Page 73 of Home Game

“Hey, it’s the new state passing record holder,” her uncle proclaims, standing from his chair and approaching me as if he’s about to bow.

“I don’t think you need to?—”

I stop talking when he drops to a knee in front of Peyton, and she promptly knights him just as she did me. Her uncle winks at me as he stands, then slaps my bicep with a heavy palm. My body quakes from the swift force. I thought I had put on enough weight, but these Johnson men are making me question that.

“Relax,boyfriend.We’re all drunk, and I’ve come around to liking you. My brother will get over it eventually.” He rushes over to Reed and play-punches his shoulder several times.

While everyone else seems loose and relaxed, Reed still has an edge. And as Peyton leads me to a giant sectional in the family room just beyond the table, his eyes follow me like one of those creepy paintings in a haunted house.

I think it’s Peyton’s plan to have me sleep here.Righthere, on this couch. She’s pulling out extra blankets from a trunk and fluffing a pillow for me to lie down. Thankfully, she puts a movie on while her family starts a new round of whatever weird version of poker they’re playing. But she lays her head on my thigh, and every time I glance over my shoulder, Reed’s glare is there waiting for me. I leave my arms up on the sofa back and guard my expression for the next two hours until Peyton’s fallen asleep next to me and Reed and Nolan are cleaning up the mess left on the table.

When the lights switch off behind me, I exhale. There’s no way I’m sleeping a wink here. But maybe now I’ll be able tobreathe. And I can watch Peyton. I’d fight off a dozen sleepless nights to watch the way her top lip curls up when she’s like this.

“Hey.” The whisper from behind me jacks my heart rate up about a thousand, and for a moment, I think I might throw up.

I crane my neck and spot Reed standing near a small light he’s left on behind a massive kitchen island. He calls me over with his hand, and I slowly slip out from under Peyton’s head, resting it on one of the pillows.

All the way to the kitchen I pray for aliens to abduct me, and when that doesn’t happen, I brace myself with one hand on the counter as I stand about two feet away from my idol.

Then Reed holds out his hand, his gaze fixed on mine, his eyes pretty clear for a guy who had several beers. I take his palm and wait for the vice grip I got from his brother, but that’s not what he gives me at all. His shake is firm, brief, and seemingly tinged with respect. I’m so on edge that I half expect it to be followed up with a punch to the face. But it isn’t. Instead, he pulls a stool out and takes a seat, then gestures for me to do the same.

“You like cookies?” He quirks a brow.

“I . . . are you tricking me?”

He chuckles softly, his whisper more like a growl thanks to the alcohol and the fact he’s the manliest man I’ve met other than my dad. He gets up and snags a container sitting next to the fridge, then slides it on the counter between us, pulling the lid off to reveal about a dozen massive chocolate chip cookies.

“My stepmother bakes all damn day. She loves to cook, but she’s going to make me fat. Eat up,” he says, nudging the container closer to me. I take one out and break off a piece, the chocolate literally melting with the butter the second it hits my tongue.

“Oh, my God,” I praise.

He laughs silently and breaks off half a cookie for himself.

“Right? Now you see my problem.”

Reed leaves me with the cookies while he fills two glasses with milk and sets them next to the decadent treats. For a few seconds, we gush over the cookies and enjoy a few bites in uncomfortable silence. The television is a low hum with some afterhours B movie playing that I hope like hell doesn’t have a sex scene right now.

He takes a big swig of his milk, then runs his hand across his mouth, erasing any hint of a ’stache. Then he says, “Congratulations.”

I blink a few times while I swallow my last bite.

“Thank you, Coach,” I basically croak.

A breathy laugh slips out, and he smirks on one side.

“You know, if you’re going to date my daughter, you should probably start calling me Reed.” He lowers his chin and gives me a direct stare.

“I’m going to try, Coach. But you have no idea,” I say through nervous laughter. I take a drink of milk to coat my suddenly dry mouth, then rub the chill from my palms after setting it down.

“Try me,” Reed says.

I look back toward the TV, checking to make sure Peyton is still asleep.

“She’s fine. Girl slept through a hurricane once in Florida. Like, the whole-ass hurricane. For thirty hours straight.”

I nod, impressed.

“Okay, well, I’m not sure how much you know about me, but?—”

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