Page 5 of Game Face

“Sure. We’re good.” I can tell by his tone that he’s far from good with any of this. Anyone in a five-foot radius can tell, and there are plenty of tables near us with eavesdroppers.

“Mrs. Johnson, it’s good to see you,” Bryce says, nodding toward my mom.

Ever the steady professional, her mouth curves into her famous smile, bright white teeth and dimples beside her glossed pink lips.

“Same, Bryce. I’m glad you’re doing so well. And it’s nice to have you home.” I’m pretty sure my mom means it, too. Bryce’s home life was always a little rough. Hs parents fought in public often and eventually divorced our junior year. My mom always had a soft spot for Bryce because of it. Family is pretty much a bedrock for my parents—it always comes first.

“Thank you, Mrs. Johnson. That means a lot.” Bryce smiles at my mom, then turns his attention to me, the corners of his mouth dropping a hint.

“I really am sorry.” His insistence makes me uneasy, even if it’s an apology.

“It’s fine, Bryce. Really—I’m fine.” My eyes flutter above my forced smile, but thankfully, Bryce was never that great at reading my facial expressions.

He falls back a step and his shoulders drop. I’m pretty sure he just exhaled.

“Well, you all enjoy your night. Wyatt, I’ll see you early for conditioning.”

The two of them nod at one another, and from the outside looking in, I’m sure it seems cordial. But most people can’t see the way Wyatt’s hand has gripped my thigh under the table––possessively. His palm rests on my leg for a few seconds before I clear my throat and he finally pulls it away.

For a few minutes, we all manage to fill the silence by chowing down the rest of the bread. Carbs can only tide us over for so long, though, and per usual, my dad is the one to break the tension in his super non-tactful way.

“So, seems his head games are doing the job, eh, Wyatt?” My dad takes a long sip from his beer as he settles into the leather seatback and stares at my boyfriend with a knowing smirk playing at his mouth.

Wyatt drops what’s left of the bread he’s basically been mashing back into dough and lets out a heavy sigh.

“Reed.” My mom’s tone carries the rest of the meaning.Lay off him tonight. Can’t we just enjoy dinner?

“I’m just giving you shit. You know that, right?” My dad waits a beat for Wyatt to nod, but I can feel the tension rolling off him. I lean forward to catch his sightline, and when our eyes meet, his flutter shut for a few seconds as he exhales for a second time.

“It’s just that I have to watch my back on the field, in the weight room, during freaking media day. I didn’t think I’d be watching my back at Tate’s is all. And you know full well, Peyt”—Wyatt leans in close to me, doing his best to keep his voice down—“He’s not charming you because he wants to mess with me. He wants you to forgive him . . . for everything. And then he just wantsyou, period.”

I drop my chin and draw my brows together a hint.

“At what point do you think I found any of that charming?” I hold Wyatt’s gaze until his mouth finally twitches with the threat of a smile.

“My part was charming, though. Right?” He’s fishing now, but also, he seems more relaxed.

I quirk a brow and turn my attention to the waiter who just stepped up to our tableside. After listening to him share tonight’s specials, we all rattle off our orders, and by the time he finishes filling our glasses with water, it seems like the Bryce conversation is finally done.

Except my dad’s had a few beers tonight. He’s been here chatting up old friends for a while. He’s feeling . . . punchy. And I maybe overshared some things last week when I went home to visit with Grampa.

“Bet you wish you went ahead and moved in with Peyton like she asked,” he blurts out, throwing in, “Not that I like the idea myself, mind you.”

My immediate instinct is to scout the space under our table to see if it can accommodate me. I give up on the idea when I see exactly how filthy the floor is, complete with peanut shells and straw bits. Next to me, Wyatt leans forward, dropping his face into his open palms and pressing his hands into his eyes.

“You’re being a tad loud, Reed,” my mom says, rubbing my father’s arm and mouthing, “Sorry,” to me.

I scan the restaurant, and the good news is fewer people seem to be staring at us now compared to when Bryce stopped by. The sound of a metal object clanking against the tabletop draws my focus to the space between Wyatt’s and my plates. It takes my mind a second to catch up to the key now lying there, and when I pick it up and realize it’s to Wyatt’s apartment—the one he just moved into with Whiskey—I promptly set it back down and slide it in Wyatt’s direction.

“Really? A pity key?” My pulse now thumps from irritability. But before I can push Wyatt out of my way so I can exit the booth, he takes my hand and unfurls my fingers, pressing the key in my palm, holding it in place with his thumb until I glance up and meet his gaze.

“Believe me, there is zero pity in this gesture. I planned on asking you to move in with me tonight, after a lovely dinner with your family. It’s been in the works for a week; I just needed to make sure Whiskey was able to swing a one-bedroom on his own. He’s moving to the unit downstairs next weekend. But since I seem to have veered onto the world’s unluckiest timeline, I’m sure you’ve changed your mind, so?—”

“Wyatt,” I interrupt.

His lips fall shut, but the top one twitches a little as our eyes meet. It’s a nervous tic I’ve learned he has, like it’s hard for him to patiently hold in his thoughts.

“I’d love to live with you,” I say, waiting for his nostrils to flex with his exhale. I know when he’s holding his breath.

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