Page 31 of Home Game

“Yeah, I’m serious. We aren’t on the same team anymore, bro. And this place? It’s ours. It’s been that way for years. Go find your own fucking traditions. And find your own fucking girls, too, while you’re at it.”

Oh, now, that shit? That was for me.

I’m about to step up and do something stupid when Bryce shoves past Whiskey, ramming into his side with a stiff elbow, and everything turns to slow-motion. The chest of my new, ginormous, soft-hearted friend fills up and his face reddens with white-hot rage, and Whiskey grabs the entire sleeve of Bryce’s T-shirt. The seam tears at the neck as Whiskey’s jerk spins Bryce around, and about half a second before anyone’s fists are thrown, I get the brilliant idea to thrust myself into the middle—just in time to take Bryce’s knuckles to my upper lip. I instantly taste blood.

“Bryce!” Peyton screams, pulling what’s left of her ex-boyfriend’s T-shirt away from me.

My head flung to the side, my hat who the fuck knows where, I touch two fingers to the numb section of my mouth, then stare at the blood on my hand. I’ve been hit before. I’ve busted my lip plenty of times. Usually, I’m braced for the blow. Still, it couldhurt worse. It could hurta lotworse. And that thought makes me laugh.

“Wyatt, let me see,” Peyton says, cupping my face in her cool hands. She cradles my chin and nudges my head back so she can get a good look. And while she’s inspecting me, my gaze drifts to Hampton, who looks jealous as fuck, his eyes slitted and his lip curled in a snarl.

I grin at him, my teeth likely stained with blood.

“What’s so funny, dickhead?”

I laugh again, and Peyton’s hands slip away.

“Maybe your girl wouldn’t be looking at guys like me if you knew how to throw the ball.” I let my gory, toothy grin linger on him as his jaw tightens under the heat of my stare. Before he can lunge at me again, Whiskey wraps his arm around him and drags him about a dozen feet back. My laughter picks up. Bryce Hampton and I have been competing for records and rankings for years, but since we were at the same quarterback camp this summer, he’s risen to the number one spot on my list of least favorite people. Not only because of the way he collected girls all summer long like they were trading cards, but because of his complete inability to consider anyone but himself. Bad plays weren’t his fault. Great plays were thanks to him. And the lies that fell off his lips—especially the ones he told about his ex-girlfriend back home—let me know all I needed to about the kind of man he’s on track to be.

My eyes flutter, my focus a bit out of whack, but eventually my gaze returns to Peyton. Judging by the way her mouth is weighed down at the corners and her eyes have hazed, she’s not as amused by my comeback as I was. I swallow my remaining laughter.

“Sorry,” I utter.

She nods, only once.

“Yeah, well. You probably need stitches. You should go get some of those.” Peyton’s glare sticks to me for a full second, but nothing more. She’s gone, and I’m being helped into the passenger side of my pickup by Tony, who I gladly hand my keys to.

Whiskey opts to stay at the party, and I tell Dillon to stay behind and keep an eye on him. I don’t want him taking up a vengeance against his old quarterback on behalf of his new one. I don’t need him taking things too far and turning this into something that gets back to the district.

“Hey, just so we’re clear. I dropped a wrench on my face,” I say, my head resting on the seat as I try to hold my eyes open and keep my gaze on Tony.

He nods.

“You should maybe make sure Whiskey and Dillon know that,” he says, flickering my lights to get people to clear out of the way. Seems my little altercation with Bryce drew quite the crowd. There are a lot of blue and gold shirts out here tonight. I knew this wasn’t a party for us.

“I’m not worried about it getting back to Coach. My mom, however? She’s going to flip her lid.”

“It’s pretty bad,” Tony says. He glances at my busted face, then back to the dirt road that winds through overgrown brush.

“Feels like it,” I admit.

I sit up tall and flip down the passenger visor to check things out for myself in the mirror. The dome light in my cab is dim, but I can clearly see the split. I might get away with a single stitch if I’m lucky.

It takes us about an hour to weave our way back to the highway and through the west side of town to the urgent care. I call my mom when we’re five minutes out, and she meets us there. As I predicted, she immediately jumps to the worst possible conclusion, and even though Tony does a good jobselling my story, I don’t think she’s buying it. Probably because as little as I drank, my shirt still smells like beer. And this isn’t the first time I’ve been punched in the face at a party.

Luckily, I get fixed up with one stitch and some really good glue. Not that I’ll grow much of a mustache now; it’ll probably have a small bald spot for the next several years. I tell Tony to keep the truck for the night and pick me up tomorrow for film review. The ride home with my mom is deathly silent. I know it’s because she’s worried. It’s me and her now, and I went and got knocked around.

“You should see the other guy,” I finally utter, unable to take the tension any longer.

She sighs and leans her elbow on the window.

“Fighting? Wyatt, that’s not like you.” Her brow is drawn in so tight I can see the wrinkle on her forehead in the dark.

“I’ve been in fights before.”

“You were twelve. And you had a bully! Not the same as—” She whirls her finger in my direction.

“I didn’t really fight, if that makes you feel better. I sort of got in the way of one, for the good of the team.”

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