Page 53 of Home Game

Her dad, however, seems pretty tired of seeing me. I saw him shining his truck when we pulled in. He tosses the shammy into a bucket near his front passenger tire and heads our way.

“You’re starting to seem like a stalker, Wyatt. You two dating or something?” There’s no humor in his voice. He’s dead serious, and I’m not sure how to answer him. Peyton seems uninterested in answering at all.

“I was just making sure she got home safe, Coach. Seemed like no one else was.”

Fuck, that second part wasn’t supposed to be out loud.

His short laugh isn’t the amused kind. He’s wearing boots, and for some reason it makes him feel even more dangerous. His belt buckle is a Super Bowl brag, probably a replica of his ring. Hisfirstring.

“I’m going to his game Friday, Dad. If you want to come,” Peyton offers.

What the hell? I didn’t know he was part of the package.

I give her a sideways glance, and I swear she chuckles.

“You don’t have to come, sir. I’m sure you have better things to do on a bye week, and I’m not even sure where we’re playing yet, you know . . . with the field.”

His eyes dim, and I’m not sure by his expression, but I don’t think he’s fully aware of what happened to our end zone. I’m sure Coach Watts didn’t call him up and tell him, but given how many of our guys know the story, I figured one of his old players would have said something.

“Field’s not playable, huh?” He studies me for a moment, then shifts his gaze to his daughter. “I thought we didn’t know about a fire.”

Shit. I hope I didn’t make trouble for Peyton.

“We don’t,” she says, her tone clearly saying otherwise. Her dad’s focus remains on her for a few seconds, and all the while he continues to chew at the inside of his cheek. But in a flash, his gaze is back to me.

“You’ll use ours. I’ll call Watts. It’s settled.” He heads back to his truck, and I can’t help but feel like I lost something just now. I’m not sure what, and maybe it’s simply the sense of home field advantage, but there’s definitely a hole in my chest. The wind is blowing right through it.

“Guess that means it will be an easy trip to make,” Peyton says, sliding her hand down my arm and circling my wrist.

A nervous titter vibrates from my mouth, which is still hanging open.

“Yeah, there’s a silver lining. But maybe the sweatshirt thing isn’t such a good idea.” I squint, mentally replaying the possessive move those guys made in the diner.

“We’ll see,” she says.

My nervous laugh ticks up a notch. I’m about to remind her that she just invited her dad to watch the game with her when she moves her palm against my cheek and steps up on her toes. Her lips find mine, and my face goes numb. Suddenly, wearing my sweatshirt in front of her dad feels like a kindergarten move.

“Mmm,” she hums as our lips part. My tongue slips through my lips, chasing the ghost of our kiss as she skips her way toward her front door.

I’m not sure what hits me first, the snapping sound of a plastic bucket bouncing along the driveway or the droplets that splatter across my calves after Reed literally throws in the towel on his truck cleaning. His engine roars to life a second later, and he’s down his driveway before my stomach fully drops into my feet.

There goes my idol. Somehow, in five days, I need to have the game of my life in front of him. And he couldn’t possibly hate me more.

Chapter Seventeen

Bye weeks are a gift. Not for my dad or the guys, necessarily, but for the rest of us? Bye weeks bring a certain peacefulness.

There was no rush to whip up a dance for halftime this week, which means we spent every practice inside and on the mat. We tied for second at our first comp, but ties won’t get me tryouts with some of the schools I’m looking at.

I need to show up with golds. With hardware. On top of stunts.

Today, we tumbled for an hour. Straight. My brain is scrambled and I’m not sure where north is, let alone the floor versus the ceiling, but we tumbled. And for an hour, I thought of nothing but my hands hitting right and my feet landing square.

“Great work this week, everyone,” Coach says, clapping to draw us in for her after-practice meeting.

I snag my long-sleeved T-shirt from the corner and jog to join the group as I slip it on. I’m sweaty now, but five minutes of standing still in this practice gym will turn me into ice.

“Now, I know it’s an off week for us, but that doesn’t mean we’re off completely. As you know, our biggest fundraiser of the year is the Home Town Fest and parade, and this year we’re looking at twice as many floats, twice as many marching bands?—”