Page 39 of Home Game

The letters CHS are charred clearly in our end zone. My mind instantly flashes back to last Friday. To Whiskey telling me it wouldn’t be a big deal. The uneasy feeling I had going in for theparty. The stitch in my lip. My bruised upper gums that makes it feel a lot like my teeth are falling out.

“I don’t suppose that fat lip of yours has anything to do with this?” He starts pacing with his hands threaded over his head. Sirens blare in the distance.

“I wish I could say no, but I have no fucking idea, Coach.”

His gaze snaps to mine, and as hard as he normally is to read, I can tell right now he’s lit as hell.

“I’m not instigating anything. I swear.” I hold up my hand in pledge and shake my head, my body thrumming with a jolt of adrenaline.

“Go get the emergency gate,” he barks, tossing his keys to me.

I clutch them in the air and jog to the access road to undo the padlock and open the gate wide. Coach’s wife shows up with their two boys, who look to be about six and eight, just as the firefighters finish off the last bit of flames. I toss a ball with them on the track to keep them away from danger as the crew works.

“You must be Wyatt,” his wife says as she approaches. I direct her oldest boy to run deep and toss the ball to him.

“I am. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Watts,” I say, taking her hand.

“You can call me Jamie.”

I nod, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do that. My dad taught me to always respect coaches and their families. Jamie feels much too casual.

Coach walks over with one of the police officers who showed up at the scene. My stomach drops in anticipation of his questioning, but it seems he’s got things pretty sorted without me having to give a statement.

“Hey, Wyatt. Officer Caldwell,” he says, shaking my hand and pressing his card into my palm. I scan it, then slip it into my pocket. “We anticipated some of this might happen. Coolidge High has been all alone out here for years. And I’m sure you’ve learned that people in this town take their football prettyseriously. It’s some pretty extensive damage, I’m afraid. But the district has a policy for this stuff. No one will want to throw the other guys under the bus, given that half of the administration graduated with Coach Johnson over there. So I’d expect things to get swept under the rug pretty quick.”

I’m baffled how nonchalant he’s being. I’m also kind of pissed at the clout Coach Johnson apparently has. Mostly, I’m mad that he made me feel like an idiot yesterday in front of his daughter and now he’s screwing up my practice.

“I should take off. My mom probably heard about a fire and I don’t want her to worry,” I say, using my mom as an excuse.

“Yeah, sorry, Wyatt. We’ll figure this out in a few days and start working something out. Me and you, okay?” Coach holds out a fist and I tap it, relieved that he doesn’t seem to be blaming me. Of course, if he knew I was driving straight to the Johnson house to lay into our rival coach, he probably wouldn’t be so calm.

I give knuckles to his two boys and thank his wife for being nice enough to bring us dinner. She insists I take my order with me, so I plop the container on top of my truck’s cupholder before speeding off to the Johnson Ranch.

The driveway is filled with cars when I pull up, so I leave mine near the roadway. I’m still fuming enough to power my march up to the house, but when I realize Reed’s truck isn’t among the vehicles puzzled together on their property, my nerve wanes.

“Wyatt?” Peyton’s voice behind me pretty much zaps whatever courage is left.

Caught at her front door with her walking up the path behind me, essentially blocking me in, I spin around and force what I hope is a casual smile on my face. I must be failing in my effort, though, because she’s setting down the gallon-sized containers of fruit punch she was hauling in either hand and is movingcloser to me with a serious look of concern weighing down her cheeks.

“You smell like a BBQ,” she says, moving in to me. Her arms swing around me without warning, and suddenly we’re hugging.

None of this is happening the way it should with her.

“We had a fire,” I blurt out.

“Oh, my God!” She takes a step back to look me in the eyes. “Is your mom okay? Did it burn your house down? Where?”

“Oh, shit. I meant at the school. Well, the field. The end zone, to be precise.”

Her arms slowly cross over her chest. She’s wearing a white T-shirt with bear paw prints and her short black cheer shorts. As my head clears and I begin to recognize the squeals coming from inside, I realize why the driveway is so full.

“Cheer meeting?” I point my thumb over my shoulder.

Peyton nods, but her eyes are still dim, and her mouth is a taut line.

“The guys burnt letters on the field, didn’t they?”

I laugh out once, and hard, but quickly control my expression. I’m shocked at how exact her guess is.

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