Page 49 of Game Face

“I don’t need anything besides your pleasure.”

The massive hard-on in his sweatpants says otherwise.

“Are you sure?” I really want to touch him, but also, it’s not something I can do easily just yet.

He nods.

“I’m going to wait for when it’s time to put my cock in your pussy again. And then, I’m going to fuck you senseless.”

And right on cue, my nurse knocks at the door to announce it’s time for my vitals. I’m sure my face is bright red. It’s hot, but also, my entire body is now hot. Wyatt can’t seem to temper the massive smirk on his face. I think he rather enjoys seeingme rattled. And he basically seals that deal when he makes a bet with the nurse that my blood pressure may be a little elevated.

I want to die. But also, what a happy death.

Chapter Twenty-One

I’ve only seen Bryce’s dad a handful of times, but the last occurrence made such an impression on me that it must have imprinted his profile deep into my brain. There are a dozen or so visitors in the stands watching our open practice today, mostly reporters speckled around the front two rows behind the training staff and coaches. From across the field, though, I recognize one man—one profile. Alex Hampton, Bryce’s sudden number one fan.

I flip around, knowing Bryce is a few yards behind me, and try to distract him on our way onto the field.

“Hey, did I tell you Peyton threw a ball yesterday?” He’s been supportive of hearing every little accomplishment I have to share about her, and at the news of this latest one, his brows lift high.

“Could she do that before?” he jokes. For being the daughter of a legendary quarterback, Peyton’s athletic talents take a different form. She’s more power, speed—strength.

“Maybe it’s like when Spiderman got bit by the radioactive?—”

“Fuck me, what’s he doing here?” Bryce cuts me off.

It was a good attempt by me, but the second Bryce glances over my shoulder, he has a clear shot of his dad.

“Try to ignore him.” I know it’s an impossible bit of advice the second I utter it, but it had to be said.

“Yeah, you mean the way he always ignored me. Got it.” His heavy brow and soured expression drop a weight into my chest. I’m not sure he’s going to make it through today’s practice without causing a scene.

We drop our gear on the sideline and meander out toward the center of the field along with Shad, Coach Skye, and the receivers group. We do some stretching as a team, then run a few sprints, warming our legs up. Bryce’s attention seems to be pulled away every few seconds during warmups, even as he and I toss the ball to prime our arms for throwing drills. Finally, Coach Skye steps in front of Bryce to block his view of his father.

“Do we have a problem we need to address, Hampton?” Coach Skye is about as warm and fuzzy as our head coach, meaning he’s sharp as a knife and cold as a steel blade.

Bryce’s nostrils flare in response, and I can tell he’s fighting to keep his cool. The student managers for our team are talking the group of visitors through today’s run-down for practice, and Bryce’s father claps louder than everyone else anytime there’s a reason to applaud.

Not wanting Bryce to get himself in trouble, and maybe because I feel I owe the guy, I step in front of him and press my hand on his chest.

“He’s fine. Just anxious to work some new routes today.” Coach’s gaze flashes to me, and he nods with a short laugh before leaving us to finish our long toss.

“I know this sucks, and I’ll tell him you don’t want him to show up here anymore once we get through this practice, but you have to show you can handle yourself without being a hothead in front of Skye and Byers, okay?”

Bryce’s eyes drift to mine, his gaze still hardened, but he nods with a faint exhale.

Somehow, over the last couple of weeks, I’ve started to root for Bryce’s success. Not that I want him to surpass me, but I see the changes he’s making, and I’m seeing the legacy I could maybe leave behind by handing the team over to him next season. Maybe it’s a little selfish of me for wanting the credit for mentoring him too. But it turns out Ilikementoring. And I might just be damn good at it.

“Gentlemen,” Coach Byers says, pulling us into a tight circle. “That tough schedule I’ve been promising? It starts this week. You thought Western put up a fight, but Cal is going to give us hell. Bryce, Wyatt? I know you guys spent some time watching their defense yesterday. Did you see the same weaknesses I did?”

Shit. I did not watch their defense. Granted, Cal has had the same defensive coordinator for eleven years, and they’re known for one thing—shutting down the passing game.

I glance to Bryce, waiting for him to take the lead, but he seems stalled—either panicked because he knows I wasn’t there watching with him, or he’s still distracted by his father, who has started to wander down the row toward the end zone.

“I think we need to open with the run, really hammer it, force them to change up their defense. It’s the only way we’re going to get our receivers involved,” I say, taking a gamble.

“Good. I agree,” Coach says.

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