Page 79 of Home Game

He pauses with the scoop over the chocolate and gives me a wink before looking at Peyton.

“I like this kid. Good choice,” he says.

And finally, I breathe.

The next hour is passed with too much ice cream and stories about Coolidge High’s greatest team of all time, which—despite what history says—is actually Buck’s senior year, when the school was a hundred and forty students strong. I don’t dare challenge him. And frankly, after learning the details of just how crappy the playing conditions were and how lax the safety rules were, I think he might be right. His team was certainly the toughest.

Peyton’s gaze bounces between the two of us while we swap tales of our favorite moments from his son’s career, and I think I score a few points by being able to rattle off his Super Bowl stats from the top of my head.

By the end of the evening, which borders on turning into the next day, I earn a hug from Buck Johnson. And I call him Buck twice, to his face. Peeling myself away is hard, but I can tell he’s getting tired. Plus, the front windows of Peyton’s houseare lighting up with headlights, which probably means Reed is home.

“You better skedaddle. He won’t want you making a habit of spending the night here. Now, what goes on in college . . .” He quirks a brow and my face heats up. Peyton is practically cherry red.

“Oh, my God! Grandpa!” She covers her face with both hands.

As embarrassed as I am discussing anything having to do with me, Peyton, and sleeping—which really meansnotsleeping—in front of Buck, the idea that we might be in the same place next year makes my heart kick extra hard.

“Thank you for the amazing calories,” I say, rubbing my stomach with one hand and taking Peyton’s in the other.

She grins at her grandpa, then twists her head to gaze up at me and mouths, “You did great.”

She walks me to the door, and I’m about to ask her if she’ll walk me out to my truck so I can kiss her like I really want to when Reed flings the door open. His eyes are wide, his jaw flexed, and his mouth is set in a hard line. My stomach drops in an instant.

“Good. I’m glad you’re here and not out in the river bottom with the rest of those jackholes!” He stomps through the house, answering a call on his cell phone as he digs through a kitchen drawer.

My eyes flash to Peyton’s, and she shrugs before following after her dad.

“What’s going on?” she asks. He holds up a finger, answering whoever is on the other line first.

“That’s right. Tell them I said their asses better be running up and down the home stands when I get there.” He pulls out a crinkled notepad and flips through a few pages, seeming to find the one he needs and folding the pages back.

“Yeah, and if Watts’s guys are there, tell them they can run too. Their coach said so. I’m over this shit.”

Reed flattens his phone on the counter and rests his palms on either side. His chin drops into his chest as he mutters a few choice words, then pops his gaze up to meet mine.

I shake my head, the ominous feeling growing in my belly like a bad bowl of chili.

“I’m about out of favors with the Sherriff’s Department. We’re lucky the guys who pulled up on them tonight were former teammates of mine and they called me instead. But someone at the district found out about this shit. And now I have to call the superintendent at . . .” He flips his phone over and huffs out a laugh. “One in the morning.God dammit!”

“Whatshitdid the district find out about?” I swear, if Whiskey was playing with matches . . .

Reed’s eyes flutter slowly, either from exhaustion or frustration. Probably a little of both.

“Apparently, our teams decided it was a good idea to settle their differences by playing chicken in the river bottom. Whiskey’s mom is going to lock that boy in their basement when she sees what he did to his car, which now has a fucking cactus wedged into the front fender.”

My eyes shut lazily the same way Reed’s did.

“Bryce flipped his truck on its side. I guess it’s a blessing the two of them didn’t ram each other head-on. I mean, of course it is, butwhat the hell?What is wrong with these stupid numb nuts?”

“Reed?” Nolan peeks around the corner, her eyes swollen from the rude awakening. Her husband was far from quiet.

He moves over to her and wraps his arms around her, holding her against him as he kisses the top of her head, his rage level instantly softening from a ten to maybe a four. His head is still sunk in his shoulders, and his hands . . . still fists.

“Boys being boys. Well, more like boys being idiots. But I’m gonna be out all night. I need to nip this now before someone gets killed.”

Nolan steps back a hair and looks up at him with concern, her eyes suddenly more awake.

“Nobody got hurt. Miraculously,” Reed says. “I’ll fill you in tomorrow. Get some sleep.”

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