Page 24 of Home Game

He backs away, but his hands grip the window edge. On instinct, I cover his left hand with my palm. His fingers flex under my touch, but I don’t pull away.

“Tell me. What were you going to say?” I’m still hanging on to the other night in the hot tub when he said “depends” when I asked if I could use his new-found nickname—Bub.

His attention remains on our stacked hands. I shift my focus to his mouth. The way he wrestles with his smile is like he’s trying not to let it get out of hand, to betray his thoughts. Maybe I’m projecting, but there’s an electricity between us right now. It practically crackles.

He lets his head fall to one side before his gaze shifts to mine.

“Maybe Sunday you can try writing my name.”

His lips fall into a comfortable smile, and I think he intends to draw out this staring contest until I cave under the pressure of looking him straight in the eyes without speaking a word. I’ll lose, and I know I will. So I’m the first to blink and look away, taking my hand away too.

“Depends,” I say, smirking as I look out toward the purple skyline that’s rapidly transforming into a midnight blue.

Wyatt chuckles as he takes a step back.

“Good enough,” he says. “I’ll follow you.”

My entire body thrums with energy, every word we shared bouncing around my mind like a chemical reaction. Like an explosive bomb. It’s those last three that carry me home, though.

I’ll follow you.

Makes me wonder . . . how far?

Chapter Eight

Idrove by this house with my dad once. It was around the time of Reed Johnson’s last season. I was obsessed with his story, the fact he came from my state, played for the college I want to go to, and held all these records that I had listed as my own personal goals to beat. It has never been a negative feeling. Opposite, in fact. I looked up to the guy. In my youth, I idolized him.

Right now? The mere idea of him scares the shit out of me.

I pull to a stop just behind Peyton, off to the side of a massive driveway where a basketball hoop is lowered to about six feet, probably so someone can dunk.

“You play?” I gesture to the hoop as I get out of my truck.

Peyton glances toward the backboard and puffs out a short laugh.

“I can’t even win HORSE. My dad likes to shoot, though. A lot of the coaches come over to play.” She moves to the back of my truck, but I linger for a moment, picturing the scene of Reed and his staff blowing off steam out here. I miss the way my old coach used to have family events. It wasn’t just the coaches at hishouse; it was all of us. My dad always rolled up with the BBQ. Some firefighter stereotypes are true, and Todd Stone made a mean brisket.

“Can I get a hand with this?” Peyton says, peeking at me from behind the tailgate.

“I figure you can handle it,” I tease, forming a bicep curl to my side. Her head falls toward her shoulder as her lips purse.

“Kidding,” I say, jogging over to hop into the back to move the load close to the edge.

I have to basically plank behind the wood to get it to budge, my feet planted on the back of my truck bed as I push the base of the pallet with my palms.

“All right, who gets a get-out-of-sprints-free card for helping you haul this home?”

I freeze at the sound of Reed’s voice, my face still hidden behind the pile of wood and boxes. I drop my head while my arms flex, part of me hoping that Peyton speaks up and sends her dad away. After a few long, very wordless seconds pass, I know I’m screwed.

“Not one of yours, Coach. And to be honest, I like my sprints,” I grunt out as I pop my head up and meet his eyes.

If humans could shoot fire from their pupils, I think it would have happened just now. Reed’s stare bores into my face, and I think I hear his jaw crack. I’m almost grateful that I’m in this strained position, pushing this massive weight along my truck bed. At least I have something to do.

I give it a good shove as I grit my teeth and growl, my eyes closing with the exertion. My truck dips and I glance up, expecting to see Peyton joining me. Maybe I was simply hoping.

“Scoot,” Reed barks, sweeping his hand toward me. I shift to my right to make room for him, and within seconds, we have everything that needs to be unloaded pushed to the edge.

“I could have done it,” I say between breaths.Why did I utter that? Fuck if I know.I’d give anything to eat those words before they hit Reed’s ears, but since I don’t have superpowers—at least, notthatone—I’m stuck facing the most belittling expression I’ve ever seen an adult make at me.

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