Page 61 of Home Game

I swallow hard, and I’m pretty sure I just heard Wyatt do the same.

“Not a Vista game. No. I’m usually busy. I cheer.”

Her brow lifts in interest.

“At . . . Coolidge,” I croak out.

Her brow lifts more and her gaze slides to Wyatt. He simply smiles and shovels food in his mouth.

“Oh, you go to Coolidge. Aren’t they sort of?—”

“Our rivals,” Wyatt barks out, his mouth full. He’s so comfortable with this.

“Ah, yeah. That’s what I thought. You all don’t have a game tonight, Peyton?”

“No, ma’am,” I say, shaking my head. I probably shouldn’t have called herma’am. I know my mom hates that. But I’m petrified of fucking this up, and I want her to like me.

“They have a bye week. And we’re using their field. It’s . . . a long story,” Wyatt says, somehow already scraping the last dregs of food from his plate.

I’ve barely nibbled at mine, so I try to catch up. I don’t need them both watching me eat. I’m not even that hungry.

“Well, since you’ve probably seen a lot of football games, I’m guessing you won’t be surprised when I stand up and yell in the bleachers. I can be kind of loud,” she admits.

Wyatt gets up and moves behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders. She glances up with an adoring expression. My heart stretches at the sweet sight.

“She is downplaying that. She can beveryloud. I could hear her over my dad sometimes. It’s not even a competition,” he says. His mom reaches up and pats his cheek.

“I won’t be surprised. Believe me. I’ve seen it all.” I instantly regret letting that slip. I pour my focus onto my plate, stuffing half of my quiche into my mouth, the tip of my tongue singed from the melted cheese.

“I bet you get a lot of flak as a cheerleader. I’m sure you’ve seen a lot,” she says, and I relax into my seat, glad she drew her own conclusion. I’m pretty sure Wyatt hasn’t discussed who my father is with her yet, given that she’s been grilling him to no avail about most everything about me.

“We should head out. Save the dishes for me for tonight, Mom.” He snags a backpack from one of the chairs and helps me scoot my chair back, leaving half of my breakfast still on the plate. Grandpa hates waste. I almost want to ask for a box, but I’ve done enough damage this morning.

“Thank you! It was really nice to meet you,” I manage to get out before the door closes.

Wyatt walks me through his garage and to my Jeep, holding the door open for me and kissing me before stepping back and pushing it shut.

“So, are you heading home or . . .” He shrugs.

I chuckle, but inside, my chest lights up with nerves.

“I have to see my mom. That’s first. And then I guess I’ll go from there. I need to text my coach to see if I need to do anything or sign something. I don’t know, Wyatt. I’ve never beensuspended before. I suppose at some point, I’ll need to see my dad. I’m kind of planning on going to your game about seven hours early and just sitting in the bleachers.”

He laughs and drops his gaze to the ground, where he kicks his toe into the roadway.

“I’m really sorry you’re going through this. Truly.” His gaze lifts to mine, his eyes soft.

“I know. But I’ll be fine. I’m Peyton Johnson. Grandpa built us strong.” Of everyone in my family, my grandpa is actually the person I need most right now. He has a way of saying the perfect thing, of putting trouble in order and showing me the reason for it all. Some people have church. I have Buck Johnson.

Wyatt leans in to kiss me one last time before jogging up his driveway to his truck. I take off and am around the corner before he has a chance to catch up to me. I have to pull the Band-Aid off what’s coming, and I need to start with Mom.

I send her a text from the stoplight about two miles away from home, and she tells me to come find her in the barn. She might have me shovel shit today, and I’d take the penance gladly. Anything not to have to talk about what set me off or to face my dad for a while. I’m still not sure I’m ready to face him. I’m still hurt.

My mom is saddling one of our oldest horses, Otis, when I reach the barn, and it looks as though the space has already been cleaned for the day, so no shovels for me. She has me wait by the door while she finishes up and walks Otis out toward the arena. She must have a new client today. Otis is gentle, and when someone hasn’t ridden before, he’s a good start.

“I’m guessing Coach called you?”

My mom nods. I try to read her face, and I can’t tell whether I need to brace myself for crushing disappointment or one of those slow-to-boil rage-outs. She hasn’t really yelled at mesince I crashed the Jeep, but I think I prefer that to crushing disappointment.

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