Page 1 of Home Game

Chapter One

It’s pretty much dead inside Jack’s tonight. There’s the old couple—the Denizens—in the corner booth, and two guys at the end of the counter who just got off from their shift at the prison. And me—the only seventeen-year-old in this town who isn’t celebrating the last week of summer—because her mom insists she works a summer job.

“It builds character.” She used those exact words. I think they were plucked straight from a parenting book Grammy gave her.

Know what builds character? Being the daughter of a retired NFL quarterback who found his second calling as the new head coach—at my high school. I’m filled to the brim with character. I ooze it. And it’s not that I’m against working. I don’t take our fortune for granted one bit. I lived through the sacrifices that came with it, like all the times my mom’s stoic features cracked into painful shards when my dad was flattened on his back and taken off the field on a cart.

I know more about brain scans than a normal teenager should. I get the risks that come along with competitive sports. I have nightmares about them thanks to the loss of my uncle Trig,whose brain was so badly injured from his years on the gridiron that it started to lie to him.

As hokey as the sentiment sounds, I believe working as a server at Jack’s Pancake House does teach me valuable lessons. I just didn’t want to have to learn them this summer—this week, at the very least.

My phone buzzes by the register with more notifications. I shouldn’t look, but the pull to see what everyone else is doing while I’m here is too strong. Social media is the devil, luring people in and twisting their minds with its bag of negative tricks. I wonder how I’ll feel when I look this time—jealous or excluded? Perhaps both.

It’s a short video of Lexi and Tasha jumping from some jagged rocks into the pooled water at the springs. My mom would hate it. It looks so fun, though. It’s still light out in the video, so they’re probably catching up on their posts now at the campsite. Half of our senior class is there, baking in the desert sun all day then cooling off in the clear water of the springs. It’s a two-hour drive from Jack’s. If I left right now, I could maybe make it there in time to join the party before everyone passes out for the night.

Of course, I won’t. Because I have to open tomorrow. At least the breakfast shift earns great tips.

I turn my screen off and flip my phone over, avoiding the other posts begging to taunt me. The softdingsounds over my shoulder, alerting me of a new customer walking through the main door. My hand automatically grabs a couple of menus from underneath the counter as I turn around. The first thing I’m struck by are his dark blue eyes. Not far behind is the chin-length wavy brown hair that he’s running his hand through before placing the gray ball cap back on his head. He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt and fitted jeans. He's alone, and he’s . . . young. As in not a prison worker in his forties or a senior citizentaking advantage of the specials. He’s my age, I’m guessing, and I don’t recognize him.

His gaze latches on to mine as he approaches and takes the stool directly across the counter from me. I hand him two menus, my brain not quite catching up.

“Welcome to Jack’s,” I say, my pulse racing more than it should. I’m acting like I’ve never seen a cute boy before. In my life. Let alone the fact I’m sort of dating a very cute boy right now. Kind of. We might be on a break. Or maybe we’re done this time. I don’t know what our status is exactly, but I do know that Bryce does not have hair like this guy. And he’s shorter. And he’s leaving next year. Not that this guy is staying. Or even part of the picture.

Stop it, Peyton!

“Are these . . . different?” He’s holding both menus side-by-side, his eyes scanning to compare them. I snag one and return it to the stack behind me.

“No, sorry about that. I’m used to people coming in here in pairs. Would you like some coffee?” I turn over the mug that’s placed on the napkin in front of him and reach toward the coffee pot. He stares at the mug and scrunches one side of his face.

“You don’t have to say yes, you know.”

His features relax, and he lets out a short, breathy laugh.

“Yeah, sorry. No, I hate coffee. I’ll take a water.” His gaze hits mine again, and it feels like a punch in the heart. There’s something familiar in his eyes, though I’m certain we don’t know each other.

I fill a glass with ice water and set it in place of the coffee mug, then toss a straw down next to it.

“I have to warn you, it’s a paper straw. You have about two minutes to drink before it turns into a spitball.”

He chuckles and flicks the wrapped straw toward me before picking up the glass and drinking.

“Need a minute with the menu?” I glance from the stranger toward the kitchen window. It’s empty and quiet. Neil, the evening cook, is probably sitting in the back placing online bets on sports. Neil’s home for the summer from college and his family owns this place. He’s been working at Jack’s since it opened my freshman year of high school.

“What’s good here . . . Peyton?” I snap back to face my new friend, catching him sitting up high and leaning over the counter to get a clear view of my name badge. I smirk, the pull of flirting hard to resist.

“You like pancakes?” I lean on my elbow on the counter and lift a brow. “It’s kind of our thing. I’m not big on fruit, but people say the pineapple ones are really good.”

He sucks in his bottom lip, still somehow smiling through it. Not a big smile, though. More of a private one. Like he has a secret.I’m in trouble.

His eyes flit up from the menu to meet mine from under his dark lashes.

“What doyoulike?”

I swallow slowly and tuck the inside of my cheek between my teeth for a beat.I can do this.

“I’m kind of old school. I like the plain ones with maple syrup and a ton of butter.”

He nods and pushes the menu toward me.

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