Page 33 of Game Face

Two to three years.

“I know that seems like a long time, but when you think of it in terms of milestones and months, well . . . I don’t want to get ahead. Right now, let’s focus on getting all of the information in front of us, and then we can build our plan of attack. And you get to drive that, Peyton. That timeline will be completely up to you.”

I swallow down the massive ball of doubt and croak, “Okay.”

“I’ll be back in about an hour with news on surgery. We’ll get her prepped,” Dr. Klazmeric says to my father, shaking his hand, then leaving the three of us alone in this suddenly quiet room.

My mom’s heavy inhale is followed by my father’s.

“Two or three years,” I say. My eyes flit to my mom, because it’s her stubbornness I need right now. It’s measured. My dad’s more likely to call everything, “Bullshit.” This is serious, though. There’s nothing bullshit about this bed, the surgical collar, the traction devices, the beeping heart monitor.

“Wyatt’s here,” my father says. I blink a few times at my mom, and she glances at my dad.

“I’ll go get him,” he says, leaving my mother and me alone. They’ve perfected their silent communication. He knows I need this minute with her.

“I know,” she says before I even utter a word.

“Two or three years.” I keep repeating that number. It’s how long I’ve been with Wyatt. I’ve become a woman in that time span. It’s longer than it sounds. And breaking it into months, despite what Dr. Klazmeric says, only makes it feel longer. Thirty-six months!

“We don’t know what we don’t know, Peyt. And I can tell you from years of experience, there is a whole hell of a lot that none of us know. So let’s focus on the now. Wyatt is here, and you’re having surgery soon. Those are two things we can prepare for.”

“Wyatt . . . what do I tell him?”

I love you. I won’t be walking for a few years. Stick around, cool? But focus on football. Because you should. But fuck football. And fuck life sometimes.

“You tell him the truth,” my mom says, her words straightforward and plain. Also, probably right.

“I can’t.” I get those two words out as I hear him moving down the hallway with my dad, and tuck everything elseunderneath my crumbling bravado the moment he opens the door and our eyes meet.

“Peyt, I—” His eyes well up with tears.

“It’s okay.”It’s not.But him crying isn’t going to help either of us. And I don’t want to watch him break down. It’s selfish of me, or maybe it’s not.

“You can come close. Sit down, just . . . be gentle.” I shift my eyes to my mom, and she flashes a quick smirk.

“One of us was sitting on the bed and making waves,” my mom says.

“Let me guess. Reed?” Wyatt says through an emotional laugh.

“Naturally,” I answer, throwing my dad under the bus for my mom’s sake. I meet her eyes when Wyatt leans over me in search of a way to hug me. My mom winks at me, then backs out of the room to give us a few minutes alone.

“Just kiss me. My lips are about the only thing they haven’t put a pin in,” I joke. He doesn’t laugh, but he does kiss me. Softly. It’s sweet, and I lick my bottom lip after he pulls away.

“Your dad mentioned surgery. What do they know? Did you break anything? Is it the spine? And have they ruled out head trauma?” His barrage of questions levels me a bit, and I blink wildly before laughing out the answer I decided to go with for Wyatt—for a little while.

“I don’t know.”

He shifts gently on the mattress and works his hand into mine. I can’t feel it. I can’t squeeze him back. He doesn’t seem to notice, though, or maybe he simply assumes I’m weak and tethered in so many places that I can’t. He doesn’t need to know yet.

“Maybe tell me about the second half. It probably seems trivial, but I’d like to hear it. It’s a good distraction. I hate that I missed it. Your opening drive, Wy?—”

“Peyt.” He tilts his head.

“I know. But please. Just, for a little bit. Pretend with me. Call the game as if I were there and you want to relive the good parts.”

Wyatt’s gaze connects with mine, and we swim in each other’s souls for a few long, quiet seconds. I feel his silent plea. I get his sense of urgency. Fuck, I have it, too. But there’s literally nothing either of us can do right now, like my mom said. We live in the present, and we resolve ourselves to surgery soon, and answers after that. Followed by questions. And more answers. And more questions.

“I ran the third touchdown in myself,” he finally says, and my lungs open with a welcome dose of pride.

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