Page 43 of Game Face

“It’s almost kick-off,” my dad says as the scent of Rose’s soup hits my nose.

“Oh, my God, I need that now,” I say, turning to my left where my mom has already set up the rolling table with a steaming bowl. Grandpa likes her pozole, but for me, this creamy bowl of perfection can never go wrong.

“She shredded the chicken a bit finer,” my mom says.

The spoon is already in my hand and I’m sifting the broth to cool it enough to devour. My grandma’s soup is more like pureed enchiladas, which is probably why I love it so much. Unable to wait, I bring the first bite to my mouth and suck it in, not even caring when it burns my tongue a little.

“Heaven,” I say, glancing at the discarded oatmeal bowl from this morning. I glower at it and my dad laughs before clearing my old dishes.

“I’d think he was trying to impress the cute orderlies by helping out so much if they weren’t all six-foot-tall men in their fifties,” my mom jokes.

“Oh, he’s trying to impress them all right. One of them said he was a fan, and you know Dad. Has to show off how he’s Captain America,” I say before blowing on my next bite of soup.

My father comes back into the room after a few minutes, probably having taken my dishes all the way down to the cafeteria. He ups the volume on the TV, and I settle in, watching for Wyatt between every slurp from my spoon. After a few minutes, my dad’s phone rings with a FaceTime call. He smiles at the screen and quickly hands the phone over to me.

“He wanted to watch the game today with his favorite buddy,” Rose says, flipping her phone so the camera captures both her and my Grandpa Buck.

“Hey, kiddo. Gonna be a tough one today. You ready?” My grandfather’s voice warms me as much as my grandmother’s food, and for the first time since I got here, I feel a tiny sense of home.

“I have faith,” I say, propping my dad’s phone on my table so I can have everyone in my family with me while I watch the love of my life leave it all out on the field.

My little sister pops in and out of the camera every few minutes, wanting to share everything about her last week at school with me, including the bit about the boy who picked her last for dodgeball. I make eyes at my mom as Ellie talks about how gross that boy is—his name’s Jacob.Oh, Ellie. He likes you. And you thinking he’s so gross? Yeah, you like him back.

With Deathtrap parked on the other side of the room and a full belly from real food, I settle in just as Wyatt runs ontothe field. Grandpa claps, and I catch him sitting forward in his favorite chair just before Wyatt takes his first snap. He rushes out of the pocket a little early, and I wince, bracing myself for him to pay for it, but he quickly breaks free of a tackle and runs the ball for a fourteen-yard gain.

My gaze flashes to my dad, who insists on standing when he watches Wyatt play. He folds his arms over his chest and rocks on his feet. He may as well be out there on the field coaching him. The sight makes me chuckle softly.

The next play is a pass that hits Keaton in the chest, but he somehow can’t hang on to it. And despite Wyatt setting an aggressive tone out of the gate, they end up having to kick after a loss of two on a running attempt and an overthrow out of bounds.

“It’s all right. We knew Western was going to come out hard,” my dad says. He steps around my bed and takes his phone for a few minutes to swap game plans with my grandfather that nobody can hear or put into action. My mom rolls her eyes, then reaches into her tote bag to pull out a small bag of homemade tortilla chips she smuggled in.

“Don’t tell anyone. They didn’t want me giving you so much salt but you’re not a senior citizen. I think you’ll be fine.”

My grin spreads wide as I dig my hand into the oil-stained paper sack. I try to mute the crunch from my first bite, but my father’s Batman-like hearing hones right in, and his hand scoops out about a dozen chips in one swoop.

“Dammit,” my mom mutters. I think she wanted to hoard the chips for herself and me even more than she wanted to hide them from the medical staff.

Our defense does its job, and the ball is back in Wyatt’s hands after Western goes three and out. My superstitious grandfather insists that my dad put the phone back where it was, andtogether, he and I root Wyatt down the field in five plays. But with four yards to go, Coach sends in Bryce.

“Fuck,” I say, getting a quick reprimand from my mom, even though I’ve heard her drop dozens of those over the years while watching my dad. And when Bryce takes the snap and fumbles the ball for a turnover, it’s her turn to drop the F-bomb. I glance her way with pursed lips, but instead of pointing out the hypocrisy, I simply agree with her.

My dad groans and steps out of the room. I can’t see him, but I’m sure he’s pacing with his hands threaded behind his neck while he mentally lists all the things that went wrong with that play. I don’t want to be so hard on Bryce, but this one’s all on him—he has to hold on to the ball.

The first quarter finishes scoreless, but Wyatt manages to throw deep for a quick touchdown in the second. And by the time the fourth is winding down, we’ve managed to climb up by four touchdowns, the last one scored by a defensive recovery.

Bryce got in a few more times, mostly to run the ball on sneaks for a yard or two to get first downs. His frustration is obvious on his face, but I’m having a hard time worrying about him in the wake of Wyatt having a breakout game.

My family celebrates the win, keeping my grandparents on video chat for about half an hour after the game ends. Knowing my end of the bargain I made with Dr. K is coming due, I blow kisses to my grandparents and hug my parents goodbye so they can head home for a little rest of their own.

Steven’s still on shift, so it’s just him and me walking the hallway. I’m less ambitious now, maybe less motivated too, what with no promise of putting off the next round again, like last time. Plus, I’m tired. I’ve never been tired like this. We make our there-and-back trip down the hallway a little faster than the first attempt this morning, and I settle in for a well-earned nap when he puts Deathtrap back in its corner.

My room is dark when I wake. I’m not quite sure how long I slept, but based on the rounds I’ve memorized, I’m guessing it was near three hours. The nurse checks my vitals and forces me to stand for a few minutes to keep my body healing. As I shake holding myself up at the foot of my bed, though, I’m not sure how much healing is being done. At this point, maybe sleep would do more good.

She helps me back into bed, and I snag my phone from its charging cord before she leaves. It’s only seven at night, but it feels impossibly late. I’ve also missed a call and a text from Wyatt.

WYATT: You must be sleeping. Flight lands at seven your time.

I reply, letting him know I’m awake, hoping maybe he’s gotten in early. I’m staring at my message, waiting for it to saydelivered,when the phone buzzes in my palm with his call.

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