Page 85 of Home Game

Somehow, before I see it, I know. The way my mom always knew when my dad was flat on his back on the field, even when she refused to watch the TV.

Wyatt is surrounded by the training staff, his coach, my dad, and several players. I drop my poms to the ground and sprint from the bench onto the field, pushing through the line of our players who have all taken a knee. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my head as I race toward my dad, Wyatt’s mom rushing in from the other side.

“Give him room, guys, give him room,” our trainer says. When Wyatt sits up on his own, my body deflates of all strength and energy like a power surge that leaves me utterly deflated. My legs grow numb so I sink down and sit back on my heels while my arms wrap around my stomach.

“Peyt. You have to get out of here.” A voice breaks into the steel dome that’s shrouded my head.

“Peyt, come on,” the voice says, a little clear now.

I shake my head and look up as Tasha tugs under my arms. I glance back to Wyatt, his gaze fuzzy but on my face. His helmet is off and his coach is kneeling next to him, speaking at his side. Wyatt nods as his gaze seems to come even more into focus on me. And then his lip pulls up on one side, and that asshole actually winks.

“Damn you, Wyatt Stone,” I mutter, my voice only loud enough that Tasha can hear me. I jog back to our side with her, my cheeks now burning with embarrassment. I can’t believe I reacted that way. I’ve watched Bryce get knocked out cold before, and I stood on the sideline holding hands with my teammates the entire time. Was I worried then? I pretended to be, I suppose. I certainly told myself I was. But I never felt anything like that. The fear. The rush of adrenaline.

The love.

I take some ribbing from a few of the players as we pass through our sideline. I purposely avoid eye contact with Bryce. But I do glance into the stands to the spot where my mom usually sits with my sister. Grandpa gets to sit on the field behind the end zone, but Ellie is too adventurous. She’s apt to race out onto the field in the middle of a play just to get to her daddy. Or to get the ball. She’s destined for women’s rugby, I swear.

My brow lifts high when my eyes meet my mom’s, and she rests her hand on her chest, patting it a few times as her way of telling me to relax. I nod and turn my attention to my squad, but the last five minutes have changed me. I watched my mom worry, and I always knew it was hard. I worried, too. My dad getting hurt was scary. But nothing has ever hit me quite like seeing Wyatt not look invincible. Scary as it feels, I never want to miss watching him on the field. Because if there ever comes a day—a play—when he doesn’t sit up on his own, I want to bethere to help him. Whether I’m supposed to run out on the damn field or not.

Halftime and the second half seem to fly by. Or perhaps I’ve become a zombie. I know I’ve cheered. My shoulders still hurt from the spot where Lexy climbed to a stand on them. And my throat is hoarse from screaming for the last hour. Still, I would swear that Wyatt was on his back only a second ago.

The game ends with a Coolidge win, twenty to seventeen, thanks to one hell of a field goal from our kicker. Vista scored two touchdowns, both taken in by Wyatt, which means he’s now erased another of my father’s records. That feat won’t be celebrated out loud on this field, but my dad knew it was coming. And Grandpa made sure to lay in extra ice cream for a celebration later tonight. As proud as Grandpa Buck is of my dad, I think he also enjoys ribbing him about getting old.

Knowing my dad will be in his office for the next hour or two rehashing every play—each weakness and opportunity missed—with his staff, I send him a text to let him know we’ll save him some ice cream, then wander to the opposite end of the parking lot where the Vista players are slowly making their way to their bus from the away locker room.

“Hey, doc!” Whiskey says as he walks across the small grass hill and onto the pavement, coming toward me.

“Nice game, Jack Olsen,” I say, rubbing in his real name because I can. “Why am I doc?”

He swallows me in a sweaty hug and laughs.

“I figured you were one now, or an EMT or something. You know, the way you sprinted out there to give Wyatt mouth-to-mouth.”

I shove him in the center of his chest and he laughs out the last few words.

“Really, though. It was sweet. You two are sweet. I like him for you.”

“Thanks,” I say through a crooked grin, my eyes dimmed a hint. “Not that I need your stamp of approval, but I’ll take it.”

“Hey, if you see Bryce, tell him I said he played a good game. I’d like us to be okay. Not friends or nothin’. Probably never friends. But okay. You know. Civil and shit,” Whiskey says.

I nod, but we both know I probably won’t be talking to Bryce anytime soon if I can help it.

“I’m gone for like five minutes, and look at that, Mr. Smooth Moves tries to horn in on my girl,” Wyatt’s voice utters behind me.

I flip around and land with my hands on his chest. He clutches them around the wrists and looks at Whiskey over my shoulder.

“Just keeping her warm for you, son,” Whiskey says.

“Eww! He was not,” I say, shooting a scowl at him over my shoulder.

Whiskey chuckles as he leaves us alone and climbs onto the bus. I step up on Wyatt’s feet and let him walk me backward a few steps away from the bus entrance, though to not nearly as private a place as I’d like.

“You know, I’m going to get the wind knocked out of me sometimes,” he says, his annoying smirk also adorable. The damn dimple helps.

“I know,” I say, dropping my forehead into his chest. He wraps his arms around my head and kisses the top of it.

“It’s okay. It was sweet.”

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