Page 74 of Home Game

“I could probably tell you every play you’re going to try against us in two weeks. And how fast your forty is. The launch angle of your throw, and which side is your weakest per quarter.” He squints when he’s done, and I get the distinct impression that this man keeps a database in his head.

“Yeah, that’s . . . flattering?”

We both laugh softly.

“I mean more of my story. Like, how I got here, why football, all that?”

His mouth tightens, and he crosses his arms while leaning back, seeming to ready himself for it. I’m sure he knows my dad died. Those stories were in the regional papers, and if he kept tabs on my stats, surely he made a note of my dad.

“My dad died of cancer in January,” I begin, waiting while he shifts his weight and drops his gaze. I’ve gotten good at this part.What a terrible thing to be good at.

“I’m sorry,” he utters.

“Thank you, yeah. It was . . . itispretty shitty.” I shrug, no other way to put it. “My dad taught me everything. I mean, yeah, I’ve had coaches refine things here and there, and I put in a ton of work with strength and conditioning, but the foundation? That’s all him. I get up at five every morning to run. I eat so much protein I actually don’t like steak anymore. I study film on my own and try to mimic the greats. I watch you.”

He leans back and lifts his brows, and I can tell he thinks I’m just kissing ass, so I solidify it for him.

“No, I’m serious. You can tell me all those things about me, but I can probably do the same with you. I know every game. Every playoff comeback. The passes that missed and sent you throwing your helmet at the bench?”

His head tilts a notch.

“I know those too. And I read your thoughts on what you think went wrong. Mr. Johnson, you were literally my idol. My dad had your jersey. Hell, I bet my mom kept it. When she realizes I’m dating your daughter, puts it all together, she’s going to flip her lid. And my mom, Mr. Johnson? She’s one cool character. She can handle a lot. Nothing rattles her. Life has tried its damnedest.

“But our lives somehow weaving into yours? You’re the guy my dad respected most in this game. The coach he always wanted me to play against just so he could show me off. The guy whose record my dad and I talked about beating, even weeks before he died. I’m sorry if I struggle to call you Reed.

“But also, you need to know that I had no idea who your daughter was when I met her. And she pretty much had me from the first breath she took in my presence.”

“You know, for a minute there, I thought you were going to quote that Tom Cruise movie,” he says, holding a serious face for about a second before laughing and flattening a palm on the countertop between us.

“I’m not that cheesy,” I reply.

“Nah, you are. You’re that cheesy, Wyatt,” he says, and I sink into my stool a little. “But you’re also that good. And I don’t just mean at the game, which you are really fucking good at.”

“Thank you,” I croak, my heart beating so fast from hearing such a massive compliment I feel like I might throw up.

“But you’re better at being a man. That’s where you excel. That’s the stuff that’s going to get you through this season, through some really hard years ahead. Your character is exactly why I’m actually relieved you’re the one my daughter seems to have fallen for. Just don’t fuck it up.”

He slides his palm an inch or two toward me and holds my stare for a beat before nodding as if the silent contract is done. He pats the granite surface twice, then stands from his seat, taking the container of cookies, slipping out the half he left behind before putting the lid on and placing it back in the corner by the fridge.

“Good night, Wyatt,” he says, turning the soft light off from under the upper cabinets. “And by the way, your bed? It’s down that hall, through the double doors. The sofa in the den pulls out. You’ll be way more comfortable there. And I’ll be waymore comfortable with . . . this.” He circles his finger in the air between me and the couch where his daughter is fast asleep.

“Understood,” I say. And just to prove to him that I can, I add, “Good night, Reed,” before he heads up the stairs.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Since I missed school Monday for my suspension, and we had gym time all week to practice for our next competition, Coach decided to push our team meeting for the fall fundraiser to today. She says she wanted my input and ideas, but I think she wanted to orchestrate this moment, where we are all forced to sit on the gym floor in a circle and stare at one another.

Thursdays are now my least favorite day of the week. At least,thisThursday is.

I’ve been able to skip over all the awkwardness and confrontation thanks to getting right to work every time I stepped foot in this gym. But now, I’m sitting directly across from Stephanie, our circle seemingly divided into two sides. The younger members are all around her, while the seniors and a few of the juniors are near me. I’m tempted to say something about being divided by maturity, but that really wouldn’t be very mature of me.

“Okay, ladies . . . and Jordan. I mentioned this in my text to you all, but it looks like our usual candy products are off the table this year. A Vista club already contracted with the vendor, so weare going to have to come up with a new idea, preferably one as profitable since those sales have easily pulled in a few thousand for us in the past. Anyone want to go first?”

Coach scans the circle, her gaze pausing on me for a few seconds before moving on to Tasha, then Lexi.

“I know this isn’t really the topic we’re on, Coach, but now that we aren’t selling the candy, can’t Peyton take over on the float again?” Lexi suggests.

My chest tightens, and my stomach feels like it’s full of rocks.

---