Page 28 of Game Face

“You want a photo with the star? I could never do the crazy shit she does,” he says, holding me close.

The men chuckle but quickly realize that if they want a photo with Wyatt, they’re gonna have to have me in it too because there’s no way he’s letting go.

“Good luck tomorrow,” one of them says after the selfie, shaking Wyatt’s hand.

“Thanks, man. We hope to put up some big numbers this year.”

He wears confidence well. It’s nice to see him standing tall, both physically and emotionally. He’s been doubting himself lately because of his injury and the pressure of splitting time with Bryce. He won’t believe me because it goes against his humble demeanor, but Bryce could end up running every single touchdown this season, and Wyatt would still be the one everyone loves. They’ll wear his number and name on their backs, and they’ll pray he stays local when he goes pro. And not just because we’d never even get near the end zone without his arm. It's because Wyatt Stone is incredibly easy to love.

After an hour of forcing my smile into my cheeks and shaking hands with donors while they regale Wyatt with tales of my father, and even recite Wyatt’s own great plays to him, the arena finally quiets. Whiskey bailed right after our show, but not Wyatt. He stayed for every moment, even when the praise was for our stunt team and had zero to do with football.

“Your cheeks are pink,” I say to him as he hoists my gym bag over his right shoulder, threading his left hand in mine.

“I’ve had a lot of sun lately,” he says. I chuckle and turn into him, lifting on my toes to rub my thumb along his upper lip and cheek.

“I don’t think it’s from the sun. I’m pretty sure you’re wearing more of my lipstick than I am.” There’s a fairly bright smudge on the corner of his mouth, and I decide to leave that one there. I like people knowing he’s taken.

Wyatt backs into the exit door, holding it open for me as I walk through before he twirls me as if we’re dancing. He rolls me into his body, then kisses me hard enough that I think he’s trying to take the rest of my candy red lip color from my face.

He holds me close, locked in his arms as our noses touch. I close my eyes when his mouth moves to kiss my forehead. It’s the little gestures like this, his quiet declarations, his soft adoration, that make my heart feel so certain.

“Thank you,” he croaks.

My eyes flutter open, but I don’t glance up, instead pulling my hands in to grab two fistfuls of his sweatshirt and rests them against his heart.

“My dad didn’t embarrass you, then?” I smirk to myself, sure Reed Johnson got off a joke or two in the mix. My dad loves a captive audience. Especially a tipsy one.

Wyatt’s chest shakes with his silent laugh and his lips land on the top of my head again.

“I love when your dad embarrasses me. Live for it,” he muses.

“Mmm, he has you whipped,” I tease.

“Ha, sure does. Nothing like his daughter, though. I mean, that music must be made in a torture factory. Why is it so loud again?”

I peel back and squint an eye, my mouth twisted.

“Cheer culture.” It’s the same answer I give for all the weird stuff that goes into my passion—the giant bows, the glitter, theuniforms that always seem to choke me a little but tout being “breathable” and offering “the ultimate flexibility.” Liars.

“Ah, yes. Cheer culture.” He takes a step back as his perfect damn smile fills my view. Dimples and sapphire blue eyes, wavy hair that looks sexy from the moment he wakes up. How did I ever resist him to begin with? It’s as though he was cut from a mold I made with wishes and desires.

His smile settles into a softer one, and his tongue peeks out as he traps it between his front teeth like he’s nervous.

“What is it, Wyatt Stone? You want to take me to prom?”

He shakes his head and pulls his lips into a tight smile.

It’s quiet for several long seconds, and for the first time, I feel as though he may ask me to marry him for real right now. My heart thunders, and it gets difficult to hold his gaze. It feels hotter under his stare, as if I haven’t stared into those eyes for nearly the last four years. It’s like I’m looking into them for the first time, and the butterflies are so present my knees feel weak.

Wyatt chuckles and looks up at the sky, spinning on his heels and urging me to walk alongside him again. Our hands thread naturally, and we walk with a slight swing to them. And all the way home, those butterflies . . . they remain.

Chapter Thirteen

“Twenty-nine days, gentleman.”

The locker room is hot as we all stand shoulder pads to pads, hands grasping helmets, eyes forward as Coach walks in the middle of our man-made circle. My feet are teeming with so much electricity I rock back and forth to tame my energy. Half the room does the same. We’re primed, like race cars edging up to the line, the smell of gasoline in the air.

Game day.

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