Page 14 of Game Face

Bryce’s eyelids grow heavy, the reality of what his future has become maybe hitting him in the face. Here I am, his one who got away. It doesn’t mean I don’t hope the best for him, though. Or want to see him well. I just wish he wasn’t here, directly in my inner circle. And Wyatt’s.

“Yeah. Meet me out front. I’ll pull my truck up.” Bryce makes eye contact with Whiskey, then turns and strides back out of the bar.

“Did you guys beat that guy?” I ask Whiskey as he ushers me and Tasha out to the street.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to, Peyt. You know I don’t lie to you.”

“Pffft, you lie all the time,” I say, my mouth ticking up with a welcome laugh. My pulse is still firing on all cylinders from the adrenaline rush.

“That’s right, I do lie to you. In that case”—Whiskey pauses as he holds open the exit door—“We hailed him a cab and combed his hair, gave him a mint, and sent him on his way.”

My mouth twists as I roll my eyes, patting Whiskey’s chest as I walk by him through the doorway.

“Such a gentleman,” I say, scanning the sidewalk to my right for any trace of whatreallyhappened.

Chapter Seven

Iknow something is off the second Whiskey texts and says he’s bringing Tasha and Peyton to our place for the night. It’s only ten or so, which means either Tasha went hard and got sick or something happened. The fact there’s no way in hell Whiskey is in any condition to drive is also a red flag, but I figure they called a ride.

Then I see that fucker’s truck in my parking spot.

It’s ironic that I take the stairs to give my heart rate a chance to settle down. Not only do I stand by my reasoning that cardio pulse is different from rage pulse . . . I’m betting on it. Because when I open this door and see—fuck, I don’t know what I’m going to see—I need to be in full control of my faculties.

The TV is on as I step up to my door, the familiar lull of late-nightCollege Football Centralrunning through predictions for next week. The door is unlocked when I open it, so I step inside to find Bryce sitting on the arm of our sectional sofa, Whiskey nursing a beer on the ottoman, and Peyton sitting on the chaise section with Tasha’s head in her lap.

“We opted for a slumber party?” I had three or four lines ready to go based on what the scene was when I entered. This one was the friendliest. It’s a good start.

Bryce gets to his feet first, stuffing his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. His shirt is stretched across his pecs, the damn buttons stretching like some Marvel hero in a poor disguise. Jesus, how is he bigger than me?

“Hey, man. I was waiting around until you got here. I’ll take off. See you at film review tomorrow?” He pulls his right hand from his pocket and holds it out. I eye it skeptically, briefly surveying the room, before shaking it.

“Yeah, at eleven . . . tomorrow. Uh . . . is everything okay here?” I glance around the room again as our hands part.

“Oh, yeah. Just your usual jackass thinking he can feel up Peyton on a dance floor?—”

“I’m sorry, what?”

My whole heart rate plan just went to shit.

Peyton slides Tasha’s head to a pillow and hops to her feet, stepping along the sectional cushions until she gets to the one closest to me. With her arms stretched out, she reaches for me, and I lift her up and over the back of the couch and rest her bare feet on top of my shoes. I’m instantly inspecting her for bruises or injury. She’s no longer wearing that pretty—and short—white dress. Her skin smells like milk and honey, so she must have showered before crawling into my sweatpants and her favorite Coolidge High shirt that she stole from her dad.

“Wyatt,” she says, clutching my face between her cool hands. I realize against her gentle touch just how clenched my jaw is. I meet her gaze.

“Caveman.”

I wince. It’s our term for when I get a bit overprotective.

She pulls her lips together into a tight smile.

“Mmm hmm,” she says as she nods.

Peyton runs her hand through my hair, stroking my cheek with her thumb, and for a brief second, I almost forget other people are in the room.

“It was no big deal. Besides, when Bryce stepped in, the guy practically showed himself out of the club.” Peyton’s eyes scan my face, but when our gazes lock, her hand falls away.

My jaw flexes.

“Bryce.” I repeat his name. Not loud. No anger, despite how much I feel. I had to say it, though, to make sure I heard her right. Not Whiskey, but Bryce.

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