Page 35 of Home Game

“Well?” I say to Wyatt. He sets his forkful of gooey pancake on his plate and slides off his stool, pushing his plate and glass of orange juice over two spaces to the open seat next to me.

“What’s with the banged-up face?” My dad taps his finger to his upper lip.

“Game injury. It’s not that bad,” Wyatt lies. My stomach tightens because I don’t want him to have to lie about what happened, but I also don’t think it’s the right time to get into a debate about what a dick Bryce is.

“Looks like you got yourself a stitch or two. That’s more than a scratch,” my dad needles. He takes a loud sip of his coffee, slurping, and eyes me.

“Watched your film yesterday, by the way,” Wyatt says, and I zip my gaze to him.

“We’re engaging in this?” I say.

Wyatt shrugs.

“He started it,” he defends.

I take a deep breath and snag a straw from the container in front of me. I peel the wrapper off and poke the straw into my water glass merely as a distraction.

“You learn anything from it?” My dad chuckles, turning his body to the side completely. At this point, I should trade him seats and let the two of them spar without having to endure being in the middle.

“Nothing new,” Wyatt quips. I give him side eyes and he smirks through his bite.

My dad grumbles, but thankfully, Maggie shows up with our plates, and for the next few minutes we’re all able to lose ourselves in good food.

I may not be getting my one-on-one time with my dad, but it’s hard to argue that this breakfast hasn’t been a standout.

“I was going to stop by today to give you your present,” Wyatt says. His plate is now cleared but I’m only halfway through my meal. My barely existent appetite vanishes with his words.

“So, he got you a present?” My dad doesn’t bother to look our direction this time, instead opting to talk while chewing, eyes set on the small TV set above the kitchen window. It’s Sunday morning news, and I know my dad—he’s waiting to see them replay highlights from Friday night.

“I heard about the sparklers the other night when I brought over your bonfire wood,” Wyatt notes.

“Yeah, nobody asked you to do that,” my dad says, not even masking his dislike.

Wyatt slides from his stool and whispers, “Sorry,” at my side. He pulls cash out to cover his bill and tip, then steps around me to hold out his hand for my dad.

“Sorry to interrupt your breakfast, sir,” he says. My dad lets his palm linger for a few seconds, but before I have to intervene, he wipes off his palm with a napkin and shakes Wyatt’s hand.

“Good luck with that record,” my dad says, one side of his mouth flashing a very short-lived grin.

“Which one?” Wyatt says as their hands part.

I let my eyes flutter shut. Here my dad always thought Bryce was his mini-me. Their gazes wrestle for a few awkward seconds.

“You got her present with you now?” my dad asks.

My stomach grows so tight I think my pancakes might come back up. I push my plate away.

“Oh, it’s nothing that can’t wait.” Wyatt drops his hands in the pockets of his Vista football shorts. He probably spent the morning lifting or getting in some cardio.

“Well, if it’s nothing, why not give it to her now? Save yourself a trip to my house.” My dad pulls a piece of bacon from his plate and snaps off a bite.

“It can wait, Dad,” I urge, no longer amused by this pissing match—if I ever was.

“Well, you’ve got a pretty busy day. And you know Grandpa doesn’t like to share his time, and if the kid says he’s got it with him now . . .” My dad is in rare protective father form. And he’s digging deep to pull out his old self—his 18-year-old self—whose ego can’t stand that someone he didn’t have a hand in helping might just beat his record. Correction—records.

“It’s not really much. It can wait until whenever, really,” Wyatt says, clearly squirming where he stands.

“Well, then, it won’t take long.” My dad pops the rest of his bacon in his mouth, the crunch of his chew somehow loud even when his mouth is closed.

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