Page 29 of Home Game

“No, Bryce. How are you lucky on my birthday?” To be honest, making my birthday about him tracks.

The way he saunters up to me makes my pulse pick up, but not in the good butterflies way it used to. And when his fingertips reach for my chin, a move that used to work so well on me, I stiffen my jaw. He must feel my rejection because he drops his hand almost immediately.

“Because I got to see you grow up,” he says, his tone actually apologetic. And now I feel like an asshole.

“Oh, that’s . . . that’s sweet.”

“Happy birthday, Peyton.” His gaze lingers on my face, and that familiar tug beats in my chest for a moment.

Our vehicles are parked on opposite ends of the lot, so he walks backward a few steps before turning his back to me. I let out a ragged breath, one riddled with nerves, and clamp my molars together to remind myself that this is all part of the routine. I really want off this ride.

I gave Lexi my keys, so she and Tasha are sitting on top of the seat backs in the Jeep, their arms waving in the open air as my stereo thumps Tasha’s latest favorite rap song. I vaguely know the lyrics, but it seems Lexi and Tasha know them all because I’m serenaded as I close in on them. In unison, they stand and belt the chorus.

“Girl’s a playa, never date her, all the boys, they gotta taste her!”

I slump into the driver’s seat and crane my neck to stare at them.

“Is that supposed to be about me?” I grimace.

“We’re just sayin’ . . . you seem to have the two hottest guys in Coolidge fighting over you. So the song kind of fits, no?” Tasha’s right shoulder scrunches up to her ear.

“Nobody is fighting over me,” I huff, spinning around and turning the music down but not off.

“Not yet,” Lexi says through one of her signature self-righteous giggles.

I breathe in and hold the oxygen in my chest until it burns, letting it out slowly through my nose. It’s going to be a really long night as the designated driver if it’s anything like this.

Thankfully, we switch topics to the college guy Lexi’s been chatting with. By the time I weave through the edge of town and into the thick desert brush that leads to the dry riverbed where post-game parties have been going down since my grandpa was QB, I feel grounded again. I back into my usual spot, tucked between two boulders, and we all hop out. Lexi and Tasha blow me kisses on their way to the keg, and I flip them off with both hands.

“Not our fault you have a super functional family who wants to celebrate your birthday!” Tasha teases.

I let out a mocking laugh, but smile to myself as I turn back toward the Jeep. Last year, I probably would have thrown a fit about not being able to drink after the first home game. But this year, it hits different. If I end up going far away for school next year, I’m going to miss my super-functional family activities. And those moments with my grandpa are becoming fewer and fewer.

Since nobody seems to have music going, I take on the task and slip between the boulder and my driver’s side door to reach through the open window to press the power button. I pull myphone out of my pocket and sync it with my system, then crank up the volume. The first song is a bit country, which always seems to bring out the amped-up testosterone leftover from the game. But when I hear a familiar voice call outyeehawfrom somewhere near the bonfire, I flip on my high beams to see if my gut is right.

Whiskey Olsen is here. This song? It’s his favorite. And these parties? They’re what he lives for. Except now he’s wearing rival colors. And damn if he didn’t show up here tonight with a few of his new friends, including one who is leaning against the hood of his blue pickup truck with a beer dangling from his right hand. And his eyes are set right on me.

Chapter Ten

This is a bad idea.

I should have listened to my gut.

“We’ll be fine. They’re still my boys, at least until the last game of the season, when we crush them.” Whiskey hands me a beer that he snagged from one oftheircoolers.

I don’t think I need to be drinking tonight, but Whisk has been hyping the post-game desert party all week. He and the other guys who came over from the old school see things differently. Maybe that’s what it’s like growing up in a small town with only one football team. There’s no concept of territory, of bragging rights. At my old school, it was a big deal if we got midnight pancakes at the wrong Denny’s.

“We’ll see. I’m gonna hang back a while,” I say, taking a sip of my beer and getting comfortable against the hood of my truck. I should also stay close to our exit route out of here.

It doesn’t take long for the dry river basin to fill with trucks and cars, and the bonfire in the makeshift campsite pit is roaring pretty good. It’s hot as shit out here, so why there’s a fire beatsme. Another part of the Coolidge tradition, I suppose. Might be time to start some Vista traditions.

Whiskey blends easily, slapping hands and hugging his old teammates. A few of our guys do the same, but not all of them. Tony and Dillon, who both caught passes from me in the end zone tonight, are hanging back too. I nod at them across the swath of desert between us, and Tony raises his beer. Dillon’s hands are empty, and I can’t help but suspect he’s staying ready for anything . . . just like I am.

The air breaks with electric guitar, and the song Whiskey was playing in the locker room after our win blares in the desert. Ten seconds in and he’s yelping like he’s some cowboy. I chuckle and indulge in another sip, turning my attention to the source of my favorite lineman’s favorite song. My gaze lands on Peyton about a half second before she lights me up with the Jeep’s high beams.

“Shit,” I mumble to myself, half because the bright lights have seared my pupils and half because that ominous feeling in my gut just doubled down.

My tongue passes over my dry bottom lip, and I lift my beer in her direction to acknowledge her. She should keep her distance tonight. I should. But she’s just flipped the Jeep lights off, and I’m pretty sure that’s her body I see walking toward me. I’d know for sure if I could fucking see.

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