Page 19 of Home Game

“Whisk, I’m not so sure about your vocabulary skills, man. Becausethis? It’s fucking spying,” I growl at him.

He bobs his head side-to-side, still wordless, then nods toward the edge, urging me to look.

I glance to Jody, who is making what I imagine is the sameWTFface I am. My glare shifts back to Whiskey, lips pursed, and eyes narrowed as I shake my head. I give in anyway and move to the edge, lifting myself enough to peer down at the football field from across the tennis courts. It’s basically a sea of bodies, everyone moving non-stop in matching compression pants, shirts, workout shorts, and shoes. It’s like the world’s biggest Cross Fit studio, from the timed sprints up the bleacher steps to the clapping pushups on the track to the sand pit with massive tractor tires being flipped by one lineman at a time.

“What is this?” Jody asks as he finally slides up next to me.

“Second practice,” Whiskey explains.

I sit back on my heels, feeling the soreness in my lower calves. My eyes shift to him, and he shrugs.

“Second. Practice? As in, they had a first practice?”

“Now who’s the one with the vocabulary problem?” Whiskey responds.

“They do this for season prep?” I move back to my space and look over the massive team. We took half of them, and there are still so many.

“They do this every day. And on Saturdays. Coach Baker started it around the time Coach Johnson was a senior, and well . . .”

“Coach Johnson kept it up,” I mutter.

No wonder Whiskey’s in such good shape for a big guy. Until three months ago, he was following this regimen. Shit, he’s probably backslid under our current plan. And here I thought it was tough having the occasional two-a-day at my old school.

“We should be doing this,” I say, expecting resistance from my teammates. But instead I get twoyeahs.

“You think we can get some tires like that?” I ask and Jody nods toward the sand pit with a quiet laugh.

“Don’t see why not. They came from my uncle.”

I scan the grounds, looking for my rival, and find him doing footwork through an obstacle course in the far end zone. As amazing as this facility is, with its huge stands and all-weather track painted in the school’s blue and gold, it’s the simple stuff happening on the field that will make the difference. It’s the respect the guys have for the program—the way they’re all bought in. I catch sight of the large figure pacing around the middle of the field, checking in with every platoon and assistant coach, pulling individual players aside.

“Reed looks like he could step right in behind the Arizona O-line and take snaps tomorrow,” I admit.

“Ha, yeah. Probably,” Whiskey says.

The longer we sit up on that roof, the more resolved I am that starting tomorrow, we’re going to be doing double practices, too. And when Coach Watts takes us to four hours, we’ll be putting in the extra one all on our own. I think I can get Jody and Whiskey on board, and if the three of us set the tone, it will make it part of the culture.

The blast of music from the speaker anchored closest to us hits me like paddles to the chest, and I fall back on my ass along with Jody. Whiskey, however, finally gets closer to the edge.

“Now, this is what we should be spying on,” he says.

I roll my eyes but find myself moving back into position just as the cheer team finishes a tumbling pass across the track. They’re dressed in blue leggings and yellow sports bras, matching shoes for practice, and their matching bags all hung on the fence. But there is one that stands out.

Peyton’s stronger than the others. Her jumps are twice as high, her extensions perfectly straight. I don’t know much about dancing and stunting or whatever this is, but I can tell that forPeyton, this work is serious. She leads, nodding to teammates when they form bases and throw other girls in the air. Peyton isn’t the one who flies, but she sure lifts. And dances. Her body moves like a serpent at times, hips undulating as her palms trace her own curves. They’re getting to do everything I’ve been dreaming of since the night we met.

“This music sucks,” Jody says, though he sure doesn’t seem ready to stop watching.

“It’s the worst,” I add on. After a few seconds, he and Whiskey laugh. We’re all so painfully basic and predictable.

I have a feeling I’m the only one zeroed in on the dirty blonde in the center. I better be. Especially as she drops down on her hands and knees to toss her hair around like some hypnotic weapon. I could literally stand here all day and never get bored. I’d need my own ear pods because this music is truly terrible, but I could handle it. Security detail for Peyton Johnson has a nice ring to it.

I snap out of my own fantasy when I realize the music has stopped, and Peyton’s gaze is fixed right on mine. I drop down behind the wall and bury my head under my hands.

“Oh, fuck!”

Whiskey and Jody follow me.

“What? Coach Johnson see us?” Whiskey sounds panicked. I knew this was a bad idea.

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