Page 15 of Game Face

The way her eyelashes flutter tells me she probably wishes she had left that part out. I wish she did too. But we don’t leave things out between us. It’s why I believe in us so hard. Still doesn’t make petty jealousy any easier to wear.

“I should let you guys get some rest. I’m just glad I was there.” Bryce’s hand pats my shoulder on his way out, and he looks toward my face, but our eyes don’t meet.

“Me, too,” I croak.

“See ya, Whisk,” Bryce says, pulling my friend out of his near nap across the room.

“Oh, yeah, man. Pleasure working security with you,” Whiskey laughs out.

Peyton follows Bryce out, sending him away with a quiet, “Good night,” before she shuts the door in his wake and twists the bolt. She turns to face me, leaving her back against the door, and everything in her eyes is telling me not to go there mentally. But I’m already there. In the jealous,I-hate-that-she-ever-kissed-that-guy, why-is-he-in-my-universeplace.

“Welp. That’s my cue,” Whiskey says, grunting as he pulls himself up to stand. He flips open the top of the ottoman to pull out a blanket, then sets his beer on the side table before spreading it out over Tasha. I’d love to tease him about how he’salready doting over her, but I’m too focused on the tightness in my stomach and the fact I can still smell Bryce’s fucking cologne.

“Good night, you two.” Whiskey lifts his brows as our eyes meet on his way to his bedroom for the last time.

Tomorrow, we haul his boxes to Tasha’s and bring here the rest of Peyton’s clothes and some of her appliances, along with her pots and pans. The purple velvet couch that Peyton bought last year is her parting gift to Tasha.

“So . . . do we want to talk about whatever this is?” Peyton taps the center of my chest and glances toward the door, where Bryce’s ghost still lingers. At least, for me.

“Talk about it in your room, you assholes,” Tasha groans from the couch, pulling one of the cushions down to cover her head.

Peyton tilts her head toward my room, and I follow behind her as she pads her bare feet along the wooden floors. She walks straight to my bed, plopping on the end and folding her legs up as she stares at me, eyes wide and blinking with certain hope that I’ll say something smart. I shrug and lean against the door, dropping my hands into the front of my hoodie.

“You know I love you, and only you, right?” Her head falls to her right shoulder as she speaks, her mouth pulled into a pouty frown that I think is meant to show care and sympathy, but somehow only makes me feel like an idiot.

“You know it’s not about that. And you know this is all me, in my head, and has nothing to do with you at all, right?” I step into the middle of the room, pull my sweatshirt off, and toss it toward my closet, dropping my hands in the front pockets of my jeans. I swear, Bryce made me feel underdressed.

“I do,” she says, reaching out her hands. I kick my shoes off and move toward her, stopping when her palms slide into mine. I rub circles with my thumbs on the backs of her hands as Ichew at the inside of my cheek and search for the words that can explain the noise in my head.

“I need you to know one thing, and that’s it. If you hear me out on this and maybe understand it, I promise I’ll try my best to keep this version of caveman in check.” My eyes flit up to meet her soft, doe-like gaze. Her tongue peeks out from between her lips, and it clears all my thoughts away for a moment because she’s so fucking cute. A part of me wants to abandon this effort to be the mature guy who can talk about his feelings and instead push her on her back and bite that tongue. I decide it’s best I look down at the floor until I get this out of my system.

“Bryce being here, the whole competition for football thing, playing time, him being—” I waggle my head but keep my eyes down. “Good, I’ll admit. He’s more than good. And all of it has been harder than I thought it would be.”

“I know—” she starts.

I lift my gaze and pull my lips in tight when our eyes meet. I shake my head slightly and she bites her bottom lip, letting me finish.

“I can handle the bruised ego when it comes to football. I’m strong enough for that. But when it’s you?—”

“Wyatt,” she whispers my name. Her legs unfold as she tugs me close enough that she can press her chin into my belly and stare up at me.

Every day that passes, I swear she grows more beautiful. The girl I fell for in high school is becoming this force—this woman with an incredibly wide smile, with cheeks that wear the sun, and golden hair that frames her face like a queen. And she is a queen—myqueen. I cup her face with my hands, weaving my fingertips into her hair line as she blinks up at me.

“It’s not that I don’t like that Bryce was the one to step in tonight and be your hero. It’s more that I hate it wasn’t me.”

She blinks at me slowly, her mouth stretching into the barely-there grin of hers that I love so much.

“I understand,” she says, her voice a little rough, but her eyes wide and locked on mine.

“Thank you,” I say, drawing my hands along her jawline until my right thumb reaches her mouth. I brush the pad along her bottom lip, and she parts her mouth open a hint as a tiny breath escapes.

I lift her chin more and run my thumb back across her skin, and this time her lips part fully, suckling my thumb and holding it briefly between her teeth.

“I get a little feral at the thought of some jerk touching you, you know,” I say, and her lips smile around my thumb.

“You’re mine,” I add.

“I’m yours.”

---