Page 78 of Home Game

“I know.” I’ve been dreading it, though I should be excited. I’m one touchdown away from tying Reed’s record for TDs by a quarterback in Arizona. If I carry it in twice, that record is mine. I’ve honestly been thinking about only passing and handing off when we’re in the red zone, but I keep coming back to how unfair that would be to the team.

“If you need to, can you do what needs to be done?” Seems Coach has been reading my thoughts.

I nod.

He holds my gaze for a few more silent seconds, the locker room clearing out behind me.

“Okay,” he finally says.

He stands and holds out his hand. I shake it.

“Good win. Let’s get one more.”

“Yes, sir,” I answer, leaving his office with a new mountain of pressure on my shoulders, the kind that won’t be easy to explain but that I’m hoping Peyton can help me parse out tonight.

Whiskey found a new spot near the dry riverbed, and it’s become the party place of choice. Most of the guys are heading there, and I’m sure they will wake up with the sun, massively hungover and regretting that they have to drag their asses in for film. If we get a playoff win in a few weeks, that’s when I’ll go. But until then, my mind and my heart are better served somewhere in the middle of the desert at the end of a ridiculously long driveway.

I make it to the ranch twenty minutes later and text Peyton from her driveway. The heart-to-heart with Reed went a long way in making me feel less like the enemy when I’m at her house. But I’ve got a long way to go before I can just barge through her front door and make myself at home.

My phone buzzes in my palm as I hover on the stoop.

PEYTON: Vanilla or chocolate?

My face puzzles.

ME: Is this a trick question?

The door opens a second later, and she’s standing there in my Bills sweatshirt and super baggy sweatpants, her hair pulled into a braid. She giggles as I step inside.

“Not a trick question. Grandpa is making sundaes to celebrate.”

I pause a few steps in front of her, all of that comfort her dad built erased with one word—grandpa. I’m almost more afraid of meeting him. Then another thing about what she said hits me.

“Celebrating? But didn’t you guys lose?” I noticed her dad’s truck wasn’t in the driveway. I’m guessing he’s with his staff, probably working out how they’re going to take Bryce off the bench but still teach him a lesson. Good luck with that. I think there are some things that dude can’t be taught. Right and wrong are at the top of that list.

“We did,” she says, stepping around me and moving her arms around my neck.

“We’re celebrating your win.”

Her hands are cold against my skin, but it feels nice. Besides, her lips warm me a second later. Of course, when I hear an older man clear his throat just beyond her shoulder and I pop one eye open to see her grandfather giving me an evil stare, all of that warmth turns into a sudden need to vomit.

I pull my lips away, but Peyton holds on to my bottom lip with her teeth, somehow making the whole scene feel even more inappropriate.

“You Wyatt?” the man snarls.

I fucking suck at first impressions.

“Yes, sir. I am. You must be Mr. Johnson.” My mouth feels like a desert. And my tongue feels fat. Yet, somehow I push forward and shake his hand. He leans forward as he laughs, but doesn’t leave what looks like a mobility chair. There’s an oxygen tank fixed to the side, but the cannula isn’t on his face.

“My son said he tried to break you of that Mr. Johnson bull crap. I’m Buck. Everybody calls me Buck. You go around trying to get my attention with themisterbusiness, I’ll never turn around. You got it?”

He drops my hand and laughs again.

I think he means to set me at ease, but my muscles are cramping from shoulder to toe, I’m so tense.

“Vanilla or chocolate, Wyatt?” he says. His chair is pushed up to the table and two giant tubs of ice cream sit in the middle along with various toppings and whipped cream cans. Clearly, he isn’t worried about overdoing the sweets.

“Can I have both?” I say.

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