Page 19 of Game Face

He pushes off the truck and steps toward me, chewing at the inside of his mouth for a few seconds before looking at me through his lashes.

“I’m sorry.”

I blink a few times, taking in the non-verbal cues from his tight-lipped expression, the heaviness in his eyes, the sincerity of his stare. He means about me—about us, and how he was back then.

“I know.” I won’t say it’s okay. He should know that about me.

He nods and steps closer, stretching his arms out with his head tilted a hair.

“Friends?”

I draw in a sharp breath, and without thinking too hard, I give in and hug him back. It’s a quick embrace, but the way his hand drags against my back when we part, as if he’s clinging to some kind of hope, sticks with me. I get this strange sense that a part of him wanted to kiss me just then.

“Friends,” I echo.

The childlike smile makes its way back to his mouth. He looks lighter, too.

“Go kill it in there. Hope they’re letting you fly,” he says, remembering how much I love the gymnastics of what I do.

I start to walk backward, wanting to end on a high note with him.

“I fly a little. But mostly, I’m there to throw other people in the air. It’s the damn Johnson muscles. My parents made me strong,” I say, flexing a bicep.

“Apples and trees and all that,” he says through a chuckle.

“Something like that,” I say, spinning as I continue to walk away. I hold up a hand to wave bye. I don’t hear anything more from him in return, but I can feel it without looking—he watches me all the way to the gym.

Chapter Nine

Ishould have listened to Peyt when she said to start early. My fault for assuming there wasn’t much left to move.

It felt like we already had so much of her stuff at my place. Her clothes have filled half my closet for a year. My bathroom is basically hers. We make coffee withherKeurig and dinner inherinsta pot. I figured since we were leaving the couch behind, we could get it all in one haul. And we’re turning Whiskey’s old room into a workout room for stretching and yoga. Hence, no bed to move. Whiskey never bothered with a frame so his was just a mattress, and we took that to Tasha’s on our first trip.

Somewhere along the way, though, I miscalculated Peyton’s affinity for shoes. And sweaters. And headwear, including four cowgirl hats. One is my fault since I bought it for her at the spring rodeo. After six hours of carrying Peyton’s boxes into my place—ourplace—I’m wiped. And now I have to run through the entire playbook with our offense while Bryce watches, learns, and repeats. I only hope he doesn’t do it better.

“Let’s start with the wide receiver slants.”

Coach is wearing his game-day sunglasses. They block his eyes completely and obscure most of his expression so there will be no reading into his mood. At least not on his face. The man is always direct and to the point, so everyone’s first assumption is that he’s pissed off. I remind myself not to make that mistake and get caught up in my worries.

“Yes, Coach!”

I pop my mouth guard in and chew at the hard plastic while working the ball in my fingers. Keaton, our number one receiver this year, steps up to the line and I give him a nod.

“Blue, forty-two! Blue, forty-two!” I shout, then fall back a few steps, faking a handoff before spinning out and hitting Keaton mid-stride just beyond the first down.

“Good. Run it again,” Coach says.

I flip my mouth guard around in my mouth, gnawing at it to keep myself from grinning like a child because he praised me. I shouldn’t need so much reassurance, but damn if I don’t. I glance at Bryce, his face stoic, eyes studying my every move. That fucker’s part robot now, I swear. He’s probably calculating every step I take and training his body how to shave off seconds, add in yards, double his speed.

“Blue, forty-two! Blue, forty-two!” I pivot again, letting my body do its thing. Keaton runs the route, and I hit him right at the line, a step before he goes out of bounds.

“Clean it up.” Coach’s criticism is warranted. It’s a good pass if we’re trying to save clock, run a two-minute drill down the field. But this season is all about scoring big. Coach made it clear that he wants us demolishing our opponents. It’s a tough schedule.

“Yes, sir,” I say, chomping on my guard again, this time to hold in the self-admonishing swear words.

I count it off again, dropping back and letting my mind go blank. It’s all rote. Every cell in my body is trained for this.Keaton barely glances over his shoulder before the ball is there for him, and he tucks it in his arm and sprints ahead another fifteen yards.

“There it is. Yes!” Coach claps, then steps forward and points at Bryce.

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