Page 51 of Home Game

I flinch a little at that fact. I figured he was scouting me for our match-up, but I have to admit, I’m a bit honored to be on such high rotation.

“I think I need to see you in person to really make a fair judgement, though,” she says, and I feel a sudden jolt of hope tickle its way up my chest. It’s a bye week for her school.

I lower my gaze.

“Should I reserve a seat for you?”

She glances up playfully, then drops her gaze to mine as she nods.

“Do not expect me to wear your jersey or anything like that, though. I will remain utterly neutral.”

I tip my chin, luring her closer so I can press my lips to hers.

“Now, you in my jersey . . . that is an outfit I haven’t explored.”

She kisses me again, then steps back, a coy expression on her face.

“Yes, you have, and you know it,” she teases.

I shake my head, but she’s right. I’ve fantasized about her wearing a lot of my clothes, and being in my bed, and takingoffmy clothes.

Before I carry our flirting on, I notice her gaze get hijacked somewhere beyond my left shoulder. I glance behind me and spot the blue jerseys right away. The two guys wearing them avert their eyes the second I look their way, suddenly overly interested in their plates of food. When I return my attention to Peyton, she’s busied herself by wiping down the counter.

“Are some of them bothering you?” The thought of people giving her a hard time because of me makes my stomach sick, yet at the same time, it fills my fist with blood.

She shrugs.

“It’s fine. Sometimes, people take high school football way too seriously.” Her lips form a curt smile as she tops off my water and sets up my place setting.

“Tall stack? Extra syrup?” she says, predicting my order but also changing the subject.

“Hey.” My head tilts as I implore her with my eyes to let me help.

She swallows and glances at my menu for about a half second before snagging it and uttering, “I’ll get your order in.”

I wait for her to disappear into the kitchen before I turn my attention back to the table of Coolidge players. I wish Whiskey were here. Other than Bryce, he seems to be able to bridgethe gap between our teams. The one who I caught snickering before glances up and meets my gaze. Unlike him and his friend, though, I’m not ashamed of getting caught staring. In fact, I think I’ll settle in and make myself comfortable while doing it.

He mouths something to his friend, gesturing my way, and the bigger guy glances over his shoulder. I lift my palm in a wave, but we all know I’m not really waving. I keep my periphery alert in case Peyton pops back out of the kitchen, but until then, I plan to make these guys as uncomfortable as they were making her.

Without the aid of checking my phone for the time, I’d say I get a solid five minutes of gawking nosiness in before one of them walks up to the counter with their check to get Maggie’s attention. His friend gets up to wait behind him while they settle their bill, and I turn in my seat to make certain they know I plan to watch their asses all the way to whatever vehicle they came here in.

The taller one who paid slides his credit card back into his wallet, then turns to face me while he puts his wallet away.

“How’s that field of yours, Rebound?” His smug expression really pisses me off, but I manage to swallow my desire to blow up at him.

“Cute nickname,” I say, instead of the line of insults I want to spit out.

He glances down at the floor as he slowly makes his way closer, his friend behind him wearing a massive grin. They’re such a stereotype. Bulldog and his terrier.

“You know she’s just trying to make Bryce jealous. That’s why?—”

“Yeah, it’s why you called me Rebound. Clever. I got it,” I interject, taking some of the power out of what I’m sure he’s been practicing in his head the entire time I stared at him.

He chuckles and glances to the kitchen door, where my periphery picks up a flash of Peyton’s blue apron. His chest puffs with a bigger laugh as his attention returns to me.

“You better get those yards in before we play you. That’s all I’m saying.” He sniffles and gazes out toward the parking lot as if he’s one of those gangsters in the movies. It’s comical. And sad.

“Noted. Just one thing?”