Page 1 of Game Face

Chapter One

I’m already mic’d and I’ve paced the green room about forty times—the approximate number of times Peyton has given me the “stay calm” speech. I don’t know why she’s lecturing me when she’s the one with her hand in a fist and her molars crackling.

“Peyt, I’m fine. I swear. I’ve had an entire spring and summer to get used to the idea.”

Bryce Hampton entered the transfer portal the second it opened after I broke my collarbone at the end of last season. This is his second transfer. He’s on the hunt for playing time, sick of playing backup. And he smelled blood when I went down. I know I’ll need to compete for my spot—half the reason I came to Arizona is because Coach Byers insists every spot is up for grabs. He believes in putting the best team on the field. So do I. And I’m the best guy to lead it.

“I just know how Bryce likes to get under your skin.” Peyton pauses to straighten my shirt collar. I’m not great at shirts with ties. It feels like I’m being choked. Besides, if I adjust things now, I’ll just screw up the mic.

“Hey.” Her eyes stop on mine after she gives my tie a good tug. I cover her hands with my palms. They’re so soft and sweet, like her face. The golden flecks in her brown eyes sparkle sometimes, usually when she’s stressed or excited. I prefer the later. I squeeze her hand a little, then bring it to my mouth, kissing her knuckles.

“I promise I won’t let him get to me.”

She steps up on her toes and presses her lips to mine, her smile stretching as she falls back on her heels. She wants to watch, probably because she’s as curious as I am about what Bryce is going to say in that media room. I should warn her that the minute she walks in there, the only thing people are going to see is her. Even in a white T-shirt tucked neatly into white slacks with what she called “a boring leather belt” this morning, she’s drop-dead gorgeous. Peyton Johnson has this easy way about her but is always somehow completely put together, as if she simply walked off the page of a magazine.

“Good. Now go get ’em.” She pats my chest before backing away and leaving me alone with my thoughts in the room just outside the stadium’s media center.

I run through my talking points, muttering to myself. I didn’t lie to Peyton. It doesn’t matter what Bryce says in our joint interview sessions. There isn’t a voice loud enough to drown out my own, which has not stopped cycling through negative thoughts since I felt the crack near my shoulder after Cal State’s number seventy-four flattened me on my ass. I’ve fought hard to combat each negative thought with a positive one, the way my father taught me.

I’m never going to come back from this.

I can come back from anything.

Everyone will think I’m weak.

I’ll show them I’m not.

Who am I if I’m not a quarterback?

I am a fucking quarterback.

It’s that last question that attacks me most often. And my fear is dismissing it will only last so long. Because I’m not sure who I am without a ball in my hand, without the grind, and without the weight of a team on my shoulders. I thrive under the pressure. Without it, I’m afraid I’ll simply float away.

“Wyatt Stone.”

My mouth sours at the sound of Bryce’s voice. I may be able to handle this situation with grace, but underneath it all, I hate every second of it.

“Hey, Bryce. Been a while,” I say, spinning around as he crosses the room toward me, his hand outstretched. We grasp palms, and I’m pretty sure he’s trying to out-squeeze me. I know I’m testing his grip. Petty. I feel like I win, though.

“Crazy we end up in the same place after all this time, huh? Who would have thought?” He sniffs as he tilts his head up, a little act of fake bravado that’s stuck around since he was in high school.

“I mean, not totally crazy. You did ask to come here in the portal, and it’s not like me being here is a secret.” Okay, maybe I’m not as ready for this as I let Peyton believe.

“Ha.” Bryce snickers, his top lip sneering. He didn’tactuallyfind my observation funny. It wasn’t meant to be.

“Right, well . . . maybe it was about time we teamed up. And with my extra year of eligibility, maybe we’ll see this program winning back-to-back championships.” His eyes lock on mine, and I bite my tongue behind my lips to keep my mouth in check.

“Yeah, maybe. We didn’t really have anyone ready to step in when I leave, so . . .” I turn my back to him and head toward the craft services table, a little ashamed of my passive-aggressive taunt. He started it, though.

His shoulder knocks into mine a second later, and he reaches across me to take a handful of cheese and crackers. He proceeds to crunch in my ear.

“Well, I’m just here to win. Whatever it takes, right?” Pieces of cracker flake from his lips as he speaks. It’s gross. I think he’s trying to push all my buttons.

“For sure,” I say, popping my fist gently-ishinto his shoulder.

“All right, Bryce . . . Wyatt. We’re ready for you.” Sonia, the university athletics communication director, props the door open with her foot as she waves at us to hurry with the clipboard in her hand. She’s wearing a headset and holds up a finger when I ask how feisty the media is this morning. I start to move through the door, but she presses her palm to my shoulder, urging me to pause for a second while she seems to be listening to someone on her intercom.

“Got it. I’ll send him in first.” She drops her headset around her neck and nudges her head toward Bryce.

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