Page 67 of Home Game

“No, Peyton! It’s notnothing!This shit ends now!”

My dad storms across the parking lot toward Bryce’s truck, which is parked next to two others. Some of his players aresitting in the back of one, and as my dad approaches they stand and hop out of the truck bed. I wouldn’t be shocked if they sprinted into the desert.

“Was this Bryce?” Wyatt says, his tone not far removed from my father’s. I turn to face him, his eyes wild and his stare set on the back gash.

“I don’t think he would do this,” I say, knowing that even if it wasn’t him, it was with his blessing. Maybe even his direction.

“I don’t think we know Bryce at all anymore,” Whiskey says over Wyatt’s shoulder. His eyes are steely, his mouth set in a hard line.

My spine shrinks, my body sinking into the ground beneath me with the weight of it all.

“This is so stupid. It’s just football. It’sfootball!” I reach my hands up to the heavens and stare at the black sky. Wyatt’s hand reaches around my waist and he pulls me into him. I move reluctantly at first, but when he has me in a full embrace, I flatten my cheek against his chest and watch my dad wave his hands with his words while his players, which now include Bryce, shrink where they stand next to their pickups.

“Can I do something? I really don’t mind giving you ladies a ride,” Wyatt’s mom suggests again.

“Mom, Peyton’s dad will handle it. I’ll fill you in at home,” Wyatt says, stepping away from me and reaching out a hand for his mom. She eyes her son silently, then shifts her gaze to the scene behind him. Her mouth hardens while at the same time her eyes soften.

“Okay,” she finally relents, and I think she’s pieced together enough to know this is a battle of male egos on full display.

“Peyton, I’m really sorry,” she says to me, her expression weighed down, full of sympathy. She pulls her son in for a quick hug, her hand patting his back before she spins and heads to an old Camaro parked in the very center of the now-empty lot.

“You should walk her to her car. Then maybe fill your coach in,” I suggest, nodding toward the Vista bus, where Coach Watts is now standing with a handful of players watching my dad read their rights to their rivals.

Wyatt breathes out a short, annoyed laugh before stepping into me and pressing his lips to mine as his hands cup my cheeks.

“Easier said than done,” he says, glancing to Whiskey before taking off to walk his mom to her car.

“What did he do to you?” I utter at Whiskey’s side, not making eye contact.

“He ended our friendship for good,” he says before putting his palm on my shoulder and squeezing me gently. He heads toward his bus without another word.

My dad’s voice is loud enough that a few key words cut through the night—sick of thisandtime to grow up—before he’s on a hot path back to me and my friends.

“Girls, get in my truck. Peyton, toss me your keys.” He holds his hand up and catches them in the air when I throw them. He steps into the driver’s seat, throwing the keys on the dash and scanning the inside for evidence, I’m guessing.

He slams the door shut when he’s done and waves for me to follow him to his truck while he presses his phone to his ear.

“Jared, it’s Reed. Hey, I need you to come grab the Jeep. It’s in the back lot at the school. Someone cut the tires. Yeah, keys are in it.” He shoves his phone into his back pocket, and his stride practically doubles. I’m jogging to keep up.

“Tasha, I’ll drop you off first,” he barks, pressing his key fob. My friends climb into the back seat of his crew cab and I slide into the passenger seat. The Jeep sits broken by itself in the side mirror when I close the door.

“That was some game, huh, Mr. Johnson,” Lexi says, her voice timid.

My dad’s gaze flicks up to the rearview mirror and his nostrils flare. He doesn’t open his mouth, and behind me Tasha whispers, “Not now,” to our friend.

We drop them off within minutes, and for the first ten minutes of the drive home alone with my father, it’s eerily silent. The air isn’t on in the truck. The radio is off. Somehow, the bumpy road seems smooth all of a sudden. Maybe neither of us knows how to begin. We’re both angry and not fully with each other, but there’s this new wall we’ve started to build, and the bricks feel heavy.

We’re halfway down the dark desert road that leads to our ranch when my dad hits the brakes. I fling forward, my hands wrapping around the seat belt where it slices across my chest. My dad punches the steering wheel twice, then flicks the hazards on before slowly pulling to the side of the road.

My heart is racing as my eyes move from him to the dark night and disappearing road in front of us. The last of Coolidge’s farms are to my right, the fall crops just peeking through the soil. It smells like manure out here, even with the truck’s vents off. The headlights make the haze in the air glow like a stale green potion that clings to the dry desert like a fungus.How does anything grow out here at all?

The windows begin to fog, I think from the hot air the two of us are puffing out like dragons. One of us needs to be first, and if there is one thing I’ve learned from my mom it’s that sometimes, Dad needs a push.

“You should have asked me,” I say.

I feel him shift to look at me, but I keep my eyes on the opaque glass, the view on the other side growing less clear with every breath I take. When he doesn’t respond after nearly a minute, I give in and meet his stare. I drop my gaze and huff out a short laugh.

“I thought maybe you didn’t know what I was talking about. But I can see in your eyes that you do.” My dad doesn’t have much of a poker face. His eyes are sloped at the corners, the corners of his mouth weighing down his chin. He knows.

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