Page 43 of Home Game

“Impossible,” I finish for him, remembering the first time I was old enough to realize my dad was really hurt on the field.

“Yeah, definitely that. And then we were moving because it was expensive to stay where we were, and I don’t think my mom wanted to wake up in the same house every day and remember.”

“I get it,” I say.

“Me, too,” he adds with a long exhale. “That was home, though. My dad taught me to throw in the park across the street from our house. He coached my teams there. We held team BBQs in our backyard because he was theman with the grill. And, I don’t know, we drove down here, and my mom handed over a cashier’s check for a deposit on our new place and I . . . just . . . lost it. I drove out here while my mom walked through design choices and picked a lot, and I found this empty, sad plot of land that looked the way I felt inside. And I just screamed.”

My gaze drifts to the nothingness, and I try to remember how this place looks in the daylight. We haven’t been to the fairgrounds near the driving range in years. It’s not an easy place for my family to come without people recognizing my mom. My dad wouldn’t be able to make it through the gates without being swarmed. But I remember this driving range. I remember how the grass went from green to brown in the summer. I can visualize the torn-up netting that no longer keeps a ball fromflying through without turning to dust on impact. The shreds of turf where golfers once made divots now grown over with weeds.

“It’s a good place to scream,” I say.

I slip down from the tailgate and take a few steps toward the broken concrete where the parking lot dissolves into dirt. Cupping my hands around my mouth, I yell so loudly that my throat burns. I think about summers wasted waiting on some boy to come back home and decide to pick up where we left off. I think about how much my dad thinks they’re alike when they’re nothing alike at all. I picture the smug look on Bryce’s face when I overheard him today bragging about knocking Wyatt out. I hate that I didn’t march into the middle of his clique and set the record straight. Tell them all he didn’t knock anyone out, and that the guy he hit is twice the quarterback he is.

My voice curdles as the air runs out from my lungs, and I’m dizzy by the time I spin around to face Wyatt.

“Wow, that was some good?—”

“Rage?” I finish.

He leans back on his palms and lets his legs swing off the tailgate as his head falls to the side.

“Yeah. That was some well-earned rage. How do you feel?”

I draw in a deep breath, my lungs filling a little more than normal. I smirk.

“I feel amazing.”

Chapter Fourteen

If I’ve learned one thing about towns like this, it’s that secrets have a way of spreading like wildfire.

Fire.

Ironic that’s the thought I have given that just about everyone at Vista High knows about the CHS burnt into our end zone. I didn’t say a word to anyone, and it was only me and Coach out there to discover it. He made it pretty clear to me, as did the police officer, that this was getting deemed an accident. Rivalries like ours tend to get amped up when talk about retribution gets involved. I know Peyton didn’t say anything on her end either. Keeping her mouth shut was actually her mom’s idea, so I’m sure things are buttoned up in their house as well.

Her mom agreed that giving this more attention will only add fuel. Petrol in the form of a two-hundred-twenty-pound former NFL quarterback who doesn’t put up with bullshit in his hometown. Or with his team. And as much as I want Bryce to get his due, I want to be the one to give it to him—on the field.

Someone talked, though. Just enough. And the conversation is still going on in hushed tones across the bus aisle as we head home from our big win tonight against Marcos.

“What do you think? Coach said he just saw a fire, but someone posted this photo,” Whiskey says, leaning over the back of his seat and showing me his phone screen.

I take his phone in my hand and zoom in to get a better look. Someone was watching Coach and me that night. Luckily, I’m out of view. I must have been dialing nine-one-one at the time because otherwise, I would have been right behind him. Regardless, it’s pretty clear in this shot that the burn was in the form of Coolidge High’s initials. I’m not sure how Coach scalped it clean after the fire department put it out. I’m sure he got help from a few of the firefighters. Hell, maybe even the cop.

I hand Whiskey back his phone.

“I don’t know, man. People can do a lot with Photoshop, and you know how AI is now.” I swallow down the lie.

“Yeah, I guess. But there’s a lot of talk. And it wouldn’t shock me after the way Bryce acted at the desert party. Speaking of, you up for a little repeat tonight?” Whiskey arches a brow.

My chest puffs with a short laugh.

“Uh, no. I was pretty sure it was a bad ideabeforeI got punched in the face, and now that my stitch is out, I’m certain of it. You shouldn’t provoke them.” I lower my gaze and hold his stare to make my point clear.

“Ehh, I think that was a one-time thing. He was jealous and shit, you know, because of you and?—”

“And nobody,” I fill in for him. My eyes flit to the seats around us and Whiskey covers his mouth. Somehow his goofy smile still sticks out the sides.

“Dude, I didn’t know it was a big secret.”

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