Page 55 of Game Face

ME: Are you with them?

It looks like the right color of sunlight for this to be happening right now. I hate that I’m missing it, but I feel so alive seeing it.

MOM: Yes. Nolan invited me over to watch the game. Rose made carnitas.

ME: Tell her I love her.

MOM: Rose?

I snort out a laugh and the sound surprises me. I haven’t laughed for real in a while.

ME: Well, her too. But you know what I mean.

I wait for a minute while my mom appears to be typing, then suddenly my phone buzzes with a short video that appears to be Peyton on the horse. I glance around to make sure I’m alone enough then press play, turning my volume up just enough to hear. I tear up instantly.

“Wyatt, I’m doing it. Can you believe this?”

Peyton’s body sways with her horse’s slow steps. Her mom’s hand is still on her leg. And it looks as though Rose is out in the arena with them. She’s surrounded by support.

“I wanted to do something hard today. For you. I know you have to do something hard soon, and I want you to know that I believe in you. Your greatest gift isn’t how you throw a football,Wyatt. It’s your spirit. You make people believe they can. Now, go have the game you deserve.”

I press my finger to the player for the video and drag it back a few seconds to hear her say that last part again.

I put my phone away and stare for a few long seconds at my closed locker door. Teammates are shuffling around behind me, locker doors slamming shut while the scent of pre-wrap spray filling the air. It’s college game day. My last season in this uniform. The last time I’m going to take on Cal, the school that said they weren’t interested in me when I was a junior. The school my dad said didn’t deserve me.

They’re going to lose today, and it’s going to take two of us working together to get it done. Peyton’s right. So is my mom. It’s time my father’s lessons make an appearance.

“Let’s go!” I shout, turning around and drawing the attention of the few players still in the locker room with me.

“Hell, yeah!” Shad shouts, pushing his palms into my chest. I give it right back to him, hyping him up for a game he has even less of a chance of getting into. Yet look at him—ready to show up for us. However. Whenever.

I lead the dozen players left in the locker room down to the tunnel. The roar of a sold-out stadium rings in my ears, and I mentally convince myself that those screams are for us.For me.

I make my way through the team to the front, where Bryce, Whiskey and Keaton are all holding hands. I break into their line and take Bryce’s hand in my right, Whiskey’s in my left. Turning to face Bryce, I press my face mask against his, both of us breathing like two bulls ready to be cut loose in a town painted red.

“You get that ball; you don’t let it hit the ground. You get your ass in that end zone. And then you do it again.” I grit out the words with so much force I spit.

“Yes, sir!” His fire matches mine.

He unfurls our grip for a second, grabbing the back of my helmet and holding me to him as his eyes lock on mine. It’s a silent thank you. A masculine show of affection. A football love letter.

“I believe in you,” I say.

Just like that, everything clicks behind his eyes. Confidence colors his irises, power flexes his jaw. I grab his helmet back and growl as he does the same, and in a blink, we rush onto the field as a team—all of us and both of us. The boos fuel us. The fireworks fill our senses with the need for destruction. And the brass horns blaring our fight song set a new rhythm in our hearts.

I hype up the team along the sideline as we receive the kick, stopping at Reed long enough for him to see the clarity in my eyes. His heavy hand on my back as I walk away lets me know he’s proud, and when I reach the end of the line for our team, I close my eyes for a moment to see my dad, too.

I feel his shoulders holding me up. I hear his voice telling me he’s proud. I see my mom smiling at both of us. I feel their love. And suddenly, Peyton’s there, sitting tall, kicking the sides of her horse before it sprints off into the sunset as she rides.

Rushing back down the line, I hold my helmet up to fire up our student section too. I can always count on our drunk frat boys to get things going, and their painted, shirtless bodies jump wildly as Miguel Montoya, the best kick returner in college football, gets the ball to the fifty-yard line.

I run over to Bryce, taking up his other side while he gets his orders from Coach. I slap his back a few times to bring the blood to the surface and waken the lion within, and he turns to me just before running backward onto the field.

“This one’s for you, Stone.”

It’s not a taunt. And it’s not him showing off and being arrogant. It’s my friend, my brother, doing something to get meinto the game. He won’t fumble. He’s going to score. In fact, he’s poised to score a lot until Cal is forced to put a stop to him. And then, it’s my turn to carry us home.

With three minutes to go before the half, we’re up twenty-seven to fourteen against a tough Cal team. Bryce has taken a beating, and he exits after getting stopped on the third down, his nose bleeding and the bruise on his right bicep already a deep purple. They’ve closed the gaps, and if they keep that up in the second half, I’ll get my turn.

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