Page 20 of Home Game

“No, but Peyton did,” I admit.

“Oh, ha. She won’t care. I mean, she might about you, though, since she hates you after the car wash thing.” I scowl at him, but he laughs right through my hard stare. He’s the reason I’m here in the first place. And he’s sort of the reason I snapped at her at the car wash.

“Let’s go,” Jody says, crawling his way back to the ladder.

Whiskey follows.

But before I join them, I take one more peek over the concrete. Her hands are linked and resting on her head as she walks slowly in my direction. She’s not making it obvious, not rushing over here, or calling us out. But she sees me. And she wants me to know it. If I had any doubt of that, she erases that with a simple smirk and a nod. And a goddamn wink.

Chapter Seven

Thursday night before the first home game is always a big deal in this house. Even when my dad was playing professionally and not home for it, he always called in for the early September Thursday night “meeting of the genius minds” to talk to Grandpa and a few of the other old-timers who eat, live, and breathe Coolidge football. Now that my dad is actually the coach, though? Those whiteboards and game charts that my grandpa kept around to throw in his two cents—that never went beyond this house—have been elevated to actual foundations for the season.

My mom brings a fresh batch of bacon rolls into the family room and swaps out the new pan for the now-empty one on the coffee table.

“Nolan, you’re an angel,” Coach Jacobs says, kissing my mom on the cheek. My dad eyes him with that jealous look, and he holds up his hands as he backs away.

“Just appreciating a good woman,” he defends. My dad grumbles.

“Mmm, yes. I am. And Saturday morning, I expect I’ll see you all back here to help me clean up the mess,” my mom jokes. Well . . . half-jokes. I think she’d revel in the help. She refuses to hire party planners and help for anything other than the charity. She may love the horse rescue and rehab ranch, along with the neurodivergent therapy program she’s built more than my father. It’s at least a close second.

“You don’t want help tomorrow?” The new special teams coach, Cory Lumis, grabs one of the cocktail napkins from the top of the stack, then glances around a room of suddenly stunned faces.

Everyone exchanges glances while poor Cory stands in the middle of our house with his piping hot bacon roll perched on his napkin-covered fingertips. He spins slowly, his brow arched, probably desperate for someone to clue him in. My grandpa is the first to break the quiet with his signature laughter. He even pulled his oxygen from his nose to really belt it out in all its gravelly glory.

“It’s okay, honey. You’re new and still sweet. Don’t let these guys ruin that about you, but you are going to be pretty busy tomorrow. You know. Friday and all?” My mom pats Cory on the shoulder, then gives it a quick squeeze as she moves to leave the room.

“Dumb-ass!” My dad tosses a pen at Cory from across the room.

“Hey, don’t get mad at him for showing you up and being a gentleman,” Grandpa piles on.

“Pfffft, whatever. I’m a gentleman,” my dad defends, catching my mom by the waist before she scurries out of the room. He pulls her onto his lap and tips her back before basically lip-tattooing her in front of us.

“Gross,” I protest, slapping my laptop shut and packing up my homework from the dining table.

“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t love how romantic your parents are,” my dad teases. My mom giggles as she pushes up from his lap, taking care to wipe the hint of red lipstick she left behind on his mouth.

I glare at my dad but stop short of rolling my eyes because he’s kind of right. I do love how much my parents love each other. But I also remember how hard the last few years of his career were. There were nights when my mom cried because she was tired of being alone. Others when she dreaded the next week’s game, praying that my dad made it through without getting knocked out of the game. So, while the romantic gestures are kind of sweet, the heartache along the way makes me wonder if that kind of life is worth it.

“I need to get supplies for the bonfire. I’m taking the Jeep,” I announce. My mom has my baby sister on her hip, and Ellie tries to hand me a half-eaten chicken nugget. It’s wet, probably from her mouth.

“Oh thanks, El, but I’m full,” I say, rubbing my tummy. She persists though, and the threat of crying breaks my resolve. I take the nugget and pretend to eat it—and love it—then promptly duck into the kitchen where I can throw it away.

“Drive carefully,” my mom warns over her shoulder. Our eyes meet, and I cross my heart to let her know I heard. My mom doesn’t love me driving through the desert while the sun is setting. It gets the darkest of darks on the roads to our house, and my parents survived a pretty nasty accident with a distracted driver when they were my age. While I think my mom’s worries are overboard, I also respect the reality they’re based on.

I grip the keys and snag my CHS hoodie from the counter on my way out the door. It’s still a hundred degrees out, but I’m manifesting fall weather. And something about wearing an oversized hoodie makes me feel safe.

The sun is positioned between the jagged tops of the western mountains as I open up the Jeep on the back roads into town. Our city is growing. It’s not quite a suburb of Phoenix yet, but the edges are definitely meeting. Still, our main downtown feels special. And our hardware store is still run by one of my grandpa’s oldest friends, Cliff Norman, and his wife, Bitsy. I pull into the space right in front of the entrance, the giant windows already painted for the season’s home openers. There may be a new school in town, but it’s clear where Cliff’s allegiance lies amid all this blue and gold.

The bell dings as I push through the door, and Bitsy pops her head up from behind the register.

“Ah, she’s here, Cliff!” she shouts toward the back of the store.

“He’s expecting me?” I draw in a full breath. Cliff’s a talker, so I may be here a while.

“Your grandpa called in a special order. It’s a big season, you know.” She winks, and my head falls back with a sharp laugh.

“Oh, I know, Bits. Believe me, there’s no escaping it for me!” I head toward the back of the store and find Cliff pulling together a few massive boxes of lord knows what.

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