Page 62 of Home Game

“I let my emotions get to me, Mom, and I’m really sorry.”

She halts us, Otis stomping to a stop in the dirt as he snorts and kicks up dust.

“Peyton, as a parent I should probably be angry and discipline you, and I still might, but not because you stood up for yourself. I would have given anything to be able to do that when I was your age. It took me years to find my self-confidence. To know my worth. So, yeah, you shouldn’t hit people. But also . . .” Her lip raises on one side, and I match her half smile with my own.

She guides Otis forward again, and I trail along at his other side. I move ahead when we reach the arena, holding open the gate so she can bring him in and let him run a little. Running for Otis is more of a trot.

“You said I might still be in trouble?” I ask as I latch the gate behind me.

“Hmm, yeah. I get being hurt, Peyton. But when you don’t come home, and you don’t call, I get really worried. If it weren’t for Lexi picking up and letting me know you stayed at her house, I might have called the sheriff.”

She gives me side eyes in warning, and I’m not sure what to react to first—the amazing lie my friend told for me or the fact the sheriff could have been cruising around town with a spotlight in search of me.

“I understand,” I say.

She holds my gaze for a few paces, then turns her focus back to Otis, running her palm along his neck. I’ve always loved the way his gray color reflects the sun. He’s my favorite.

“Coach Nelson said to call her during her prep hour. She’ll make sure you get your assignments. You won’t have to missnext Friday’s game, and let’s just call that a gift from your mom, who can be quite convincing when she wants to be.”

My lungs open up, a weight falling away from my shoulders. I didn’t realize how badly I wanted to join my squad.

“Thank you.”

My mom nods, but she keeps her gaze fixed on Otis.

“I am sorry,” I say, my chest tightening. I need her to look at me, I think. She pauses after a few seconds and finally levels me with a heavy look, her eyes slightly red, like she’s been crying. The invisible rope around my chest pulls.

“Mom?” I step into her and she pulls me to her chest, hugging me tight. Her hand cups the back of my head, and her body quivers but only for a second. She sniffles before letting go.

“I know it’s hard to live with this last name. Your dad meant well.” So she knows the full story. That’s . . . good, I guess. It saves me from having to tattle on my father.

“It’s fine,” I say, that word I keep trying to sell still not coming out true.

She shakes her head.

“It’s not, and I know it won’t be until that parade is well in the past. But I’m asking you to give your dad some grace when you see him. I want you to give him grace, but be honest. He says he’ll see you at the game, whatever that means.”

I shake, partly in fear of having hard conversations but mostly because I want to hug my dad, too. I’m so mad at him, but I love him.

“I will. I’ll give him grace. I promise.”

Chapter Twenty

We may not be playing these guys this week, but being here—in their house—sure makes it feel like we are.

Nothing about this situation feels like a home game. Our boosters did their best; there’s a banner hung on the back of the home stands with our logo, a Mustang, bold and center. But the small showing of black and maroon is surrounded by all the Coolidge gold and blue. It’s practically swallowed by it.

Coach Watts is standing at the front of the bus, the doors not yet open to spill out the team. Hands on his hips, he seems to be scouting our borrowed landscape the same way he does mid-game. I know I am. The lot is full of student cars since school is still in session, but nobody seems to be out yet. A few trucks are parked near the home stands, all hitched to flat trailers pulling what looks like floats for the parade.

“All right, gentleman. Remember, we are guests. Treat this place with respect.” Coach turns to look us in the eyes after his ominous warning.

“We didn’t light their field on fire,” Jody finally says, breaking the silence. I look down, wishing he hadn’t.

He’s sitting directly in front of me, so it feels as if everyone’s eyes are on me, which normally I love. I respect the leadership role with my whole heart. But I feel as though I’m navigating a bus filled with ticking time bombs.

“And we won’t,” I utter, sticking with Coach’s message and reminding my brothers that we’re better than that.

I get up from my seat and step into the aisle, the players in seats in front of me shifting to look my direction. My palms land on the seat backs on either side of me and I squeeze them as I look down at the rubber flooring filled with dirt and gravel from our shoes. We get here in a regular bus, but Coolidge travels in a coach. The thought makes me chuckle as I kick at a dirt spot right in front of me.

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