Page 3 of Home Game

“Fuck, seriously?” he mutters, his voice low but loud enough that I catch his words. My mind swirls a million miles per second trying to make sense of them.

“Hey, you are here!” Bryce steps behind the counter with open arms that I fall into—mostly out of habit, partly out of panic.

“You’re home early,” I say, inching my palms between us so I can push against his chest enough to break our hold.

“I am,” he says, leaning his head to the side, his green eyes all sorts of suspicious. He’s so used to me just falling back into our routine. Maybe I’m used to it, too. I scratch nervously at the back of my neck as Bryce pivots his gaze toward my new friend.

“Oh, shit! What are the odds?” Bryce crosses his arms over his chest and takes a half step back, his eyelids heavy and his stare sharp and full of contempt.

I glance at the new guy as he chuckles under his breath for a second before stuffing one last bite in his mouth. Leaning to one side, he pulls his wallet from his pocket and fishes out a twenty that he drops on the counter.

“Peyton,” he says with a nod as he gets to his feet. I don’t even know his name, so all I can do is suck in my lips and lift my brow.I’m pretty sure I don’t want the two of them filling me in on how they know each other. The vibe is chilly enough as it is.

“Good call on the plain ones. Delicious,” he says as his eyes meet mine. He makes the chef’s kiss gesture then shifts his focus to Bryce. And for the first time since he walked in, his smile drops completely.

I busy myself clearing his plate as he leaves the restaurant.

“You friends with that guy? Or are you?—”

I sense that possessive, jealous tone and decide to nip it right out of the gate.

“Stop it, Bryce. He just came in for the first time tonight. He read my name badge. I have no idea who the hell he is.” I glance to my left while I wipe down the counter space he just vacated and manage to catch him stepping into an older blue pickup.

“Peyt, that’s Wyatt Stone,” he laughs, his tone incredulous.How could I not know all the important quarterbacks in the state by face?

“Really?” I look back to the window just as the pickup’s headlights flicker on and blind my view.

“Uh, yeah. Really,” Bryce says, sliding up to sit on the counter. I roll my eyes at him, and he gets down. The managers hate it when he does that. I hate it when he does that.

“Huh, well, he was nice.” I give Bryce a shrug as I carry the bin of dirty dishes into the back. I feel the heat of his stare on my back, but thankfully, he doesn’t follow me. Neil has moved to the chair by the office and is busy on his phone,thank God.

I might not have recognized his face, but yeah . . . Wyatt Stone. I know the name. It’s been plastered on my dad’s scouting board in his office at school for the last two years. And when he got word that Wyatt’s family was moving to Vista High’s boundaries last spring, my dad started uttering his name a lot more—at the dinner table, during family vacations, in the car everywhere we went.

So that’s Wyatt Stone. The guy getting half of my dad’s starting offense thanks to strict district boundaries and a statewide crackdown on illegal recruiting.

Bryce has helped himself to a Coke by the time I return to the counter area, and he’s sitting on Wyatt’s stool.

“You off soon?” he asks before sipping a drink through his paper straw. It makes a slurping sound that sends unpleasant shivers up my spine.

“Thirty minutes. Why?”

I could probably talk Neil into leaving early, but I’m not interested in spending time with Bryce right now.

“Ah, too bad. I’m heading to the springs. Thought maybe you’d like to come with.” He inches his head to one side in invitation. This move usually works. Normally, I’d be waiting for it. Maybe I’ve grown up.

“Yeah, I wish I could. But I open tomorrow too. So . . .” I lift a palm and shrug, then let my hand drop back to my side.

Bryce lets out a sharp but quiet laugh.

“Okay, then. Well, I guess I’ll see you . . . I don’t know. Later?” He eyes me as he pulls the straw from his glass, drops it on the counter I just cleaned, then takes a huge gulp of soda before leaving the half-filled glass for me to clear.

“Yeah. I’ll see you later,” I say, fighting against two years of bad habits and nodding with a smile instead of leaning over the counter to kiss him. He looks . . . shocked. And that makes me feel almost as good as I did when Wyatt winked at me.

Chapter Two

The soothing rumble of my father’s old seventy-four Camaro tickles my ears. I smile at the bucket full of suds and wring out the hand towel before lifting my head in time to see my mom scratch the undercarriage on the massive dip in the driveway to the Quick Mart.

I wince.

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