Page 26 of Home Game

“I can’t either,” she finally says.

My lips pucker into an awkward smile, and I bite the inside of my cheek. This time, I definitely feel the sting. I rock back on my feet, hands still tucked in my pockets, and I chuckle at the ground. My shirt sticks to my back, my body still hot from hauling wood around. The moon is cresting over the pitch of her family’s rooftop. It’s the most Halloween-looking thing, and to be honest, it fits the mood. The landscape lights flick on along her driveway, lighting my path out of this place like a sign from God. Or maybe a signal from her father, who likely sped up the timer or triggered them from whatever window he’s spying from.

“Don’t forget your sparklers,” I say, giving in to my urge to give up for the night.

I hop behind the wheel of my pickup and shut the door, leaning my elbow on the open window and adjusting my side mirror. My truck is old, and every trip I take in it rattles things out of whack. I catch a glimpse of Peyton in the mirror as she walks to the Jeep. It’s still halfway caked with mud, and I feel a little guilty about leaving it that way. Not that she or her dad can’t run a hose over the thing

“Stupid,” I mutter to myself, running my palm over my face and through my hair. I give my scalp a good scratch, then crank my engine. With a little luck, maybe I’ll manage to fall asleep at a decent hour. Between the pre-game jitters and, well, whatever the hell I’m doing here, I have a feeling racing thoughts are in store for me until at least one a.m.

Shifting into reverse, I pull back and to the side so I can flip around and head down the world’s longest driveway and toward the town’s darkest road. I zip past Peyton and the Jeep, but after a few yards, I’m hit with rapid flashes from her high beams in my rearview mirror. I slow to a stop, and I’m not sure if it’smy truck’s crappy alternator or my nerves vibrating my body. Peyton leaves the headlights on so I shade my eyes and search for her in my side mirror, finally seeing her jogging toward me. She stops just short of my window, panting a little.

“Here,” she says, handing me a single sparkler. I take it from her, and it seems we’re both careful not to let our fingers touch on the exchange.

“Uh, thanks,” I say, holding the thin firework upright in front of me. I admire its length for a few seconds while I rack my brain for what the hell to say next. I shift my gaze to Peyton in time to catch her taking a half-step back as she pushes her hands into her front hoodie pocket. She looks nervous, and it’s not a look I’ve seen on her yet. Not to this extent anyhow. My mouth twitches to curl on the right the longer I look at her.

“I don’tnotlike you, Wyatt Stone.”

Yeah, it’s a full grin now.

I nod slowly, then shift to rest the sparkler in the cupholder on my console. By the time I look back, Peyton’s walking away. I let myself watch her form blend into the beams of light for a few seconds, then pull away. Stopping at the end of her driveway, I pull my phone from my pocket and open the follow request she hasn’t yet rescinded on my social media. I click accept, then immediately message her.

ME:Happy early birthday, Peyton.

I hit send and wait for a few hopeful seconds. I set my phone in the other cupholder and check the pitch-black roadway in both directions for any sign of eighteen-wheelers taking shortcuts to Phoenix. My phone vibrates before I turn right, so I lift it just enough to read her response.

PEYTON:Good luck tomorrow.

I stare at those three words for a few long seconds, and eventually, my smirk reappears in full force. She likes me just a little.

Chapter Nine

The season always starts with a blowout. It’s purposeful, the game schedule choreographed to up the challenge for the Coolidge Bears a little week by week. Game one? The blowout for confidence.

Poor Mountain Sky High. They shouldn’t even be in our division.

The clock is under a minute, and Bryce just ran in a touchdown to up our score to an even seventy.

Seventy.

At what point does this become obnoxious? My gut says anything after forty.

“I’m really getting tired of the leg kicks,” Tasha complains as she puts her arm over my shoulder so we can kick along with the fight song, this time seven more times than the last.

“We definitely get to skip leg day,” I laugh at her side.

Our kicks last through two and a half rounds of the band playing the fight song, and the clock hits zero somewhere around kick fifty. The stands have cleared, and the players have allpooled in the end zone for the game wrap-up with the coaching staff.

“The dance was good,” Lexi says, joining Tasha and me as we pack the poms into the gear bag for Coach.

I shrug. I hate the dances. They aren’t challenging, and nobody really watches them besides the booster parents. And there’s always a whistle from some creepy guy. There were only two of those tonight—whistles, not creepy guys. At least, I think the whistles came from the same man.

“I can’t wait for real practice tomorrow,” I groan.

“Ugh, that makes one of us. Practice is throwing a major wet blanket over the party tonight. How am I supposed to get tanked and show up at seven the next morning to do roundoffs?” Tasha zips the gear bag and slings it over her shoulder.

“Maybe, and hear me out, but perhaps you take it easy tonight?” I plan on being the designated driver. I had my fill of getting shit-faced last year. It’s how I ended up getting back together with Bryce after the first game. Beer makes me flirtatious, and Bryce is a bad habit.

“Fuck that. I’m getting lit,” Tasha says as she marches across the track and through the gate.

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