Page 83 of Home Game

“That bad?” He cracks one eye open.

“Worse,” I joke. Sort of.

Wyatt steps forward, and I take one back, maintaining the few inches between us as he shuffles us from his bedroom, through the hallway, and into his bathroom across the way.

“Your mom is home,” I whisper.

“And she’s asleep all the way over there,” he says, leaning his head to the side as our eyes meet.

I bite my bottom lip, and he pushes the door closed behind him.

“Plus, this thing locks,” he says, the soft click filling me with a little more courage.

My ass against the sink counter, Wyatt moves into me, his hands reaching for the bottom of the Bills sweatshirt I’ve come to love. He begins to pull it up my stomach, and I help him along the way, pulling it over my head and tossing it by the sink. His hands fall to the countertop on either side of me, caging me, as his mouth drops to my neck. His kiss is hot against my skin, and as his right hand glides up my arm and over my shoulder to my bra strap, I drop my hands to the button and zipper for his jeans.

He slips the strap over my shoulder as I push his jeans down his hips, and my hand sinks into his boxers. He reaches behind me to unclasp the white lace demi-cup bra so it can fall between us.

My hand finds him hard, and I grasp his length, stroking him slowly as he sinks his teeth into my shoulder to muffle his growl. His hands slide to my hips, hooking into the band of my sweats and panties, pushing them down my body. He moves back and steps out of his jeans and boxers before turning to the glass shower door. Once inside, he turns the water on and turns to face me as the water cascades down his hard chest and flattenshis hair over his eyes. He pushes it back, his gaze no longer as tired as it is hungry, and he bends his finger, urging me under the water with him.

I step through the door and latch it behind me before holding out a palm to feel the water’s temperature. It’s still cool, but it’s warming quickly—as am I. Wyatt gently tugs my wrist, drawing me into him, and once I’m in his arms, he slides his palm up my spine and into my hair as his mouth covers mine.

The water rains down on us as our fingers roam each other’s curves. His hard-on is hot against my thigh, and a few times I move to let it slide between my legs. Each time his tip grazes along my swollen skin, I nearly come undone. Wyatt must sense it because eventually his hand trails down my stomach and between my legs where he sinks a finger inside.

My face rests against his chest, my mouth open as the water cascades over my face. I take his cock in my hand and stroke him long and slow, running my thumb gently over the tip when I feel him swell under my touch. We touch each other with heat and urgency, stealing kisses between breaths as our hands work one another until I’m grinding against his palm with shudders as he comes against my thigh.

His hand remains between my legs, even after I let go of him, and he turns me so my back is against his body while he continues to kiss my neck. He rubs me in small circles, bringing me to the brink again, and when my knees threaten to give out, he holds me tighter against his body, his other hand clutching my breast while I endure wave after wave.

Finally, my head slung forward, he removes his hand from my lower body and urges me to face him again. He pours a small dab of body wash into his palm to lather my body while I stare at his beautiful face. His dark lashes blink as they are flecked with small droplets of water, and his full lips rest in this barely there smile that looks both guilty and satisfied. Unable to resist, I stepup on my toes and cup his face in my palms, forcing him to blink his eyes open on mine.

“Give me some of that,” I say, glancing to the body wash on the shelf. “You need it more than I do.”

His lip curls on one side as he tries to hold in his laughter, and he hands me the soap. I pour a generous amount into my palm and glide my hands over the ridges along his stomach and chest, then up his neck and into his hair. Touching him like this somehow feels more intimate.

The water cools, so Wyatt twists it off and opens the glass door to snag a towel from the nearby hook. He holds it out for me, wrapping it around my torso as I step onto the soft blue rug in the middle of the bathroom. He wraps a second towel around himself before gathering up our discarded clothes and unlocking the door. He scans the hallway before ushering me back into his room, dressing me back in my clothes and kissing my lips raw before forcing himself to get ready to head to Vista to watch film.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Football is my life. It’s been my life from the moment I was born. I expect it will be a part of my life for the foreseeable future.

Of course, cheering in college means I’ll be bound to football in an auxiliary sort of way; it’s always in the background of this sport I love. Stunts and tumbling. Choreography with strength. A sense of team that I can call my own. But maybe I care about the game a little more than I used to. Perhaps there’s something else I love about it, beyond just a setting for me to cheer.

I think I love the boy. And nobody is more surprised by that than I am.

The air is thick with the scent of grilled turkey legs, kettle corn, hot dogs, and sugar. It’s a fall Friday night in Coolidge, Arizona, and this stadium was built for this. I’ve been shaking my hands with glittery blue poms for the last hour as the marching band plays the fight song on constant repeat. My cheeks hurt from smiling. I’m pretty sure the entire town shut down for this game. And the news trucks parked behind thesouth end zone lead me to believe there are people from outside our boundaries here tonight, too.

“You ready?” I say to my dad as he passes behind our cheer line. We’ve greeted every guest on their way into the stadium, Vista Mustang and Coolidge Bear fan alike.

“Born ready, sweetheart,” he says, kissing my cheek as I jut it toward him.

My father jogs toward the locker room while I continue the stomping and spinning, pom poms glittering at my sides to the rhythm of the drumline.

“One more time,” our drum major shouts, his finger spinning in the air to repeat the fight song again.

“Jesus,” Tasha mutters at my side.

I laugh, but as painful as the smile on my face is, I can’t help it. I’m happy to be here. To have this. Because, unlike my best friends, I know how close it all was to falling apart.

There are some things I can’t talk about outside the family—football business I’m privy to—though I told Wyatt everything. Some of the shadiness that happens behind the scenes makes me uncomfortable because there are always politics involved. If we were in the Valley, part of a bigger school system, or in a big city, both of our seasons would have been wiped away this week. We’d maybe have gotten to play this game, but most of the players would have been suspended. And the game wouldn’t have counted for shit.

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