Page 45 of Home Game

ME:Whiskey plans to show up again. FYI

PEYTON:Really?

ME:He insists it’s no big deal.

The flashing dots indicating she’s typing last for several seconds, then stop. Maybe she’s already back at the school. Their game wasn’t quite as far away as ours, and the cheerleaders travel in a van, separate from the bus. I wish quarterbacks got the van treatment. Not that I don’t love bonding with the guys on the way there, but damn, I’d really like to get to the showers faster on the way home.

I’m about to check in on her and ask if she’s planning to go to the desert tonight when Whiskey pops up over the seat back again, his brow pulled in like an angry bear. Maybe it’s the eye black smeared down his cheeks that makes him look so mean.

“Dude, you fucking snitched on me? What the hell?”

Nope, he’s mad.

I sigh and fall back into my seat, bringing my phone up to read the message I just received.

PEYTON:I forbid him.

My gaze shifts to my friend’s disappointed expression, then back to my phone screen.

ME:So he says. Can’t we just put him on a leash or something? He looks so sad.

“Is that her you’re texting? Can we call her?” He reaches over the seat to grab my phone, and I twist to keep it away from him.

PEYTON:Good luck with that. I’m going with the girls. I have to drive. We have a regional competition tomorrow, and I need them to stay sober-ish. Tell him I’ll be watching.

It stings a little that she didn’t ask me to come, but I get it. Things between our schools are rough right now, and after seeing that photo Whiskey showed me, putting me and Bryce in the same vicinity anytime soon isn’t a good idea for either of us. My resolve is only so strong. I don’t need to tempt my worst instincts to the point that I fuck over my future.

I glance up and meet Whiskey’s eyes.

“She said you’re to behave. And stick by her. Can you do that?”

His stupid big grin says he’ll try his best.

“I’m serious, Whisk. Coach Watts doesn’t want us starting shit,” I plead with him.

“You mean shit they already started?”

I grumble and level him with a serious look.

“Yes,Dad,” he bemoans, disappearing behind his seat and immediately shouting across the aisle. “It’s party time, boys!”

Fuck.

I start to write back to Peyton to warn her that she may need to babysit more than one of our players, and that maybe I shouldcome too, when someone behind me rips my phone from my hand.

“What the fuck?” I shout, spinning around and stepping on my seat. My phone gets passed back through a few hands, the first set from our backup center, who thinks he’s being funny. I shove him into the corner of his seat, ignoring the shouts from Coach at the front of the bus warning us to sit the fuck down.

“You updating your dating profile, pretty boy?” This time the barbs come from Noah, my defensive back.

“Ha ha. No, but my phone is my business, so give it back.” I dive for it but Noah quickly flicks it behind him to Ransom, my back-up who would probably love to see me get my ass sat for a game. He’s shit, though, so I’m pretty sure he’s the only one rooting for him to step foot on the field during a game.

“Your business, huh?” he says, holding his foot up and pressing it into my gut as I lurch into his seat. His eyes scan my phone, and my chest tightens. I know what he’s reading.

“You got business with Peyton Johnson?” He drops his foot and I snatch my phone from his hand but stay close enough that he has no choice but to smell my breath. I hope it’s rancid.

“I said, my phone is my business,” I bite out, lunging at him so he flinches.

I go back to my seat and hold up my palm to Coach, who is now standing in the aisle.

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