn of shame.

“That’s diabolical!”

I nod, curling my fingers until their fists over my mouth.

“I know,” I say, my words muffled in my hands.

Wyatt pulls himself up with the edge of my door and hooks his arm back through the window. I move to slide into the driver’s seat, and he gently pushes the door shut when my legs are inside. He hovers at the window, his forearm resting on the edge, for a few seconds while I crank the engine and manage to overcome my flushed face. I twist to rest my elbow on the steering wheel and meet his gaze. God, his eyes are perfect. They’re basically straight out of a cartoon prince fantasy, down to the almond shape and the light creases at the corners.

“That’s a really sweet tradition,” he says. His gaze trails the contours of my face.

“Thanks.” My voice is just above a whisper.

“Maybe,” he starts, stopping with his tongue caught between his teeth. His eyes drop down for a second and he shakes with a short laugh before his gaze comes back up to mine. “Nah, never mind.”

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