Page 27 of Home Game

“She always shows up.” Lexi shrugs next to me, and I nod because she’s right. Tasha will be shit for the rest of the day, but somehow she’ll muddle through practice. She won’t be sharp, though. And I really want us to be sharp this year. It’s my captainship. And we have a chance to go to nationals and place, maybe even win. Our stunt team is good. Lexi is good. How she flies and pulls off mid-air splits beats me, but I guess some people say the same thing about my ability to catch and throw her.

It feels good to get out of my uniform. It’s the one part of high school cheer I don’t love. The uniforms are all about show and very little about practicality. The choker-style neck coveredin sequins sometimes makes me feel like gagging. I can’t wait for winter when at least we get to switch out for leggings and oversized sweatshirts. Of course, those make tumbling hard. But I have to remember that game nights aren’t about practicing and perfecting. They’re about the game. About Dad. And Grandpa.

“I’ll meet you guys at the Jeep,” I say, pushing through the women’s locker room door and skipping out to the faculty parking lot right outside the back entrance to my dad’s office.

“There she is,” my grandpa says, his arms outstretched, his oxygen tank fixed to his electric chair. My mom and I decked it out for the game tonight, complete with a CHS football-themed license plate that reads BUCK#1.

That was his number years ago when he threw the ball on this field. Different grass, different time. But the legend was born then. And when my dad took the spotlight, my grandpa relived his glory years. Sometimes, I’d like my dad to be as excited about my cheer competitions as Grandpa was back then watching him play.

“What did you think of our dance, Grandpa?” I squat down so I can snuggle into his side. He coughs out a laugh.

“I’m with you. More flipping and pyramid-building, less of that clappy dance stuff.”

I giggle at his choice of words, but my chest warms with his sentiment. He’s heard me gripe about it enough, and while I’m not totally convinced he fully gets competitive cheer, he at least gets me. That’s enough.

“Ah, and there he is, the man of the hour,” my grandpa says over my shoulder.

I release him and stand, expecting to see my father eating up the praise when I turn around. Instead, I’m hit with Bryce’s bare chest as he reaches toward my grandpa to shake hands. His gaze passes mine, and I blink away, but too late not to get caught for a moment.

“Looks like you’re inching closer to that passing record. You keep it up with games like tonight, you’ll be putting your name on top of my son’s on that plaque in there.” Grandpa gestures toward the weight room where football achievements are etched in black and gold.

“Ha, maybe. Better me than that asshole over at Vista,” Bryce says. He doesn’t look at me, but I’m certain he brought up Wyatt for my benefit. To get a reaction. I refuse.

“Pffft, he doesn’t have talent to throw to. You’ll be fine,” my grandpa says, and Bryce’s head falls back with a heavy laugh.

I’m not sure what’s so funny. I know who transferred over there, and while it wasn’t our best receivers, Vista still got some top-tier talent. And with Whiskey on the line, they’re going to be formidable. In fact, I’m curious just how well Vista did tonight. They had a tough match-up against Phoenix Prep.

Pulling my phone out, I open the scores app as I back away a few steps from prying eyes. It takes me a minute to find Vista on the list, probably because it’s their first year and they don’t yet have the huge following that we do, but when I open up their box score it looks like Wyatt had a pretty productive night, too. While they didn’t beat Phoenix Prep by sixty points, they did win. By ten. And given the reputation of Phoenix Prep, my guess is people are going to start paying attention to the Vista Mustangs.

I don’t notice the headline right away. Maybe because I’m not exactly looking for it. But Wyatt’s name catches my eye, and when my eyes compute the rest of the words, I swallow hard.

QB WYATT STONE ON TRACK TO BREAK NFL STAR’S HS NUMBERS

My eyes grow wide and I lift my gaze, coming eye-to-eye with Bryce, who seems to be done reliving his best moments from an hour ago. His gaze narrows and his lip ticks up about a secondbefore he walks toward me. I click my phone off and shove it in the hip pocket of my leggings just as he leans into my other side.

“What was that look for?” I’m sure he assumes it was about him. Everything isalwaysabout him.

“No look. Just checking the time,” I lie. My eyes flit to his T-shirt, which he still grips in his left hand. I nod at it. “You gonna finish getting dressed?”

My mouth forms a crooked line as I glance back at him lazily.

“You know I hate it when the cotton sticks to me after a shower,” he says, shaking the dark blue T-shirt out and pushing his arms inside.

“Hmm, is that it?” We both know he likes to show off his physique. He’s proud of his defined abs and his fairly impressive biceps. And the tattoo across his right pec that reads, for whatever reason,ride or die.

“Oh, Peyton. What’s with this cold shoulder act?”

“It’s not an act, Bryce. My shoulder is, in fact, cold,” I explain.

He slings his arm around me, cupping my shoulder with his palm and rubbing vigorously. It feels terrible, and I shirk him off by taking a step to the side.

“I didn’t mean literally. I’m in a sweatshirt.” I’m well aware of my tone, but he’s not bringing out my best qualities. And he deserves the tone he gets.

“This is about Wyatt, isn’t it? I heard he stopped by the house.”

My gaze darts to his. He swallows hard, and I can’t tell if it’s from jealousy or rage. Are those emotions really that different?

“Who told you that?” I doubt my dad brought it up. He seems happy to erase it from mental existence. He didn’t even bring it up at breakfast this morning.

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