Page 4 of Home Game

A heavy elbow plunks down on my shoulder, and the lineman we all call Whiskey because his name is Jack, gargles out a laugh.

“Your mom need anyone to help her learn to drive that thing? Because I’m up for the—” I elbow his ribs before he finishes that last word.

“Dude, that’s my dad’s old car. Chill,” I say with a slight shrug and a look of disgust.

“Fuck. Sorry, man. I was just being clever and shit.” His mouth squiggles into a guilty semi-straight line, but I don’t let him off the hook. I scowl as I shake my head and leave him to finish washing the massive F-350 that pulled in for our fundraiser.

My mom rolls the window down as I approach, and it sticks about halfway. Dad was supposed to fix that. He was always fixing something. Our eyes meet over the rim of the glass pane and share a fond smirk.

“I know she’s notstreet-ready,as your dad would say, but I figured she could use a wash.” I nod and guide my mom to move the car into an open spot where some of my teammates are waiting to get moving on the next vehicle. A soppy rag flings soapy water across the hood within seconds and my mom gets out of the car, handing me a small cooler.

“Is this what I hope it is?” A tempered smile tugs up one side of my mouth as I peek inside and see the frozen watermelon balls. “Yes!” I whisper.

“You know, most boys your age would prefer something like hot wings or beer,” she says as we walk over to a nearby tree for shade.

“Yeah, well, I’d prefer those too if it weren’t a hundred-seventy degrees out with four hours of this fucking car wash left to go,” I laugh out. She grimaces at my F-bomb, and I whisper a quick apology before diving into the cool, sweet treat I have loved since I was a kid.

My mom crosses her arms with ease as she steps back and lets a soft smile settle in. I know what her reaction means without her having to voice it. For most of my life, I shared this snack with my dad. After long practices. During road trips. While helping him clean the garage. I’m not sure if it’s my favorite because I love the taste or because of the memories that come with it.

“I should probably get back to work.” I tip the cooler above my mouth and slurp up the slushy juice left behind before leaving the cooler with my mom. I kiss her cheek and jog back to the main driveway where Whiskey and Jody are now waving their shirts over their heads in an attempt to garner more traffic.

“You trying to repel people?” I tease Whiskey. He swings his twisted T-shirt around his neck and holds on to both ends while grinding his hips in the air. It’s vulgar and not even remotely sexy, but it is funny as shit. And somehow, it earns him a honk from an SUV full of girls.

“Yeah! There are my people. Come on, ladies. Get a wash!” He shimmies the now stretched-out shirt along his back as he approaches their vehicle. One of them rolls down the back window and waves a twenty at him, and he leans in so she can kiss his cheek. How he’s such a ladies man baffles me.

“Thanks, ladies!” He waves the cash in the air as he marches back toward Jody and me.

“We didn’t even have to wash that thing,” Jody mumbles to my side.

“Dude oozes charm. I don’t get it,” I say, high-fiving Whiskey when he reaches us. He beams with pride before announcing he’s going on break.I don’t think going on break this early is a thing, but whatever.He heads to our booster table to deposit the cash, then ducks inside the small store to cool off.

“So, that car. You said it’s your dad’s?” Jody brings my attention back to him. I nod, then glance to the right, where a dozen guys are towel-drying the Camaro, and my mom is handing over more money than we can probably afford. She knows how important it is to cultivate a leadership image in this community, especially with the booster families. It was always easy when we lived in the city. My dad was a firefighter, which comes with a level of built-in respect. Add to that the fact he volunteered to help coach on his off days, and our family was always held in high regard.

“I’m sorry,” Jody says, snapping me out of my haze.

I shake my head and give him a quick, tight smile. I haven’t talked about my dad much with any of the guys. I still feel out of place, even though we got to know each other better at camp.And bringing up your dad’s sudden cancer diagnosis and rapid decline isn’t really team-building material.

“Thanks. I’m good.” We nod at each other and turn our attention back to the busy traffic.

For the next hour, Jody and I manage to shmooze another two hundred bucks from idle traffic, people stuck at the nearby stoplight on their way to lunch or a weekend errand. I’m about to tap out for a short break and a water run when I spot a familiar face stopped in a beat-up Jeep about a dozen cars back. She was cute at the diner, but driving around in a bright-red bikini top, her dirty-blonde hair twisted up on her head, and shades resting on her sun-kissed cheeks? Yeah, she’s not cute—she’s fucking hot.

“Hey, I’ll be right back,” I say almost dismissively to Jody as I jog down the sidewalk toward her rumbling vehicle. Her pink lips tick up on one side as I approach.

I rest my arms on the edge of her passenger window and glance toward the light to make sure it’s still red. I’m relieved that it is.

“You know, I’ve been thinking about those pancakes all day.” I squint as I tilt my head, the sun bright as hell and my cheeks raw from taking in too much of it all morning.

“You should probably eat at a few more places because our pancakes aren’tthatgood,” she says, the quirk in her lip remaining. It’s good to know we’re still flirting after that asshole Bryce showed up and ruined the vibe. I got the distinct impression from Peyton’s reaction to him that they weren’t together, but I wasn’t about to jump to conclusions.

“Maybe you should show me what’s good,” I say, laying it on thicker than I wanted to, but hell, that light will go green any second now.

She laughs and wraps her hands around the top of the steering wheel before stretching her arms straight.

“Maybe,” she hums, her mouth pulling into a tight, shy smirk. I want to kiss it.

I grip the edge of the door and lean back, glancing toward my teammates, several of them watching me shoot my shot. I laugh nervously as Jody leans his elbow on Whiskey’s thick shoulder and nods toward me. The hot breeze is cooking my skin, my ripped-sleeve T-shirt flapping against my muscles.

“You need a car wash? This thing looks pretty dirty,” I say, glancing down at the caked—on mud on the tire rims.

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