Page 28 of Home Game

“I have my sources.” Bryce shrugs, dropping his hands in his pockets. Good, now he can keep them off me.

“Coach Jacobs,” I guess.

Bryce’s lips purse and his shoulders twitch slightly. I guessed right.

“I borrowed his truck to pick up the lumber.” I simplify the situation a little—okay, a lot—but I really don’t want to get into this with Bryce.

Thankfully, my dad comes out, so Bryce can redirect all of his affection where it belongs. I never really thought Bryce was into me simply to get close to my dad, but I do think he has a lot more respect for my father than he ever did me.

I let Bryce get his fix for a few minutes, then butt my way in so I can congratulate my dad and indulge the speech—the same one I get every time I go out to the desert on Friday nights.

“Seventy was a bit much, don’t you think?” I tease as he hugs me to his side.

“It’s never enough. I told you?—”

“I know, you once came back from a forty-point deficit in a single quarter, so what’s to stop someone else from doing it,” I mimic, doing my best impression of my dad’s glory days voice.

He rolls his head, then pokes my nose with the tip of his finger. I squeeze him tighter and look up with a crooked grin.

“Good win, though. Even if it was a bully move.”

“Ha! Like you wouldn’t keep your foot on the neck of that Tucson cheer team if you had them beat.” He cocks his head a tick, and I roll my eyes.

“Cheer doesn’t quite work that way, but I get your point. You leave it all out on the mat. Well, field in your case.”

“You’re going tonight, right Peyt?” Bryce cuts in.

“I am,” I say, doing my best not to look him in the eyes. I’m sure he wants to peg me for his designated driver, and if the situation demands I do it, I will. But I’m a last resort. Bryce is a lot sober. Drunk? He’s a foolish prick.

“You know the rules,” my dad begins.

I sigh and stare at his chest, zeroing in on the embroidered COACH stitched on the right of his polo shirt.

“Home by two. Text if I’m taking people home and running late. Keep the phone tracker on at all times. And do not accept drinks from anyone that I did not pack myself, especially if it’s from Tasha.” I flit my eyelashes and give him my best daddy’s-girl expression, all doe-eyed and innocent.

“Especially Tasha,” my dad teases, kissing me on top of my head and sending me on my way.

My parents know I drink. I tried the sneaky route my sophomore year, but an entire weekend spent vomiting lord knows what made it tough to disguise. I was grounded for a month after that, but when last year’s season started, my parents set some ground rules. They do not necessarily condone me partying, but they mostly push responsibility. And I never drive under influence or let others when I can help it. I fought hard to move the curfew to two this year, too. The phone tracker was our compromise.

“Hey, Peyt! Wait up,” Bryce hollers from behind me.

I grit my teeth and push my hands in my front hoodie pocket, then turn to walk backward as he catches up.

Just be pleasant, Peyton.

“Home by two, huh? That’s new,” he says. My dad let me stay out until one when I was out with Bryce, and I never told him but I think my father would have given in for a full overnight if Bryce asked.

“Well, I am almost eighteen.”

Bryce stops in his tracks, and I wince as I keep walking. I shouldn’t have brought up my birthday. He never remembered when we were dating, and now he’ll probably try to do something annoyingly romantic in an attempt to win me over.

“Is it really here? Wow. I can’t believe how lucky I’ve been,” he says, walking again, which unfortunately means he’s by my side. Still.Again.

I try so hard not to react.

“You know what I mean? Lucky?” He is not going to let this go.

I stop this time and let out a heavy sigh.

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