Page 30 of Home Game

Welp. I take an even bigger drink, then rest my beer on my hood and meet her halfway.

“What are you guys doing here, Wyatt?” She punches her hands into the front pocket of her hoodie. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail damn near on the top of her head, a yellow bow wrapped around the base yet a tad off-center. I nudge it toward the middle with my right hand, and she blinks up through thick eyelashes.

“What? Ugh. Just, I forgot about that,” she grumbles, ripping the bow from her head. Her gaze comes back to mine, and I laugh a little at her sudden mini temper tantrum.

“You’re pretty cute sometimes.”

Her mouth snaps shut and her eyes dim. I’ve either stunned her or offended her, both entirely possible.

“You’re avoiding my question.” She stuffs the bow into her hoodie pocket, then crosses her arms over her chest.

I debate whether or not to mention the glitter splashed across her cheeks, but thankfully, Whiskey saves me from myself, slinging his massive arm around Peyton and pulling her into his side.

“Ahh, there’s my favorite cheerleader,” he says, his burly body knocking her ponytail loose. She pulls the hair band out and shoves it into her hoodie along with the bow, her curled locks falling around her face.

“Jack Michael Olsen, what the fuck are you doing out here? You trying to start a fight?” Her hands land on her hips, and her brow lifts with her wide eyes.

Jack Michael Olsen? She’s gone full mom mode.

I chuckle.

“Hush,” she says, waving at me. It only makes me laugh more.

“Oh, come on, Peyt. Most of us grew up together. This is the party spot. Just let it be.” He finishes off what I somehow think is already his second beer and tosses the bottle into a gully behind my truck. I grimace at him and go pick it up.

“Sorry, Wy. I get too comfortable sometimes.”

“More likeallthe time. The amount of recycling I’ve cleared out of this place on fall weekends could fund my future tuition,” Peyton says.

I set Whiskey’s empty bottle in the back of my truck and meet Peyton’s stare.

“Starting my own fund, in case the full ride to Arizona doesn’t pan out,” I say with a shrug. I have a pending half-scholarship with them now, but I’d like to see them cover the whole thing. Which means I need to make sure this season goes one way—perfect.

Unfortunately, fucking Bryce Hampton is striding toward me right now, looking like he has zero interest in how well my season goes. He’s ready to start some shit.

“Now, you see, Whiskey . . .thisis why I thought this was a bad idea.” I nod toward the incoming piece of shit, and they both turn just in time to witness him lunge at me. Bryce’s hands grab either shoulder, and I stumble back a few steps until my back hits the side of my pickup.

“Fuck, that hurt,” I grunt out, shoving back to get the hothead off of me.

“Bryce, what the hell?” Peyton shoves him, and he moves a little from her force. I smirk and wonder if he hates that she’s strong enough to move him.

“You okay?” Peyton asks as she steps between us.

“He’s at the wrong fucking party, that’s what he is!” Bryce says, pointing at me over her shoulder.

I twist my lips and stand up straight. I have him by two inches, and while he might have me by weight, something about being just a little bit taller feels pretty good.

“Man, Bryce. Don’t be like that,” Whiskey says, laying his hand on Bryce’s shoulder.

I wince, mostly because I think I might be able to see the future. Bryce isn’t drunk on alcohol. He’s drunk on ego. And that? It’s far more dangerous and self-destructive.

He swivels his head and drops his gaze to where Whiskey’s hand rests on him. I don’t know about their lives before Vista was built, but knowing the kind of player Whiskey is, I’d venture to guess he and Bryce were friends. Friendly, at the very least.

“Fucking Mustang traitor. Get your hand off me!” Bryce jerks his arm away and takes a step back, giving himself just enough room to lean forward and spit on the ground between him and his old lineman.

“Are you being serious right now?” Whiskey sounds genuinely shocked. I, on the other hand, saw this play out almost verbatim in my head.

Dillon and Tony have made their way over, and we all exchange uneasy glances. Whiskey is too big for any of us to stop. And he’s pretty hyped from the game and the chugging he’s gotten in already. If Bryce decides to provoke him much more, it’s not going to be pretty.

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