Page 25 of Game Face

I guess quarterback fame and my winning personality will have to do.

“Don’t forget!” Peyton hollers before rushing out of our apartment.

I grab my phone to set a reminder, then jump in the shower before logging in to my online portal to catch up on homework for my finance class. I spend an hour balancing a few sample spreadsheets, then buzz through an online quiz after a video that I don’t watch but simply read the closed captioning for. I leave our apartment feeling absolutely zero-percent smarter than I did when I came home last night. But at least I’ll make it to weights with Bryce and Shad on time, then a catered lunch paid for by the booster club, followed by hours of Tech football video from last year.

Bryce is already warming up on the treadmill when I arrive. I let myself feel the pangs that come with my insecurities for exactly four seconds, then tuck them away. The last few days of practice have all been mental works in progress for me, but I’m getting there. And I’m embracing sharing the field with him, despite the piece of me that still wants it all to myself.

“Slackers. Still stuck at eight?” I hop onto my treadmill between Bryce and Shad and warm my way up to nine miles per hour, but I back it down to eight after a minute.

“You know, not all of us are here for our arms, Wyatt.” Bryce is doing a little shit-talking with me this morning because I started calling him Legs after Coach yelled the word at him at least fifty times at practice yesterday.

“Use your legs!”

“Why get legs that big if you can’t use them to get your ass over that line?”

“More legs!”

“Legs! Legs! Fucking legs, goddammit!”

Whiskey caught on first, so full credit for the nickname goes to him. He was coined Bubble Ass our freshman year, which is fitting because his glutes are rock solid but enormous. Hewanted the center job, but he’s too fast to waste his speed. I think he’s come to love playing right guard. I sure as hell love having him there. My collarbone breaker didn’t get through him—he got through the left.

“You gonna start waxing those things, pretty them up?” I tease, pointing to Bryce’s right thigh as we slow to a walk.

“I hear pale and hairy is in now,” he cracks.

Shad spits out laughter on the other side, and for perfect comedic timing, the three of us turn just in time to catch Whiskey stepping into the weight room with his shirt off and his full chest of hair dyed half red and half blue for game day.

“What the ever-loving fuck is that, man?” Shad walks up to him and pokes a finger into the tuft on Whiskey’s right pec.

“My new roommate thought it would be fun.” He levels me with a quick grimace but cracks a smirk when he looks down at himself. He runs his hand through the center of his chest like he’s trying to fluff it up.

“What have I done?” I say to him, putting a hand on his shoulder as I make my way toward the free weights.

It’s a light lifting day, today’s quarterback work out is more about arm care than strength. We’re through our reps in less than an hour and upstairs for lunch before most of the team. I finish my first plate by the time everyone makes their way through the line of food, so I dash up to the serving station to grab one more cornbread muffin before Coach begins his talk.

“Too many of those and you’ll start to look like me.” I halt my hand under the heat lamp, the muffin pinched in my tongs as my grin slowly spreads at the familiar voice.

“Let me guess, they signed you to split time with me too?” I say to Peyton’s dad.

“Shiiiiit, my knees can’t handle that anymore,” Reed says, slinging an arm around me and pulling me into one of thosehugs that instantly reminds me he will always be in charge of whether I live or die because I’m with his daughter.

“Besides, if Iwereto join the team, all your asses would be benched,” he chokes out in a half-cough-half-laugh.

“Reed, good to see you. Come on up,” Coach says, pulling him away from me.

I take my muffin back to the table and sit a little taller. Something about having Reed in my corner gives me strength. Maybe it’s his legacy. It’s sticky. Whoever touches him gets a bit of the magic. At least, that’s the lie I tell myself. So far, it’s working.

Bryce leans toward me across the table.

“You know what this is about?” He nudges his head in Reed’s direction, and I shake my head.

Reed takes a seat at the long table set up at the front of our dining hall. The windows overlook the stadium, and even though the sun is up, the lights are on as workers prep the seats and concourses for tomorrow’s game. There’s nothing quite as grand as running through that tunnel. One more year of it. Then, if I’m lucky, a whole new tunnel.

A few more men around Reed’s age make their way into the dining hall, each of them embraced by a different player. And when Whiskey’s Uncle Luke taps my friend on his shoulder for a surprise, it dawns on me. Whiskey’s dad passed away last year, so his uncle stepped in for family day. Reed . . . he’s here as my family.

“Oh,” I murmur when the full picture hits me.

I glance across the table to meet Bryce’s wide eyes. In a blink, his focus shifts over my shoulder. I follow his line of sight until I see the man I only saw once before. We were in high school, getting our asses handed to us by our high school coaches and a cop after a bunch of the players from both towns schools decided to drag race in the desert. Bryce’s dad came to pick him up—orbail him out if things went that way. He stuck around while we all ran bleachers until the sun came up. He didn’t seem angry or disappointed in his son. He didn’t seem interested at all, now that I recall that night. He sure seems interested now, though.

---