Page 82 of Home Game

My gaze lingers on Bryce for a few seconds, but when it’s clear he’s not going to soften in front of others and give in to me, I move back to Whiskey and hold out my hand. He grasps mine as I pull him to stand with me.

“You ready?” My head leans to the right, to empty rows behind me that are about to be pounded with feet for at least an hour.

“Yeah, I’m ready,” he says.

Whiskey and I are the first to take the bleachers a row at a time. It’s a steady pace, nothing fast but not lazy. I wish I were dressed differently, not in the jeans I put on after the game and headed to Peyton’s house. But it is what it is, and if I want to really make a difference tonight, I have to see this through.

By the time Whiskey and I are heading back down the fifty or so rows, more players have joined us. Bryce finally starts his jog after my second full trip. The thunder of shoes stomping up and down is almost deafening. Both Reed and Coach Watts have moved the parents together on the other end to talk through whatever is going to happen next.

I meant what I said. I’m looking forward to next Friday. And I hope like hell we get to have our game. All of this rivalry stuff is pointless anywhere but the field. That’s where I’ll make my statement. Bryce can show up or shut up. But I sure as hell hope he shows. Because if we do it right, this game is going to be one for the ages. The tone-setter for every future town rivalry game to come. We get one shot. And I know how I want Vista to be talked about over ice cream at the kitchen table.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The sun is cresting over the San Tan mountains to the east, the sky that soft shade of purplish pink that announces morning has arrived.

When my dad didn’t come home for several hours, I figured there was a reason Wyatt hadn’t called or texted yet either, so I drove here to wait for him. I spoke to his mom as she rolled in from the night shift about an hour ago and filled her in on most of the drama. Naturally, none of it surprised her. She’s been around the high school football scene long enough to get the politics and the stupid choices often made by players and coaches alike. I think what put her at ease was that her son was the one trying to fix things.

“Just like his dad,” she said before hugging me in the middle of her driveway.

She invited me inside, but I said I wanted to wait here. I need to see his truck head toward me; to get the first glimpse that whatever needed to happen last night is done.

I’ve been waiting for hours, and his mom has been sleeping inside, catching up before another night shift. I couldn’t help butrecall the word her son used to describe her when we first met—resilient.

Wyatt’s headlights finally appear just as the pink in the sky is getting brighter. I step out of my Jeep and wait for him in his driveway, and when he parks and practically tumbles out of his truck, I wrap my arms around him and hold up his weight.

“Rough night?” I ask, a whisper of a laugh at his ear.

His chin tucks into my neck as he nods and chuckles softly.

“Yeah, but it was necessary,” he hums.

I rub my palms up his back, his shirt damp and cold from sweat.

“Let’s get you inside.”

We walk toward his house, my arm around his back, his over my shoulder, keeping me close. He punches in a code on the garage to open the door and we slip inside quietly, shutting it behind us.

“I saw your mom. We talked,” I tell him. He nods, his gaze flitting to mine as we quietly make our way down the hall toward his room.

“Was she angry?” he asks once inside his room.

I shake my head and lean against the door jamb as he pushes his shoes off with his toes.

“Not even close.” He lifts his head to meet my eyes, his brow drawn in a hint with perhaps concern or confusion.

I step toward him and help lift his shirt up over his head. My fingertips paint down the center of his chest and I press my palm over his heart.

“She was proud of you,” I say, moving my hand back up to his jawline. “She said your dad would be, too.”

His slow blink is followed by a soft sniffle before he runs the butt of his palm under his eyes.

“Thank you for talking to her,” he utters.

I nod, reaching up to smooth back his wild hair.

“You need a shower,” I say with a smirk.

He drops his chin and squints his eyes closed as he smiles.

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