Page 80 of Home Game

She slides a palm along his cheek and holds his gaze for a few seconds, seeming to right his mood with just a look. He waits until she heads back upstairs before turning to me.

“You should probably be a part of this. I need someone your age to have their head on straight.”

“I’ll come too,” Peyton says, instantly rushing to the door where her fuzzy boots lay on their sides.

“Peyt, I love that you want to help, honey, but?—”

She drops her shoe back to the floor, seeming to understand her dad’s concern. Her mouth pulls up on one side.

“You got a whole town of adolescent males fighting over you,” I tease, trying to make her feel better. As much as some of Bryce’s beef with me is centered on her, though, she’s not the root of what’s going on. Testosterone is. And ego.

All thanks to a bunch of board members who got together when Vista opened and decided to carve the town’s beloved football team in half.

“I’ll follow you,” I say to her dad. He grabs the notebook, and from a quick glance at it I see what looks to be a phone number. I’m guessing he’s calling the superintendent during his drive.

“Call me when you’re done?” Peyton says, squeezing me tight and kissing my cheek.

“It’s probably going to be well into the morning,” I warn her.

“I don’t care. I’ll be up.”

I nod and agree. She’s probably right. This isn’t the kind of thing you forget about and fall blissfully asleep.

There’s a line of traffic waiting to get into the parking lot when we pull up near the school. I recognize a few of the cars as my teammates’, and I also recognize some of their parents behind the wheels.

One of Reed’s assistant coaches finally gets the gate open, and the vehicles file into the lot. I park a few spots away from Reed and wait in my truck for a moment so it doesn’t look like I’m walking in with him. Given the climate that led to this, the last thing we need is to show up together.

I spot Whiskey after about a minute, so with Reed already heading toward the home stands, I jog over to give my friend some words of my own. I’m not sure how he got here, given his car is probably totaled.

“What the hell, man!”

Whiskey turns around to face me when I shout at him. There’s dried blood on his nose and visible bruising under one eye. I step up so our chests touch and breathe hard through my nose, my molars grinding together.

“I fucked up, man. I know it. I fucked up. I let him get to me, and I just?—”

I push his chest, somehow moving this massive man back a step. He lets me because if he wanted to, he could flatten me on my ass. It’s how I know he’s reached regret.

“Fuck, Whisk,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose and pacing a few steps ahead of him before spinning around again.

“Are you sober?”Please at least be sober.

He nods.

“We started messaging about racing the minute I left the locker room. I never even made it to the party. Nobody did. Shit, Anthony has a truckload of beer ain’t nobody drank.”

I hold his stare for a beat, then urge him to walk with me again.

“Good. No more partying this season. If we still have one,” I mutter, just loud enough to perk his ears.

“Fuck, Wyatt. I’m sorry.”

I nod as we walk and finally utter, “I know.”

Bryce is sitting in the front row when Whiskey and I step up, and I make sure he feels the heat coming off my glare. His hands stuffed in his pockets and hoodie pulled over his head, his lip snarls as he leans forward and spits on the footing in front of him.

“Come on,” I say to Whiskey, nudging him to keep moving with me to the other end.

It takes about ten minutes for everyone to pile onto the bleachers, nearly two teams’ worth of us packed in tight in the cold air. The lights were shut off hours ago, but Reed had his grounds crew guy turn one on. It makes the world seem dim, which is fitting. Because right now? It is.

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