Page 77 of Game Face

My steady.

My one great thing.

The love of my life.

The soft guitar music shifts into something more here-comes-the-bride, so my dad straightens his jacket and adjusts the Johnson Ranch buckle on his belt before holding his arm out for me.

“Let’s get you hitched.”

I nod and take in my last deep breath before everyone I’ve ever known turns around and stares at me. My dad pulls the curtain open, and together, we make our way along the stone path that leads out to the gazebo my grandpa built with his own two hands years ago. We had it repainted and covered in lights. It’s perfect.

My cheeks hurt from the instant smile that stretches the width of my face seeing my sweet sister drop white petals on the ground before us. I nod silent hellos to the overflow of friends we pass through before we get to the aisle and even more people seated in rows to witness me and Wyatt seal our lives together. When I clear the final guest before the aisle, I stop and squeeze my father’s arm tightly as my soon-to-be husband turns around and takes his first look at me, in boots, in this dress—walking toward him.

Wyatt’s hand covers his mouth, then comes to rest on his chin for a moment as his eyes glisten and his smile beams at me. He looks so proud, but more than that, so in love with me. I am not sure what I did to deserve him. I even tried to ward off football players to avoid men like him one day. Fate had other plans, I guess. And now that I’ve grown up a lot, I see just how incredible those big ole football hunks can be. My dad made hisown mold, and Wyatt did too. Similar yet unique. Both the best men I’ve ever known.

Whiskey pats Wyatt’s back, chuckling at his friend, who is quickly losing it at the altar, and when I step up next to him, he shakes with a very loud sob and immediately laughs.

“Sorry, y’all. It’s just . . . Peyton, you are beautiful.”

I wave my hand at my face again, feeling those tears prickle my eyes.

“Thank you,” I mouth. My father unlocks our arms and transfers my hand to Wyatt’s, squeezing both of ours together and taking a moment to look us both in the eyes.

“I love you both,” he says.

And I know he does.

“You may be seated,” says Charles, our minister who was the chaplain at Wyatt’s father’s fire station. It was the one thing Wyatt truly wanted for our wedding, and I couldn’t think of a more meaningful person to bless our union.

We chose to keep the prayers simple and light, focusing on our commitment to do good for each other and everyone we touch. For a girl who wanted to avoid repeating her parents’ marriage, I sure have switched up my opinion. Now, I hope we’re just like them.

Charles prompts us to say our vows, then hands us each a sparkler. This was my one request, well, besides every other little detail I demanded for the wedding. I wanted to use sparklers to honor my grandfather and my tradition with him.

Whiskey helps us light them and then passes the lighter down the row so the rest of our wedding party can join in. I look up at Wyatt, a strand of hair curled over his right eyebrow, his dimples deep, his blue eyes as clear as the sky, and we nod.

“On the count of three, guys,” he says. “One . . . two . . . three!”

Wyatt and I form a heart by each painting half in the air repeatedly while the members of our party spell out the wordlove or at least come as close to it as they can. Our photographer took a long-exposure shot, and if it comes out right, it might just become my most cherished picture ever.

“Just one more thing, you two. We need some rings,” Charles says. I glance to my mom, who has already slipped from the front row and moved down the aisle to walk Otis up as he carries the small basket with our rings in his mouth.

“What if he eats them?” Tasha whispers, rather loudly.

“Then you’ll have to go in and get them,” Whiskey jokes back.

The two of them stick their tongues out at each other, and anyone who doesn’t know better might think they’re siblings who hate each other. But Wyatt and I know better. Those two have been dating for more than a year now. And they’re both employed. Miracles do happen.

My mom takes the basket from Otis, and Wyatt and I both rub his nose and thank him. She unties the rings from the small ribbon on the pillow inside, then hands them to us.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” we both say, pushing the black metal bands with today’s date engraved into the insides onto our fingers. I wanted to keep his mother’s ring safe and used for special occasions, and with his football and my work with the horses, sturdy and meaningful made sense.

“Can I kiss her now?” Wyatt quirks a brow to Charles, and he nods.

Licking his lips, Wyatt pushes the few stray hairs from my face, the desert breeze working its magic as the sun goes down. With one hand on my back and the other on my cheek, he bends me back slowly and kisses me for what feels like hours. His mouth clings to my upper lip, and my teeth tease his lower one. I’ve waited so long for this day, to be able to move like this, to wear a dress like this, to call him husband.

“I give you Mr. and Mrs. Johnson-Stone,” Charles says, revealing our plan to honor both of our family names.

He holds my gaze as he stands me up, and we can’t stop staring at one another all the way down the aisle. With every hug we give, each handshake and smile, his hand always comes back to mine. The small touches send goose bumps over my skin. The whispers in my ear making sure I’m doing all right warm my heart. But it’s the butterflies that hit my chest when we finally finish our couple photos and his fingertips glide along my bare back that really send me over the edge.

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