Page 21 of Home Game

“I only brought the Jeep, Cliff. Should I have asked for Dad’s truck?”

“Oh, no. This stuff isn’t yours. Jeep should be fine for the bonfire kit and what your grandpa added on.” He climbs a ladder while he’s speaking and I move to hold it, not really liking the idea of him scaling this rickety thing back here unobserved.

“Is the kit up there?” I ask.

“No, no. Just getting the last of the clearance down. Bunch of leftover stuff from the years.” He snags a long, skinny box and balances it on his shoulder as he moves down. The box begins to teeter before he reaches the ground, so I abandon my ladder post and grab it before it crashes to the floor.

“What is all this?” I say, peeling the already disintegrating box top open. I recognize the yellow posts just as the acrid scent of old plastic tinges my nose. I back up a step and wave it away.

“Yeah, got to let this breathe before that kid comes to pick this stuff up.”

That kid?

Oh. Oh no, this is not happening to me again.

I swallow hard.

“You donating this stuff to Vista or something?” His back is to me, so he can’t see the way my eyes flutter with hopeless hope.

He lets out a heavy sigh, hands on his hips as he stares down at the pathetic pep rally leftovers he’s culled together.

“Yeah, I mean. I can’t really give them the shaft and refuse to do business. That’s not the kids’ fault they live in the wrong end zone.” He snickers at his joke and I put a smile on my face.

“Right,right.” I step forward again and slide the stacked boxes apart so I can look inside the other two. I recognize two small cans of paint that were our returns at the end of last season. The wrong color. Of course, they aren’t really the Vista colors either.

“And they want this stuff?” I set the orange paint can back in the first box and peek inside the third. It’s mostly plastic sheets, a few rolls of butcher paper, and two wheels. I lift one and Cliff shrugs, taking it from my hand.

“Kid I talked to said he knows a guy who can make them a gear cart or something. He came by the other day to scope out my stuff, and I pulled together what I could. I guess they don’t have a budget for much yet, and you know the district doesn’t give any of you all shit.”

I nod in agreement about the district, but my cheeks feel heavy with guilt because I know there is a massive order somewhere around here that didn’t cost our booster club a penny. My family paid the bill.

“You got room for the wood tonight? Or you sending one of the guys over tomorrow morning?” Cliff asks over his shoulder as he heads through the stock room door.

“You talking to her or me?” Wyatt’s voice startles me, even though I knew in my gut this order is for him. He’s “the kid.” Some kid. He looks like he’s ready for the NFL draft today.

“Oh, hey! You’re here too. Perfect. I got those donations boxed up for ya. If you hold on, I can help you carry it out. And if you’ve got room for your wood order, we can load that up, too.” Cliff scratches his head, glancing from us to the back room.

“I got it. I’ve done my share of stock inventory,” Wyatt says through a crooked smile. His gaze slips to me for a second, and I suck in my lips, my cheeks suddenly warm.

“How ’bout you, Peyt? Take the wood too?” Cliff asks.

“Oh, uh.Hmm.” I mentally run through the square footage in the Jeep, and even with the back seat pushed down, I don’t think I can haul our lumber for the fire. My dad usually picks it up in the truck anyhow.

“I can take it for you if you want. I’ve got my pickup,” Wyatt says as he hoists the three boxes of random hardware and junk into his arms.

“Sure would like to sleep in tomorrow instead of meeting your dad at my back door, Peyt. You sure don’t mind?” Cliff’s gaze passes over me and goes right to Wyatt. Not that I have the guts to say no, but it would be nice to have the chance. Perhaps he simply saved me the embarrassment of more stammering.

“Nah, I got it. I’ll pull around and make life easy for both of us. I can load your order, too, if you have something.” Wyatt’s back is to me as he strides through the center aisle of the store with his boxes.

I look back to Cliff, who simply shrugs, then disappears through the back door to gather my s’mores roasting sticks,metal mini-bonfire tubs, fuel, torches, and the large vinyl banner sheets I added to the order on a whim.

Wyatt doesn’t even have the right color paint.

Overcome with awkward nervous energy, I scurry down the same aisle as Wyatt and jog to the Jeep, which is parked right next to his pickup. He’s feeling for his tailgate latch with his left hand as I step up, so I unlatch it for him.

“Thanks,” he huffs out, dropping the boxes into the bed of his truck. He pushes them back then jumps into the back himself, his movement smooth and easy, as if the weight of his body on his bicep is nothing. I maintain focus on the spot where his muscle fills the sleeve of his black T-shirt. He squats to shove the boxes against the back of the cab, and my gaze shifts to his ass.Could I be any more predictable?

“Hey, I didn’t mean to butt in or whatever. If it’s weird, me helping you out, I get it. I was really just trying to make it easy on the manager guy.” He shoots me a glance over his shoulder, and I’m pretty sure he catches me staring. I suck in my bottom lip, and Wyatt lets out a deep chuckle. He doesn’t say anything about my gawking, thank God, and I back up a few steps to make room for him to jump down.

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