Page 88 of Home Game

She rips the bill from my fingers as soon as it’s out of my wallet and immediately hands it to Tasha at the booth behind her.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Stone. Here are your three softballs, andthere”—she spins me around to face my idol, now perched on the dunk tank hot seat—“Is your chance to ask my dad for permission.”

“That was not nice, Peyton,” I laugh out.

“What’s this I hear about homecoming?” her dad shouts at me, clearly in on it.

“Uh,” I stammer.

“What’s wrong, big fancy record-breaker? Cat got your tongue?” Reed is piling it on, and his voice booms so there’s now a bit of a crowd. Coach Watts has even stepped up behind me to throw his weight in my corner.

“Don’t fuck this up, Stone,” he taunts.Okay, so maybe not quite in my corner.

I toss the ball in my hand a few times, then let it fly at the target, missing by a few inches. Reed’s laugh breaks through the area like a sharp thunder roll. Soon, others are laughing with him. This is fun for him; I can tell. And I get it. I’m the young punk who broke his records. And I’m in love with his daughter. But I’m gonna hit that target with one of these.

“Guess my accuracy record isn’t in trouble,” he barks out.

I scowl jokingly.

“That’s not even a thing,” I yell, letting the next ball rip. It misses but comes closer.

“Good thing, because you’d never make the list!”

Shit.Now I really want to dunk him. But I’m also still a little afraid of him. And literally half the town is here watching. I glance up and catch the Ferris wheel cart that Bryce is in, and it’s hard to tell from here, but I’m pretty sure he’s watching too. I bet if it weren’t so loud out here with music and the crowd, I could hear him razzing me from up above.

“Come on, Wyatt. You wanna take me to hoco, don’t you?” Peyton says at my ear, her teasing voice definitely not appropriate for her father to hear. I swallow hard and block out the distractions, my focus on the black and white target about thirty feet away.

“All I’m saying is I would have done it on the first toss. So maybe you’re not the hotshot they say you are,” Reed says, and before he can finish his taunt, I sail the ball at the target, nailing it dead center and sending him plummeting into the frigid tank.

“Yes!” Peyton shouts, rushing at me and leaping into my arms, her legs wrapping around my waist as her wet hair chills my cheeks and neck. She kisses me as I swing her around, and when I put her back on the ground, she rushes to her dad with a towel. He’s climbed out of the booth.

“Did you seriously get in that thing just to harass me?”

He chuckles and runs the towel over his head, his CHS coaching shirt glued to his body. Dude looks like Jack Reacher.

He walks past me, still laughing, and his massive hand slaps me on the back twice.

“I sure did, kid. I sure did.”

I turn slowly as he walks over to a picnic table where Nolan is waiting for him with a dry shirt. She holds up a hand in a wave, her smirk matching the same one her daughter flashes.

“You were all in on that, weren’t you?” I piece it together as the words leave my mouth.

“Maybe,” Peyton hums, circling her arms around my waist and resting her head on my chest. “Welcome to the family, Wyatt Stone.”

I keep my eyes on her parents and baby sister while I bend my head down and to the side to kiss the top of her head. I manage to keep my breath steady, but I don’t know what my heart is doing. I don’t want to freak her out with how much her words just hit me, and I definitely don’t want to cry in public right now with so many eyes on me. But that one word—family—is big. It’s maybe even bigger than love. Or maybe itislove. My tiny family has had a really hard year, though. And the fact hers just opened their arms—that Peyton gifted this to me—means more than any stupid record in the books. It’s everything. And so is she.

Second Epilogue

The campus feels even bigger now that I’m grown. I’ve been coming to games at this university for most of my life. My dad has had so many alumni events here, been honored on the field during halftimes, and spoken to the sports management program students for graduations.

Of course, he’s never carried a plastic bin full of fuzzy blankets up three sets of stairs. A first time for everything, I suppose.

“You know they have rooms on the first floor,” he gripes. He’s secretly loving this, and I know it. He’s gushed about how proud he is that I’m now a Wildcat no less than a hundred times since I made the decision.

“Yeah, but Wyatt’s room is on the first floor. I thought?—”

“Never mind. I love stairs. All the stairs. In fact, let’s get you moved to the roof. Or across campus. Or, how about you commute?” He’s kidding. Sort of.

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