Page 66 of Home Game

It takes Wyatt five passes to drive the ball down the field and cut the distance between him and my dad’s record in half. The crowd gasps every time a pass is caught, and a few times the band breaks out with the fight song too early, probably miscounting the yards. He owns the record by halftime, though, carving into new territory in the second half to the point where my dad’s incredible numbers will likely be seen as the old guard. Bryce will likely pass my father’s record this year too, at least in passing. But he won’t catch Wyatt, who is well on his way to setting scoring records—and rushing records too—by the end of the season.

With twenty seconds left, Wyatt takes a knee at the forty-yard line to let the clock run out, and my friends and I shout at the top of our lungs while we jump up and down on a middle-row of the home stands.

“Oh, my God, why do we cheer again? This is so much more fun,” Tasha jokes.

I sling my arm around her while Lexi manages to do a standing pike on her bleacher seat.

“Maybe we can talk Coach into letting us cheer from up here,” I laugh out, doing my best to mimic my friend’s jump. She’s far nimbler than I am, so I’m sure to onlookers my jump looked more like a blip, but it was fun. All of this—watching Wyatt, rooting for him to take the record, for the Mustangs to win their home game on an away field—is the most fun I’ve had with football in ages. Since I sat on my grandpa’s shoulders for my dad’s first playoff game in San Diego fifteen years ago.And all I have of that memory is the box of photos my mom had printed at Walgreens from her phone. This memory, it lives inside my chest. And it stars the boy on the field whose eyes are set on me as Whiskey hoists him in the air and rushes toward the sideline.

“Hey, we should probably scoot,” Lexi says, pulling my attention back to Earth, where my dad’s team is clustered around the main gates as Vista families exit.

“They’re stirring shit up,” I mutter.

“Probably,” Tasha sighs out.

We can’t hear them from this far away, but it’s obvious in their posture and the way they walk closely behind people as they exit, then turn around and laugh. They’re being dicks, because that’s the culture Bryce has instilled in them. And heart tugs or not, my dad has let it fester.

Grandpa would be disappointed.

I hover near the bottom row for a few seconds while the bleachers clear out, hoping to catch Wyatt’s attention, but his coach has called the team into a circle, and everyone has taken a knee. I don’t want to distract him, and he promised to come over after the game, so I catch up to my friends, who are waiting near the concession stand. I make one last attempt to catch Wyatt’s attention, stepping up on the first iron bar along the exit gate, but his back is to me. One of the local news outlets stuck around, too, and my dad is standing with the reporter and a camera guy, probably waiting to capture some disingenuous passing of the torch when he shakes Wyatt’s hand or something.

“We can stay if you want,” Lexi offers, but it’s late, and I’m sure there’s a party brewing in the desert that they want to get to. Even though it wasn’tourgame night, it’s a Friday in the fall. Coolidge Bears will drink and be stupid.

A few of the pickup trucks I recognize as belonging to our guys speed out of the lot, one of them fishtailing in the dirt roadthat heads the opposite direction from town. A part of me wishes the truck would tip over, but I dash that thought because of the bad luck that likely comes with being petty like that.

“Hey, uh, Peyt? We have a problem,” Tasha says while I’m busy clearing my head of being vindictive.

“Yeah, uh? Sorry, what’s wrong?” I ask, my stomach twisting as soon as I see her eyes drawn in and mouth pulled tight. I spin around to where her focus is fixed and suddenly take back all of the mental halts I put into the universe over wishing that truck tipped. I want them all to tip now. One truck in particular—Bryce’s.

“Fuck!” My hands move to my head, fingers threading together on top as I march toward the two completely flat driver’s side tires on my Jeep. Mydad’sJeep.

“Someone slashed them,” Lexi says, kneeling and running her finger along the massive gash on the sidewall of the front tire.

“You all right, Peyton?”

I turn around, all wild-eyed and stressed, to come face-to-face with Wyatt’s mom. Her gaze darts from me to the tire where Lexi is standing, dusting her hands off on her jeans.

“Oh, damn. Do you girls need a ride home? Is there someone you can call?” His mom dives right into solution mode, which is actually really kind, and I would be so grateful if this weren’t such a political nightmare.

“It’s okay. We’ll be fine. I’m sure it was just . . . an accident. Probably ran over something,” I say excitedly, trying to sell it. I sound more manic than anything, and her face puzzles as she gives me a sideways glance.

The clatter of cleats on concrete grows louder and on top of things, the Vista bus parked close enough to me that there’s no way to hide this shit show from Wyatt.

“Peyton, it looks like your car was vandalized. I don’t think a curb caused this,” his mom says, her voice full of suspicion.

“Peyt! What’s wrong?” My dad’s voice pulls me in the other direction, and I spin around to see him marching my way. His strides are long and fast, and there are too many variables in the air to stop the chaotic storm I’m about to find myself in.

“Someone slashed her tires, Mr. Johnson,” Lexi answers for me. Sweet Lexi, it’s probably best the news came from her. I’m somewhere between panicked and pissed. No panic in my dad’s face, though. He’s full-on lit.

“Let me see!” he growls, stepping around me and taking Lexi’s position by the tire.

Wyatt’s mom takes a step or two back, a flash of recognition on her face. I can tell when someone knows who my dad is, and I know she’s a football fan. Plus, Wyatt has mentioned how much his dad liked mine as a player. The way her gaze now shifts between me and my dad pretty much seals it for me—I’m sure she knows exactly who I am now. Just as quickly, though, she seems to put the new information away, insisting she helps.

Wyatt and Whiskey are headed this way, ignoring their coach’s shouts asking where the hell they’re going. The only person missing is Bryce, whose truck I still see, so it’s likely just a matter of time.

“Dammit!” My dad abruptly stands, hands on his hips,` as his furrowed eyes stare lasers into the front busted tire.

“It’s fine, Dad. It’s nothing.” If I could gobble my words before they reached his ears, I would. I’d do it right now. That would be my superpower. But that’s not a real thing, and sometimes I talk before I think. My dad is in my face in about a half second flat, finger pointing at me and face red.

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