Page 5 of Home Game

“This thing isalwaysdirty,” she laughs out.

“It’s your lucky day, then,” I say, tilting my head in the direction of the mini-mart. “Don’t let those guys fool you. They actually do a good job. Plus, I’d personally see that you get the absolute best customer service.”

I quirk a brow and hold my bottom lip in my teeth to temper my hopeful grin. She chews at the inside of her mouth, her gaze taking in the ragtag crew over my shoulder before dipping down toward her purse.

“I only have a ten,” she says, slightly wincing.

“That’s ten bucks more than we have now,” I say, patting the window sill. “Come on. I’ll direct you in.”

I back away before she can change her mind. She shakes her head and laughs but puts her blinker on and slips into the right turn lane as the traffic begins to move. I jog to meet her as she pulls into one of the open spots, but I don’t get there in time to help her out of the Jeep. Maybe that’s a good thing, because as she hops out in short, tattered jean shorts, her tight stomach bronze from plenty of desert sun, my compression shorts get all kinds of tight and uncomfortable.

A few of the guys hold fists to their mouths as she passes by, and I glare at them with a warning expression. I swear to God, if one of them whistles or says some degrading shit right now, I will pop them in the jaw.

Peyton tugs her leather bag up her shoulder, reaches into it, and pulls out a ten. She pushes her sunglasses up on her head, the pink on her cheeks more pronounced now. Her eyes are golden brown, a new fact I add to the growing mental file I seem to be keeping on her.

“You guys really don’t have to do much more than spray the mud off,” she says over her hiked shoulder. Maybe she feels bad about only having ten bucks. I wasn’t actually kidding, though, when I said ten bucks is ten more than we’ve got.

“No, we’ll do it up right,” I say, taking the cash from her and handing it to one of the volunteer moms.

There’s an odd pause when the mom takes it from me, and her eyes shift to Peyton for a quick second before she mouths out a drawn-out, “Oh-kay.”

My stomach lurches a bit; I don’t want Peyton to think we’re thumbing our noses at her money. It’s not like we haven’t had a ton of people only donate five or ten bucks all day. I don’t get this lady’s reaction. Or the way the guys are still pacing around the Jeep like they’re admiring some museum exhibit.

“Take a seat in the shade. We’ll get you all set in a few minutes,” I say, sighing as I rush over to the hose and turn the spray on full blast.

I start to rinse off the back tires and nod at Jody to get off his ass and help. I’m closest to him and Whiskey so far, so I feel as though I can order them around more than I can the other guys. But seriously, most of them look like lazy fucks right now, standing around and gawking. I get it—Peyton’s hot. But we’ve also got a fucking car wash to run.

After a minute, more of the guys pitch in, and pretty soon, we’ve gotten all the mud from the undercarriage and rims, and a thick layer of suds is going on the body. I drop the hose and sink my hand into one of the buckets near Whiskey to help scrub thepassenger door, and he chuckles at me as he kneels down next to me.

“I can’t believe you got her to donate money to our program, dude. You’re a fucking legend.”

I pull my brow in as I continue to scrub.

“Why? Because she goes to the old campus? I met her the other night, and she seemed pretty cool, so?—”

His hand covers the top of mine mid-swipe, halting me. My head swivels until I take in his hung-open mouth and tilted head. I must look really confused because he puffs out a short laugh and moves his fist to his mouth to cover his escalating laughter.

“Holy shit, you . . . bro . . . you don’t know?” His voice hushes quickly as he leans in. I’m starting to get really fucking irritated.

I shake my head with widened eyes.

“Know what,bro?” I hold his stare for a beat, then lean back on my heels and toss my rag into a nearby bucket.

“Wyatt, that’s Peyton Johnson. As in, her dad isReedJohnson. As in,the man.And now the most famous high school football coach in America, for the school that is our?—”

“Fuuuuuuuuuck,” I breathe out, this time falling to my ass. I rest my palms on my kneecaps and push my hand through my dirty, sweaty hair. I blink a few times before turning my attention to the Jeep, then I pinch the bridge of my nose.

“This is his Jeep, isn’t it?” My eyes are squeezed shut, the pounding headache almost instant. And it’s not because I’m dehydrated. It’s because I’m a dumbass.

“Pretty sure with a plate like QB14EVA, yeah. This is the Jeep,” he says.

I let my hand smear down my face as my head falls forward.

“Dude, Isawthat Jeep in theSports Illustratedstory last year,” I utter.

“You meanthisJeep,” he corrects, landing a heavy hand on my back. “And we all saw it.”

“That’s why everyone was so weird,” I breathe, bringing my face out of hiding. I’m covered in dirt, and suds, and car wash stink. My shirt is half-soaked, and my shorts are stuck to my thighs from the puddle I’m sitting in. I hop up to my feet but stay crouched as I hold a palm on my chin.

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