Page 22 of Home Game

“My dad usually picks the lumber up in the truck, or he has one of the guys?—”

“Like Hampton?”

My head snaps up, and Wyatt bites the tip of his tongue. His mouth forms a faint, bashful smile.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t say things like that. Your relationship with him is your business,” he says, taking a step toward me.

The ground crunches under the weight of his sneakers. I shove my hands into the front pocket of my hoodie but stand my ground, my legs peppering with goose bumps from the slight breeze, or perhaps it’s the company. I’m in my shortest workoutshorts, and with the length of my hoodie, it probably looks as if I’m not wearing shorts at all.

“Bryce and I don’t have a relationship. I told you. We have a past.”

I hold his gaze as he moves another step in my direction. He stops when we’re maybe a foot apart and reaches forward with his right hand, tugging my hoodie string.

“You did say that.” His voice is soft, low. Pretty fucking sexy. He grabs the other string and twists both around his fingers, gently pulling me toward him. I give in—mostly because I want to—and have to look straight up at him as he towers over me.

“So, what do you say, Miss Johnson. Can I carry your wood for you?” His smirk is so intentional. I’m hit with a minty scent from his gum, and he snaps it against his molars behind his smile.

“Sure, Wyatt. You can carry my wood.” I back away and fish my keys from my pocket as I amble toward the Jeep. “But you’re going to have to meet my dad, just so you know. Because he’s at the house—with theentirecoaching staff.”

His Adam’s apple shifts in his throat.

“That’s not a problem,” he says, his voice cracking just a little—a tiny betrayal that pleases me.

“Meet you ’round back.” I turn my back to him and round the Jeep to the driver’s side. We both rev our engines. Wyatt follows me around the storefront to the back loading dock, where Cliff has already switched on the flickering bulb he has dangling above the garage-style door. It’s finally getting dark.

“I’ve got a pretty good dolly if you think that will help, but I’m afraid you’re gonna have to handle most of the lifting. I’m not the young lad I used to be,” Cliff says through a laugh.

“I think Peyton and I can handle it,” Wyatt says, glancing my way.

My eyes widen at first, but then I size up the lumber bundles and do some quick mental math. I’m actually flattered he considers me an equal in strength.

“Yeah, we got it,” I say, pushing my sleeves up over my elbows and moving to the opposite side of the first pallet.

“Well, wait a second. Let me at least get you gloves,” Cliff says. I don’t fight him on the offer because the pallet is pretty rough, and the bundles of lumber are rather jagged.

Cliff comes back with gloves in a flash, and I slip them on before squatting to lift my half in sync with Wyatt. It’s a little heavier than I expected it would be, but I maintain my composure. It helps that Wyatt doesn’t ask me anything while we carry the wood from the storage space to the back of his truck. I move in next to him, our biceps touching as we both shove the wood deeper into the truck bed.

“Pretty impressive,” he acknowledges while I clap the sawdust from my gloves.

“Well, you did scout me at practice the other day, so you must have some idea what I am capable of,” I tease. His gaze snaps to mine, and his cheeks dimple with his tight smile. I think he’s embarrassed.

“I knew you saw me.” He shrugs, trying to play it off, but the fact he trips over his own feet as we make our way to the second pallet gives me a nice little ego boost.

“Yeah, I saw you guys. You know, my dad would lose his mind if he knew you were up there spying,” I say, lining up to lift with him. We both squat and get our grip.

“We weren’t spying. Whiskey just wanted to show me why he was in such good shape. I gotta admit, your dad’s conditioning routine is pretty impressive.” He grunts as we lift, and I focus on the way his jaw works as he strains. He’s on the heavy end, and this time he is definitely doing the bulk of the lifting.

Once I get my edge on the tailgate, I let him take over. Taking a few steps, I marvel at the way he easily climbs into the truck bed again, then pushes the massive pallets together and off the tailgate enough to close it.

“You know, losing Whiskey was really hard on the team,” I say. What I mean is my dad. Something about that guy had him burrowed into my dad’s heart.

“I bet,” Wyatt says. I wait for him to lay on another comeback, something like, “He’s with a better team now.” But that part never comes.

“Don’t forget these,” Cliff says, jogging out to where Wyatt and I linger between his truck and my Jeep.

He hands me a plastic bag that’s wrapped around a flat stack of boxes. I give him a sideways look.

“Am I smuggling cigars to my grandfather again?” I begin to unravel the plastic but maintain a slight scolding expression as I stare at Cliff. He drops his hands into the pockets of his saggy jeans.

---