Page 46 of Home Game

“Sorry, Coach. Won’t happen again,” I growl.

My eyes meet Whiskey’s, though I doubt he can read my thoughts. I would give anything for him to stay away from that desert party tonight, and keep the other guys away, too.

“Your girl there know anything about the fire on our field, Wyatt? You let her in to set it?” Ransom is provoking me, and I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself not to respond.

“Should we ask her ourselves?” he continues, and I snap.

“You don’t say shit to her. Ever. Got it?” I point at him, but keep my ass in my seat. I hold his stare, and his smirk turns into garbage laughter. I fantasize about smacking it from his face.

I return my focus to the front of the bus, and my phone vibrates in my palm. I expect Peyton, but instead it’s Whiskey.

WHISK:I get it. We’ll start our own tradition tonight.

My shoulders drop a hair in relief, but my body is still tense. I type back,Thank you.

I should probably go with him if it’s something just for our team, but now I’mreallynot in the mood. Plus, I’m sure I’d get more questions about Peyton, which would only fuel more rumors and questions about the fire. At this point, I want to throw Bryce Hampton to the wolves—or rather, the Mustangs. Let them have him.

Chapter Fifteen

My baby sister is at that age where she absolutely loves me, but she wants nothing to do with sitting still and watching me do what I love.

I’ve spotted my mom running the bleachers at Eastern College at least a dozen times in the last hour, either chasing my sister up and down the steps or scooting her off to the bathroom. Our squad is up next, and my mom is nowhere to be found. But someone else just showed up, and suddenly I’m sweating bullets.

I assumed when Wyatt said he would come to my cheer competition he was being nice, but when he confirmed the time with me early this morning, I realized he was serious. Still, he had film review today. And if his coach is anything like my dad, I can’t imagine they got through everything before ten. Yet here he is—ten-fifteen and fifty miles away from home.

“I take it things between you two are . . . progressing?” Tasha hugs me from behind and rests her pointy chin on my shoulder like a dart. I squirm and she only holds on tighter, her teased out ponytail mingling with mine.

“It’s all kind of overwhelming,” I admit to my friend.

“Hmm, I see that. But still,” she pulls away and twists me to face her. “It must be nice. I mean, Bryce never shows up for competitions. Hell, none of our guys show up. Yet, look at that corner of the gym.”

She points up to the second-level seats above where Wyatt is standing, and it takes my eyes a minute to adjust to the sight. There are a dozen of them, maybe more, all wearing their Mustang jerseys. Some of them have signs covered in glitter.

“Did they make those themselves, you think?” I ask Tasha.

“My guess is yes. Did you see those bubble letters?”

I squint at the sign that reads GO LADY MUSTANGS and chuckle.

“It’s a little scrunched up at the end,” I say through my laughter.

“Peyt, it looks like they turned that shit on its side with the glue wet,” Tasha jokes.

I give it another inspection and nod.

“Yeah, but at least they showed up. We have to be at their game every single Friday, and yet they can’t bother to show up once.” My stomach sinks at my own words because that statement? It covers my dad, too.

We both look on as the group of bulky guys squeeze into the bleacher seats amid hundreds of cheer moms. A quick survey of the gym proves they’re the only football team to show up for their cheer squad. And my gut tells me the reason they’re here is because Wyatt convinced Coach and his teammates that they needed to show their support.

Tasha leaves me at the practice room doorway, and I linger for a few extra seconds until Wyatt spots me and lifts a hand. He nods up the stairs toward his teammates, and I shake my head with a silent laugh and a pang of jealousy that they all showed. He gives me a thumbs up, and I remind myself that at least one of them is here for me.

I return to my squad as he heads up the steps to join the rest of his team. The girls are all sitting in a circle, stretching and visualizing, when I step up behind two of the younger members.

“She’s only on the squad because her dad is who he is,” one of them says. I stop a few steps behind them and hold my breath.

They think they’re being quiet, covering their mouths with the fronts of their hoodies pulled up, like pitchers talking to catchers in the middle of a game. Only those guys? They’re plotting the best pitch to throw. These girls are just being mean. About me!

“I wonder if Coach will cut her ass when her dad finds out she’s hooking up with the Vista QB. I bet she’s doing that for attention, to make Daddy angry.” This one is named Stephanie, and she laughs like Cookie Monster as her mean-ass friend, Langley, spots me in her periphery. She turns ghost white in a blink, like, as in even her freckles vanish.

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