Page 11 of Game Face

“Well, you got the shit part right,” I fire back. I point up to the speaker, which is currently playing some forlorn song about a man’s struggle to be sober and win back the love of his estranged family. “I think we need to reassess the qualities of a good hype tune, dude. Cuz this ain’t it.”

“A-men!” Whiskey says from my other side.

We both pound fists and Bryce waves us off. The tunes change after a few seconds when Deacon, our center, takes over the speakers with the pre-game playlist he made last season. The room thumps with heavy bass while laughter breaks out across the room, more guys piling in and getting amped to kick off the season.

I wipe my face off with my towel, then lean toward Bryce, forcing him to meet my gaze and admit I’m right.

“Okay, I see your point. But don’t bag on country just cuz you don’t understand it. Maybe you just need to join me on my nexttrip to Fort Worth to see my dad. Visit a real bar, listen to some real music.” It’s the first time he’s ever mentioned his dad to me. First time he’s ever brought up family, period. Rather than react with the surprise I feel, I give a nod in a show of consideration.

“Yeah, that might be cool.”

Would it be cool? How well do I want to know this guy?

“I’m gonna take a two-minute cold one before we hit the field,” Bryce says, gesturing his thumb over his shoulder toward the showers. I nod and wait for him to turn the corner out of view before I address Whiskey’s hard stare that I swear is burning a hole in my temple.

Whiskey has been telling me for weeks to go at this thing with Bryce as if we’re old friends, to just pretend the bad blood was never there. It’s what he’s done, though I could make the argument that he’s simply practicing avoidance. But he may have something with the wholemore bees with honeyidea.

“I’m trying it your way, okay? I don’t want to hear it, and no, I’m not going to say you were right. Just . . . let it be, and we’ll see if this works out.” I roll my eyes, but my gaze sticks to him. The fucker chuckles, and even though he doesn’t say it out loud, he’s sure as hell thinking it loud enough.

“I was right” is all over his face.

Maybe Whiskey’s maturing, too, because he manages to keep it to a smug grin, not even adding commentary when we get out to the field and Bryce and I are tossing the ball for warm-ups.

After warmups and team stretching, we break off into our position groups. The two freshmen recruits—who will be redshirting this year—set up a few obstacles and targets for the rest of us. Shad Owens—the guy who was my number two last year as a sophomore—eyes Bryce just over his shoulder. As anxious as this situation makes me feel, it must be eating away at Shad. He was in line to take the reins from me next season, having gotten time on the field for some key running plays lastyear. But now, nothing is certain. Hell,I’mnot certain at this point, and a year ago, I was part of the Heisman conversation.

“Owens, come here,” I say, drawing him out of his mental spiral, at least I hope that’s what I’m about to do.

Bryce follows my gaze and steps out to make room for Shad in our three-man circle. The dude is trying, and damn if it doesn’t feel sincere.

“You wanna run the drills first, show Bryce how it’s done?” I’m trying to set Shad up with some confidence, remind him that he’s still got seniority on this squad even if Bryce is bigger, older . . .better.

“Sure,” Shad says, his response clipped. He steps between us and takes a ball from one of the freshmen, tossing it in his hands a few times before dropping back and running through the various routes.

Bryce watches intently, though he and I both know he can do this drill in his sleep.

“He’s on edge about you. You get it,” I say as we both look on and avoid eye contact.

“That’s the game. I’ve been on edge since my Pop Warner days ended.” Bryce chuckles.

I join in, laughing at the way I used to run the football every damn play. Scoring a dozen touchdowns all on my own, I was forced to learn how to be arealquarterback.

“That was cool of you, by the way,” Bryce says. I glance at him, and he nods toward Shad as our teammate talks with our quarterback coach.

“People need to feel important. They need to know they have value. And everyone out here does—in the game or not. Every single person has a role out here that impacts our result as a team.” I sit with my own words, a little surprised at how much I believe them. Part of it is my dad’s morals that I’ve carried withme, but also, I’ve learned a lot about leadership under Coach Byers. It’s strange to see lessons stick.

Bryce’s hand lands on my back for a second, and the weight of it knocks me forward a half step. He huffs out a short laugh, looking at me with a crooked grin and squinted eyes. It feels kind of rehearsed.

“See, I knew I’d get better just being around you,” he says, patting his hand on my spine once more before jogging toward Shad and Coach to take the ball and run through the drills.

Shad nods and smiles at him, uttering, “Let’s see what you can do, transfer,” as he steps into place next to me. We both look on while Bryce talks through a few things with Coach.

“I get what you did there, Wyatt. I appreciate it, but you should keep your guard up. There’s something about that guy. He feels off somehow. Too . . . nice. Nobody’s that nice.”

“Huh,” I breathe out, pulling the corner of my mouth in tight, not sure whether I wish Shad got more out of my lesson or that I got more out of his.

My eyes snap back to the field at the sound of the whistle, so I bite my tongue and decide to let things be for now with Shad. At some point, I’ll relay the same thoughts I did to Bryce a minute ago, to reassure him that no matter what, he has a place here—that he’s vital.

Just then, Bryce drops back and spins as if he’s broken a tackle, rushing to his right about ten yards before slinging the ball right on target. His moves are crisp, his feet sure. He seems taller now, and the power in his arm feels light years ahead of everyone else out here. The applause from a few of the receivers looking on, as well as from our quarterback coach, elevates what just happened a little more. And when I glance to my left, meeting Shad’sI told you soface, I put my guard back up—just like he said.

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