Page 9 of Home Game

“Okay, so they moved in. They have an address, then,” my dad says, chewing at the inside of his cheek as he rests his wrists on the top of the steering wheel. It’s pretty much a straight shot the rest of the way home.

“I’m afraid so, Dad. Looks like you’re going to have to actually beat the amazing Wyatt Stone on the field instead of through bylaws and loopholes in the state’s high school athletic association code.”

My tone is a bit snarky, but it’s warranted. My dad has been cooking up ways to not have to deal with Wyatt ever since the new boundaries were drawn. He wore his welcome out with the state office by trying to keep his offense intact. Honestly? I think they might have grandfathered a lot of the guys in on our team if my dad weren’t so damn hot-headed about insisting they do it.

“Oh, trust me, Peyt. We’re ready for him. The passes your boy Bryce was dealing today are hands down the best in the state. Maybe the Southwest region. Kid has a cannon.” My dad beams with pride.

“He’s not my boy, Dad.”

He blows out and flaps his lips, waving his hand.

“Whatever. You know what I mean. I can’t keep up with you guys. One day you want to follow Bryce to college, the next you don’t even want to have dinner with him. So much drama.”

I cringe at thedramaword.

“It’s not drama, Dad. We broke up when he went to camp, and I’m kinda over it all.” I shrug when my dad glances my way.

“Over Bryce? Ha! Nah. I give it two weeks.”

“Gah!” I groan, immediately turning my attention to the view out my passenger window. Resting my elbow on the ledge, I pinch the bridge of my nose and wonder if my dad was this relentless with my mom when they were in high school. I know they broke up a few times. And I know it was basically always my dad’s fault. But my dad? He owned it all. Every fuckup he ever made. And that’s the difference between him and Bryce. My dad grew up. He evolved. Bryce . . . he is stuck in patterns.

Our wheels hit the driveway just as the sun is starting to set. My friends will be here any minute, and I really want to get a shower in before we leave. I grab my gym bag from the Jeep and race into the mudroom where I kick off my shoes and toss my bag on the laundry counter. I’m almost free and clear, stopping to give my mom a kiss on the cheek before mouthing a silent thank you to her, when my dad hits me with one more question.

“So, this Wyatt kid . . .” he starts. My eyes shut and I hold my breath for a beat.

“What about him?” I brace myself for my dad to butcher another thing from my generation. I open my eyes to catch my mom’s puzzled brow. I didn’t mention any of the Wyatt stuff to her because there wasn’t anything to it. Until . . . right . . . now.

“What’s he look like? I mean, in real life.” My eyes scan the expanse of our kitchen as my lips part in search of words.

“I have no idea, Dad. He looks like your basic eighteen-year-old guy who throws a football.” I shift my gaze to my dad’s and hold my open-eyed glare on his.

“Peyt. Throw me a bone. I need every inch I can get this season. Is he big? Is he as tall as they report in the stat book? How does he stack up against Bryce? Come on, kiddo. You know how this works. Give me the rundown.” My dad slides into a stool next to my mom, who is now amused as well as slightly confused.

I take a deep breath and let my shoulders drop on my exhale.

“Fine. He’s tall. Definitely taller than Bryce. Not as bulky. He was in jeans so it’s hard to say for sure, but he seems pretty solid head to toe. His arms looked strong. He has those forearm veins like you. And he held his fork like a caveman when he ate his pancakes. That’s all I’ve got.”

My lips tingle while I maintain my dad’s stare. I win the bluff, though, and am dismissed to rush up the stairs and into the safety of my bathroom. I pull the tie and pins from my hair while my mind mentally flashes through visions of Wyatt Stone standing in this room with me. I focus on my own eyes in my reflection, slowly peeling away pieces of clothing and imagining that it’s Wyatt’s fingertips grazing my bare shoulder instead of my own. And when I finally step under the stream of hot water, I drown myself in all the other features I’ve somehow memorized about Wyatt Stone’s body, his face, his eyes, his hair.

His voice.

I shut my eyes and look up to let the water pound my face. I shouldn’t indulge. And I’m sure I’m remembering him better than he really is. He’s definitely an asshole. But if Wyatt Stone is going to be the star of every single one of my dad’s nightmares this season, what’s wrong with letting him make an appearance or two in my dreams?

Chapter Four

I’m not sure how long I’ve been standing outside the firehouse staring at my dad’s name, but it’s been long enough for the tip of my nose to feel the burn of the bright afternoon sun.

“Wyatt! Hey, good to see you,” the burly man with the full-gray handlebar mustache says to my right. I shake out of my daze and hold out an arm to give Jeff a sideways hug.

“Hey, old man,” I tease as I give him a squeeze. Jeff was my dad’s captain. They’d been riding the same truck for seventeen years and were on track to retire together.

He shifts his gaze to the wall where my dad’s name, Todd Stone, is carved into a thick piece of copper. This firehouse was named after him three months ago. The gesture means a lot, but my heart aches every time I read the epitaph. It’s a somber poem about brotherhood and trust.

“He would have preferred a knock-knock joke,” Jeff says, and my shoulders shake with quiet laughter.

“Maybe I’ll run for mayor one day so I can get it changed,” I say.

“Kid, you get to be mayor, I hope to hell you focus on our pensions rather than dad jokes,” he coughs out.

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