Page 64 of Home Game

“Don’t do anything stupid,” I say to my friend. Knowing full well thatIam on the verge of doing very stupid things.

He lifts his chin so we’re staring eye to eye as he draws in a long, full breath.

“I won’t fuck this win up for us, but what he just did? That shit was personal. I cannot pretend it was anything but that.”

I suck in my lips and hold his stare for a beat before nodding. I don’t know where it happened, but judging by the way the paint covers him, I’d guess it was a face-to-face interaction. Pretty bold move to throw paint on a guy twice your size.

“All right, as long as you do not fuck up your season. My season.Ourseason. You deal with this shit away from the team, andlegally.” I can’t believe I have to fucking say that.

More cleats rush by, so I adjust my posture again, sliding my right foot over to cover a paint drop on the ground.

“You’re literally soaking in this crap, Whisk. You gotta get that shirt off, at least. Here . . .”

I move to my locker while he pulls the shirt up over his head, smearing the blue paint across the side of his face and in his hair. It’s going to be a bitch when that stuff dries. I pull the small nylon bag from my bigger duffle. I usually put my cleats in it to cut down on the smell, but it has another purpose today. Probably its final purpose before the trash.

I open it wide and Whiskey shoves the paint-soiled shirt inside, then marches into the bathroom, somehow not drawing attention from the coaches. By the time he gets back, there’s ablue tint to his cheek and a few splotches on his pants that are probably permanent, but other than his blue-ish tinted wet hair, he’s typical Whiskey.

I wait for him to suit up before heading out to the field. We cross part of the parking lot, and it’s impossible not to see the enormous patch of blue splattered near the student exit. I study Whiskey’s expression as we trounce over it, but his eyes remain fixed straight ahead, on the field.

The paint trails thin out in the direction of the parade floats, and the one made to look like the CHS field is covered in a fresh coat of blue and yellow. Maybe there were students I didn’t see out working on it when we pulled up. Or perhaps one of them was taking a break, off to get a fresh bucket of paint.

The scene is writing itself for me, though I’m sure Whiskey will tell me when he’s ready. Or I’ll read it in the paper after he lands his ass in jail. Regardless, my guess is Bryce and some of his minions were working on that float for the mere purpose of waiting for our arrival. And when Whiskey and he crossed paths, Bryce’s self-control failed him.

I just hope my best protection out on that field can keep his emotions in check for the next few hours. It’s too much to ask him to hold on to his grudge without acting for the next few weeks, but after we win tonight, I sure like hell am going to try.

If Bryce Hampton crosses either of us again, though? All bets are off.

Chapter Twenty-One

It’s been a while since I watched a high school football game from the stands. I kind of miss it. Though, it would be nice to have more than just two girls my age sitting with me in what feels like hostile territory.

“They’re all looking at me,” I grumble to Tasha. She plops down on the metal bleacher next to me and glances across my chest, then cranes her neck to look behind her.

“Literallynobodyis looking at you,” she says, tearing her straw wrapper away with her teeth and pushing it into her foam cup.

“Please say you did not spike that.” I arch a brow and eye her as her lips wrap around it slowly.

She shakes her head as she takes a drink, but as soon as she’s done says, “You probably wouldn’t like it, though, so we shouldn’t share.”

I roll my eyes and glance to my right, where the Vista band is filing into the stands.

“Is your dad coming?” Lexi asks as she takes a seat in front of Tasha and me, straddling the metal bench and offering up herbag of kettle corn. I scoop out a handful before letting her down with my response.

“He said he is, but I doubt he’ll be sitting by me.”

My friends give me instant pity faces.

“It’s fine. You don’t have to look at me that way.” I reach forward to scoop more popcorn from Lexi’s bag. My friends are up to speed on what led to me getting the boot from the parade. I don’t need them to revisit the topic tonight. It’s bad enough I had to wait for them to get out of practice to head to the game. I should have been there. We’re working on a new stunt, and it’s not like I’m the linchpin for it, but I’m definitely stronger than any of the girls who sub in my place.

“Wyatt might break my dad’s passing record tonight,” I say, shifting to a topic that gives me a little more pleasure. Maybe I should feel guilty for rooting for my dad’s record to fall, but there’s something poetic about it happening tonight. Maybe a little passive aggressive, too.

“Wow, that’s a big deal. How short is he?”

“He needs to throw for a hundred thirty yards, which is basically nothing for him this season,” I brag. I catch my tone but not before Tasha puckers her lips into a knowing smile.

“What?” I say, feeling the heat crawl up my neck.

“You’re in love,” she teases in a sing-songy voice.

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