Page 36 of Home Game

Wyatt’s gaze drifts to me, and as much as I want to save him from this, I also meant what I said the other night. I like him. And I need my dad to respect him. On his own terms.

“I’ll wait,” I say.

His eyes widen for a beat, then he drops his gaze to the floor, his shoulders shaking with a quiet chuckle.

“Okay,” he relents.

He shakes his head as he leaves the restaurant, and I follow him with my eyes as he moves to the passenger side of his truckparked on the opposite side of us. No wonder I didn’t spot his truck when we pulled in.

“I thought he was just a guy who stopped in for pancakes?” My dad is referencing our first chat about Wyatt, when Bryce tried to sour his reputation with my dad.

“Seems he really likes pancakes,” I say, turning my attention to my water, which is draining fast as I keep taking nervous sips.

“Hmm,” my dad grumbles.

Wyatt comes back in with a plastic grocery bag in his hand. He grabs the back of his neck with his opposite hand as he approaches.

“I didn’t have anything to wrap it in, sorry,” he says, giving me a sheepish expression before handing over the bag.

“Wrapping paper is wasteful,” I say, throwing him a bone. My dad never wraps presents. He leaves it for Mom, so he better not offer any commentary.

“Thank you,” I offer, meeting Wyatt’s eyes.

He smiles through tight lips, but the only emotion I sense in his expression is worry. I write it off to the gauntlet my dad is putting him through, but when I pull the jersey out of the bag and the iconic silver and blue registers, I realize what had him so nervous.

It’s a fucking Cowboys jersey. Which I love. Because I know why he got it for me. He was paying attention to me, and he remembered the story I told him about taking a dig at my dad when I was mad at him. But his timing could not be worse. It is, however, hilarious.

“Thank you,” I say, unfurling it and pushing my arms through the bottom. “I love it.”

I pull it over my head, on top of my CHS cheer shirt, then twist to my side as I stretch it out to show off for my dad. He deserves this.

“Huh,” my dad reacts, his brow lifting as he chews at the inside of his mouth.

“It’s sort of an inside joke,” Wyatt utters, his voice vibrating.

“Is it?” My dad knows exactly what makes this funny. And he knows that means Wyatt and I have talked more than a little. We’ve shared stories.

“I don’t really like the Cowboys, though. I mean, I would play for them. Of course. But they aren’t really my team. I like the home team. And I grew up watching Seattle with my dad. And?—”

“It’s a nice jersey.” My dad’s words are abrupt, and he’s reaching into his wallet to pay the bill, clearly done with this ego-match.

“I meant it to be fun. Just as a nice gesture.Shit.” Wyatt mumbles that last part.

“Yeah. Fun.” My dad holds the bill and his credit card out for Maggie to run. Thankfully, she does it quickly.

“Anyhow, I have a thing I have to get to. I hope you have a happy birthday, Peyton. And good luck Friday, Coach.” Wyatt steps toward me but stops short of stretching out his arms to hug me. He glances in my dad’s direction for permission, which he won’t get—ever. So I take things into my own hands and step up on my toes to wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him on the cheek.

“Thank you, Wyatt. It was really thoughtful,” I say. I am pretty sure he’s trembling.

“Uh, yeah. I mean, glad you like it. Anyhow, I have to?—”

“Where you headed?” My dad was done with this a second ago. I’m not sure why he’s now pulling Wyatt back into his web.

“It’s sort of a team thing I started. I mean, I hope a team thing. I might be the only one to show up. Well, Whiskey will because I’m picking him up.” Wyatt’s gaze shifts between me and my dad.

“Like a tradition, huh?” my dad pries. He signs the bill and tucks his card back into his wallet.

“Something like that,” Wyatt says, stepping back to make room for my dad to exit first.

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