Page 65 of Home Game

I roll my eyes and reach for more popcorn. Not that I want it, but because I’m suddenly so nervous that I need to do something—anything—with my hands.

“He’s a good guy, Peyton. And you spent a lot of time with a pretty shitty one,” Tasha adds.

I glance up and meet Lexi’s eyes, and though my friend has always thought Bryce was the hottest thing on Earth, she relents a half smile and a shrug before nodding in agreement at Tasha’s assessment.

“This whole rivalry thing is pretty bad, though. Spending time with him feels?—”

“Amazing,” Tasha pipes in.

I roll my head to the side to gaze at her.

“It does, yes. And it should. But I also feel guilty, somehow. Like I’m letting down the family brand or something.” It doesn’t help that every time we’re in public together, someone on my dad’s team sees us and turns it into an act of war.

“Fuck that,” Tasha says. “You deserve to be happy.”

I loop my arm through hers and hug her bicep, then take a drink from her soda, my tongue hit with a dose of . . .rum, I think?

“Oh, wow!” I cough out.

“I told you it wasn’t your kind of drink.” She snickers.

I look around us, relieved nobody is in our immediate area yet. But before I can warn her to be careful, she takes a big drink through her straw and meets my gaze.

“Don’t worry, Peyton. This ain’t my first rodeo.”

Her lopsided smirk makes me wonder how often her water bottle is spiked with something other than Gatorade at our home games. I also think my friend maybe needs to work through her issues before she gets to college. I worry about her if we end up at different schools, which it’s looking like we might. She wants to stay here. I’ve been dreaming of leaving since I was old enough to know I could. Lately, though, I’ve been less excited about taking off on my own. I’ve also been afraid to ask Wyatt when he plans to commit. And those two emotions together have made me confused.

The Vista band sounds off with the Mustang fight song, so my friends and I get to our feet, joining the hundred or so parents who came to watch their boys take the field. Their record is the same as ours, but they don’t seem to have the same following that we do. Or maybe our massive stands have a way of makinga modest crowd look small. I probably could have gotten away with wearing Wyatt’s team shirt tonight, but I opted instead for the oversized Bills sweatshirt and black leggings. The desert nights are finally starting to cool, so I thought the extra layer would be nice. Plus, it still smells like his bedroom. And when I close my eyes, it almost feels like his arms around me.

Wyatt is the first to burst through the banner held by their cheer squad, and he races toward the center of the field with the school flag hoisted over his shoulder as he runs.

“I like their uniforms better,” Lexi says through a mouthful of popcorn. “They look tougher.”

“Hmm, yeah. And maybe . . . hotter, too. Can you get me an intro with that one right there?” Tasha points to the growing crowd on the sidelines and I squint ,attempting to guess who she means.

“Which number?” I ask.

“Oh, any of them. I meant that one as in . . .” She draws an air circle around the team, and Lexi and I both slap our palms over our faces with laughter.

We all stand for the national anthem, then stay on our feet to wait for the kickoff. I use the opportunity to scope out the crowd, and I meet Wyatt’s mom’s eyes across the stands. She raises her hand and I do the same. She’s not alone, which makes me feel better about not sitting next to her. It’s going to take me a while to recover from walking straight out of Wyatt’s bedroom to breakfast with her.

A few Vista students trickle in, and the away stands are filling in more as well. It’s nothing compared to our home crowds, but at least it feels respectable now. I catch myself ogling Wyatt as he strides out to the center of the field for the coin toss, his right hand clutched in Whiskey’s. There’s something comforting in their friendship. I’m glad they have each other. Glad Wyatt hassomeone like him to keep him safe. I’m sure Bryce misses him, though his ego would never allow him to admit it.

“You think your dad made them all show up?” Tasha says, nudging my side with her elbow.

I follow her sightline to the fence behind the north end zone, where the sea of gold and blue jerseys are all lined up. I spot Bryce’s favorite white and gold hat immediately, and my stomach tightens. Not that he could do anything, or would, to ruin Wyatt’s game, but I can’t help but think his reason for being here is to root against him and his run on my dad’s record.

“Not sure, but I am sure he didn’t ask the media to be here.”

I point to the small set of stands on the field behind the north field goal. It’s where family members sit for our home games, a special tradition that was carried over from the old stadium. The only people there now are a few news cameras and my dad.

“You think this is about the record?” Lexi asks.

“Definitely,” I hum, my focus locked on my dad despite the kickoff happening on the field in front of me. I feel a slight pinch in my chest; maybe a part of me is sad for him.

Any empathy floating around my chest is immediately overshadowed the second Wyatt takes his first snap on the field. He’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen, sidestepping a sack and rolling to his right to somehow find a receiver thirty yards down the field. The precision reminds me of watching my dad during his last pro years. He wasn’t the rough-and-tumble guy he was when he was young, so he had to learn to be exact. He was a surgeon with the ball, just as Wyatt is now. His receiver gets pushed out of bounds midfield, and just like that, Wyatt is a single digit away from making my dad number two in Arizona’s high school record books.

As if automatic, my gaze crosses the field to see if my dad is watching, knowing he is. The reporter off to the side, my dad is standing in the middle of the VIP bleachers, his arms crossedover his chest. Part of him might be proud. But I know there’s a part of him that hurts. I know it because as angry as I am with my dad, we’re still connected in our hearts. There’s an invisible thread that’s been between us since my first word, which happened to beDaddy.And for right now, this small moment, I wish I was sitting down there with him instead.

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