Page 7 of Game Face

“Why is this so important to you?” His question is so direct, and so unlike him, it takes me a little off-guard.

“I mean, it’s Peyton, Whisk. I want to marry this girl. Moving in together is a big deal for us, and?—”

“No, no. I mean me living with Tasha. Why is that such a big deal? She could find someone else. I’m fine living alone. So, what’s with the tag-teaming to force us together?”

He’s smart enough to know that Peyton and I are working in tandem. I wonder how her side of the pressure campaign is going. I wonder if Tasha threw any punches.

I snag my water bottle from the spare bench and lean against one of the weight racks as I pull the cap and chug. It gives me a few extra seconds to choose my words.

“It’s important to Peyton. That’s why this is important to me.”

“Yeah, I get that. But why?Whyis it important to Peyton?”

My best friend and I lock eyes for a few quiet seconds before I respond.

“Because she knows Tasha will be safe with you,” I finally admit.

This isn’t anything Peyton’s said out loud to me, but it’s something I just know in my gut. Over the three years Peyton and I have been together in college, and even when we met in high school, I’ve gotten a pretty good look at how volatile Tasha can be. She’s a great friend to Peyton. A ride-or-die. It’s just that sometimes her inclination to live on the edge and toy with death is a bit strong. I was with Peyton the summer before college when she had to rush her friend to the ER after alcohol poisoning. And last year, we helped her out of a toxic relationship with a guy who put hands on her. Whiskey remembers that—he helped me send the guy a message at the bar on the outskirts of town. I’m pretty sure my friend’s knuckle prints are permanently encased in that asshole’s face.

“And you’ll pay me?”

I shake my head, my pulse kicking with hope that my friend is on board.

“Absolutely,” I say. “How much?”

My NIL deals are lucrative. My mom set up a few funds for me through the financial advisors the firefighters’ association uses, but it still leaves me with plenty of “fun money.” I know I make more on the side than Whiskey does. He’s the face of Wildcat Pizza, but the deal comes mostly in the form of free slices any time he wants.

“Five hundred a month,” he says. It’s a little strange how fast he rattles off the number, but I push off from the weight rack and stretch out my hand to seal the deal.

“Done,” I say, gripping his palm for a shake.

I dig out my wallet from my gym bag and fish out the five hundred bucks I have on hand, just to make sure he doesn’t back out.

“Wow, you work fast.” He chuckles, taking the money and slipping it into his wallet.

We both zip up our bags. I wipe down the bench with one of the cleansing towels, tossing it in the trash as we make our way to the exit. Just before I reach the door to push it open, it widens in awhooshand I find myself face to face with Bryce. I probably should have timed my lifting session with him, played mentor and all that shit, but after yesterday, I simply needed a break from seeing his face.

Joke’s on me, I suppose, because here’s his face.Right fucking here.

“Hey, man! Good to see you,” Bryce says, taking Whiskey’s hand. They pull each other in for a half hug, years of history tethering them together, despite the way their high school careers ended in rivalry

“You look good,” Bryce says, tapping the back of his hand against Whiskey’s chest. My friend puffs up in response, as if he needs to make himself look any bigger.

“Thanks, man. I’m about two-eighty this year. Looking to make the senior bowl, get myself drafted.”

Bryce and I exchange a quick glance, and I roll my eyes. As confident as Whiskey is on the field, the guy always sells himself short. He’s been worried about being drafted since we stepped foot on the college field. I know for a fact he’s going in the first three rounds. I guess it never hurts to put in the extra work, though.

“Well, I look forward to seeing you out there. Maybe if I get lucky, I can take a few snaps with you to my right this season,” Bryce says.

“No doubt, for sure,” Whiskey says, embracing Bryce one last time. An awkward silence quickly cuts in, and my friend clears his throat before excusing himself, claiming he’s late for something.

Bryce and I are left alone in the doorway, the clanking of weights behind me and the screech of basketball shoes echoing down the hallway behind him, where the women’s team is getting in some off-season time in the fieldhouse.

“You think he just realized you and I are both quarterbacks and me playing means you’re sitting?” Bryce squints at me as he points over his shoulder. He’s not being a dick about it, and I get his tone.

I laugh softly and shake my head.

“He definitely put that together a little late, and I don’t know what the hell he could possibly be late for besides a nap,” I joke.

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