Page 69 of Home Game

We both break into a short laugh, adding on jokes about how high the bail would be set to get my mom out of jail, and then the headlines in the tabloids about Former NFL Housewives Behaving Badly. My dad’s O-line doesn’t have a chance against Nolan Johnson when she’s angry and defending her family.

“I’m going to bench Bryce,” my dad says suddenly.

My laughter dies and I swallow the instant rock in my throat. I hold his gaze for a few seconds and let the words sink in.

“You think that’s a good idea?”

He breathes in through his nose and hikes his shoulders.

“I have no clue. But I have to do something. It’s our side that is starting this, and Bryce has a future in this game. He needs to learn how to lead. The hard way, apparently. Not just when he’s winning, but when things aren’t going perfectly. The guy doesn’t know what messy is.”

“He kinda does now,” I say, squinting my right eye and twisting my mouth.

“Yeah, and he has no idea how to navigate it.”

My dad’s right. He doesn’t. Bryce has never really had adversity. He got forgiveness when he acted out as a freshman—from meandmy dad. And maybe that’s on us. Some people take second chances and they grow. Others think they’ve dodged a bullet.

“The alumni around here will protest. They’ll come for your job,” I say.

My dad chuckles and pushes open the driver’s door.

“Let ’em try. I’m Reed fucking Johnson.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Everyone in this damn town drives a truck nicer than mine. It isn’t hard, I suppose; mine’s sixteen years old, and it needs parts that require special ordering because nobody keeps them on hand. Not in a town this size, at least.

I’m not sure whose red Ford is parked in Peyton’s driveway tonight, but I’m pretty sure I can match every Coolidge coach with what they drive, and this truck . . . it’s not a coach’s.

I stuff my hands into the front of my hoodie. My hair is still wet from my shower, and this beanie isn’t doing much to keep the chill at bay. It’s finally fall in the desert. Or maybe it’s because it’s midnight. Either way, I’m cold. But I have plans tonight, and no matter how cold Peyton might say she is, she’s going to have to tough this out. A lot of work went into this surprise.

I send her a text to let her know I’m waiting in the driveway, then promptly shove my phone and hands back into my front pocket, blowing out to test whether I can see my breath yet. Nothing there. All right, maybe I’m being dramatic. But sixty degrees out here feels different. There’s nothing but stark desertin all directions, a massive field of barley down the road. The wind cuts.

“I’m pretty sure that was you who broke Dad’s MVP trophy! Besides, we both know you threw the ball in the house a lot more than I did.” The guy shouting over his shoulder as he steps through the front door with a bag of trash pauses on the stone step, his mouth hung open and head askew.

I raise a hand.

“Hi. I’m here for Peyton.”

His spine straightens, and he pulls the front door shut behind him, wrapping the band for the trash bag around his wrist and taking deliberate steps toward me. The thought that he might swing that thing and knock me out with it crosses my mind. More than once.

“You must be the boy,” he says, jutting his palm out but not quite smiling.

“Boy, uh . . . yeah, I suppose I’m the boy,” I say, smart enough to know this guy can call me whatever he wants. He looks a lot like Reed. I’m pretty sure they’re related.

“Boy, you got a name?” His brow quirks, our hands still gripped, his hold tighter.

“Wyatt, sir. I’m friends with?—”

“Ah ah, don’t do that,” he says, finally letting my hand go. I flex my fingers becausefuck!He waggles a finger at me.

“I’m sorry. What was I doing?” I shove my hands back into my pocket, mostly to hide that I’m working feeling back into my right one.

“You were lying. You aren’t friends. I know my niece, and she was telling me and my wife Sarah about how you broke my brother’s record tonight, and she had that thing. You know, the thing?” He whirls his finger around the front of his face.

I shake my head in a quick, tiny burst. I have no idea whatthinghe’s talking about.

He snaps his fingers, then looks over his shoulder at the woman who just opened the door.

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