Page 11 of Home Game

I step out of my truck and swipe my card at the pump while a group of girls break into laughter on the other side, just out of my view. I smirk to myself and try to listen in on their conversation.

“So, you two are really done now? You aren’t going to do that thing where you pretend to ignore each other for the first week of school, then the next thing we know, you’re making out at the bonfire?” The girl’s question lingers for a second without an answer.

“You roll your eyes now, but that’s been the story of you two for the past three years,” the girl adds.

I lean against my truck bed and push the nozzle into the tank, my curiosity growing.

“Why are you so interested, Lexi? Is it becauseyouwant to take your shot with him?” another female voice says.

“Uh, no! I think I had enough of the Bryce Hampton soap opera living vicariously through our friend,” the original girl says. My ears prick.

No fucking way.

“More like nightmare,” the second girl says, and they all laugh.

My gut says that third person, the one yet to speak but whose white skirt I can see blowing in the wind through the small space between the gas pump and the advertisement for $8.99 12-packs of shitty beer, is Peyton.

My eyes scan for a better view, but without fully moving to the back of my truck, I don’t have a clear shot. I spot a squeegee and water bucket a few steps away, so I snag them and make my way to the front of my truck. The view from here isn’t much better, but as I run the wiper across my windshield, the other side of the pump clicks, and the girl in the skirt slides off the back of the car and skips toward the vehicle’s gas tank. I abandon my window, leaving it streaked with soapy water, and toss the bucket to the side as I rush to my side of the pump. Our eyes meet instantly, about a half second before the water bucket I threw rolls around a concrete pillar and splashes dirty water onto Peyton’s white shoes.

“Seriously?” she bites out as her gaze drops to her feet.

I put the nozzle away and peek around the pump, my chest tight with guilt and maybe a touch of panic. I’m outnumbered here—I clearly didn’t think through the one of me and three Team-Peytons.

“Yeah. Sorry about that,” I say, letting my brow sink as my hands drop into my pockets.

“I literally just bought these,” she says, lifting her right foot and pulling the now muddied shoe from her foot. Her ankle is wrapped in a thin pink string, one of those friendship bracelet things, I’m sure. She rips her no-show sock off too, and tosses it in the direction of the trash can. I stop myself before making a joke about littering, instead stepping over the gas hose still linking their car with the pump, and picking up her discarded sock. It’s sopping wet.

Shit.

I throw it in the trash and turn around in time to catch her cursing under her breath as she pulls her left shoe from her foot. I catch the second sock—which she threw at me—against my chest.

“That’s fair,” I say with a chuckle.

“Uh, you think?” Peyton’s gaze snaps to mine with her words, a bit of fire in her eyes.

My low, nervous laugh lingers as my gaze drifts to her friends, who are both obviously holding back laughter as one covers her mouth with a closed fist and the other hides behind the thirty-two-ounce soft drink clutched in both hands.

“Peyton, who’s your friend?” the one behind the giant cup says. The girl’s eyes dim, her lashes heavy and unusually long, and I feel a little bit like prey under her scrutiny.

“He’s nobody. Literally,” Peyton throws back.

“Wow.” My eyes widen with shock. I wasn’t expecting her to be that blunt, and mean. I guess I started this. And it’s not exactlyherfault that her school’s football team is bathed in gold.

Determined not to let her get at me, I move to the open driver’s door, where the first girl I heard is leaning with her elbows resting on the opening. I hold out my hand, and she slides her palm against mine as she blows a bubble. It snaps, and I’m hit with a watermelon scent.

“I’m Wyatt. Nice to meet you,” I say.

“Tasha,” she says with a quick nod toward her friend.

I glance across the roof of the car where the long-lashed huntress still has me in her sights.

“Lexi. Single,” she says, and even reading her signals, I’m still surprised by her boldness.

“You can do better than this guy, Lex. What he’s not telling you is his last name,” Peyton pipes in. I drop Tasha’s hand and sink my hands back into my pockets as I face my new nemesis.

“This is Wyatt Stone. He’s the quarterback at Vista,” Peyton reveals.

“Damn! Wyatt Stone, you are fine!” Tasha says, dropping her chin to her throat as she peers through her lashes, which are not quite as long as Lexi’s but are dusted with gold.

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