Page 50 of Home Game

“You have plans, huh?” She’s using that teasing voice.

“Yes, I do. And no, you can’t come,” I say, a little prevention warning.

Her knowing grin lingers as she turns around and continues into the kitchen. I trail behind her, running my hand through my wet hair a few times before snagging the Vista ballcap I left by my phone, my wallet and keys.

“Would this happen to be about that girl who was parked in our driveway the other night?” She pours herself a cup of coffee, and I swear the only reason she did was so she could eye me suspiciously through the steam.

“It may,” I answer, backing my way toward the door. She’s not done, but she’s also likely happy to see me, well, happy. Things like dating haven’t really been on my radar since my dad died. I’ve been going so hard at football, partly to drown out the hurt. My mom has brought up me needing balance a few times, but she never pushes.

Of course now that there is a real girl involved . . .

“And may I meet her?”

I just turned around to face the door and was almost out of here. I wassoclose. Squeezing my eyes shut, I recognize that strange tingle in my belly, the adolescent embarrassment that comes with a meddling, though loving, mom. I’ve missed it.

“You may. Or you may not. Time will tell,” I tease, leaving her with a wink, the same way my dad would when he was being coy. Or, as she would say,being an ass.

I shut the door and hear her call out from the other side, “I have eyes everywhere, Wyatt!” I chuckle on my way to my truck but pause when I realize how true that statement is. I always thought I didn’t hide things from her by choice, but maybe I simply know it’s not really possible.

By the time I get to Jack’s, most of the booths are full, so I take a seat near the register, the same stool her dad sat in the day I met him.

“Hi, sugar,” Maggie says, sliding a menu in front of me. I wouldn’t say I’m a regular here, but I guess I have been in a few times since I met Peyton. Those first few trips were in hopes that I’d see her again. The last visit, though, I hoped I didn’t, but only because she was with her dad. And I can’t seem to right the ship with that guy.

“I think Maggie likes you,” Peyton says, squeezing my shoulder as she passes behind me with a tray filled with short stacks and bacon.

I indulge in being an overt spy while she doles out everyone’s order. She’s quick to compliment the two little girls at the table on their high ponytails. They both peel out of their booth seat to show off their cheer uniforms, and Peyton squats to give them high-fives.

“She’s a good soul,” Maggie says, catching me in the act.

I twist in my seat to set my legs straight ahead and own the bashful smile crawling up my cheeks.

“Seems like it,” I agree.

“It’s been hard on her, growing up with the spotlight always ready to turn up the heat. It’s not as bad as being a movie star’s kid, but around here, her daddy is a pretty big deal. Lots of people were rooting for her to screw up as a teen. Lots of people rootingforher too. But those negative voices are so much louder than the good ones.”

“Hmm.” I nod and recall the few times I felt the pressure of my dad’s reputation, and he was just a local firefighter. He was a hero to a lot of families, though, and there was always this subtle expectation that I be the perfect kid. I nearly failed my freshman year of high school out of some weird rebellion that overtook me. Football was the only thing that saved me—you can’t fail and still play.

And then my dad died, and football saved me again. It’s the one place where I swear he’s still with me; where I feel him. Always.

After Peyton finishes her rounds, she stops at my end of the counter, leaning across it and propping her chin on her hands.

“I’m not sure which I think is cuter, by the way,” I say.

She quirks a brow.

“The cheer uniform or the waitress one.”

I shrug when she scowls at me, but when she drops her palms on the counter, I take her hands in mine and lead her around the counter until she’s standing between my legs. When she rests her hands on shoulders, I straighten her name badge clipped on the right side of her chest.

“Come on, don’t tell me you don’t like me in the uniform,” I tease.

She slides her hands down and grabs the front of my shirt, clutching it as she leans her head to the side.

“Can’t say for sure. I haven’t seen you in it.”

I give her side eyes, and she leans her head back with an exasperated sigh.

“Okay, sure. I’ve seen photos and maybe a few videos here and there. You’re, like, constantly playing on my dad’s laptop, just so you know.”

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