Page 51 of Game Face

I run my palm over my face and pull down on my cheeks, stretching my eyes as I meet my friend’s stare.

“Could you hear me out there?”

Whiskey, who was in the opposite end zone hitting pads and practicing snaps for most of the day, shakes with his laughter.

“Fucking Cal heard that temper tantrum, dude! You lost your cool. You completely threw your cool out the window. No fucks given.”

“Gah,” I groan, landing the back of my head on the locker door again with a little thud, self-punishment style.

“I should fix this,” I say, stripping off the rest of my practice clothes and zipping up my bag before heading straight to Coach’s office. I stop short of marching through the door, instead hovering outside when I hear him having words with Coach Skye on the other side. It’s hard to make out everything they’re saying, but my name sure seems to come up a lot. And when the door flies open, revealing me in all my tail-between-my-legs glory, Coach Skye basically confirms my hunch that my behavior is the big topic of the day.

“Speak of the asshole. He’s all yours,” he says, waving a hand to usher me in as he steps out. I’m not sure if I’m the asshole by his statement. I don’t think it matters.

“Go on and shut the door, Wyatt.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, finding my manners again, it seems. I close the door and take the seat across from coach’s desk, my gym bag straps wrapped around one fist as I clutch it between my knees. I’m in ready-to-go position, half expecting to be kicked out as soon as I get comfortable.

“Wyatt, I don’t know if you know this about me, but my wife and I . . . we lost our daughter about twenty-two years ago.”

My gut fills with instant rocks. His gaze meets mine, and I can tell by the way his pupils widen he’s not letting go. Iamthe asshole.

“I’m sorry, Coach. That’s terrible.” My mouth waters at the thought of such a loss. Losing my dad broke me—broke my mom. I can’t imagine what it would have been like for them if it had been the other way—if they’d lost me.

“It was. She had a pretty aggressive form of leukemia. It happened fast, and there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t wish for one more hour with her. Playing with our family dog in the front yard, acting in her school play while her mom and I cram into the last row of seats because I was always late, tearing away Christmas paper to get at her gifts. That girl, she sure lovedart supplies. That last Christmas . . . that was the year we got her an easel.”

He leans back and chuckles at the memory, but his focus sticks to me. I force my upper body to relax but keep my bag held tight. This story has a point, and it could be that I’m not worthy of wearing this jersey with an attitude like this. I’d get it. I’d deserve it.

Coach leans forward, folding his hands together on his desk as he blinks slowly. I adjust my grip on my straps, my toes curling inside my shoes as if trying to grip the ground and ward off being sent away.

“One of the things I loved most about you when we had our recruitment meeting was how you talked about your father. And the way you talkedtoyour mom. You had this sense of right and wrong, this deep understanding of priorities, that just . . . well, it’s rare for young people. Let’s just say that.”

His lip ticks up and I find mine doing the same.

“Thank you, I think?” I eke out.

“You’re welcome. And no thinking about it. It’s a huge compliment.”

I nod and the silence stretches out between us for a few seconds. I fight to hold his gaze, not wanting to look down—to cower.

“I’m starting Bryce Saturday, Wyatt,” he says, and my fist tightens even though the straps are cutting into my skin.

“Yes, sir.” My mouth waters.

“And I know you don’t like it,” he adds, pulling his hands apart and lifting one palm along his desk, urging me to hear him out, I think.

“It’s not that?—”

“Wyatt, I got an earful from Coach Skye. He doesn’t like my decision either. But he doesn’t like you very much right now, so maybe just shut up and listen, okay?”

My muscles slacken and I drop the bag to the floor as I nod.

“You have a resilience that is far too mature for your age, young man. The things you can handle mentally . . . emotionally? Most of us ancient creatures have a tough time with that stuff, but you . . . you take things as they come and compartmentalize and trudge forward. It’s admirable, but it’s not always healthy.”

I mash my lips, wanting to argue with him but not really having a good one. He’s right.

“You are my guy, Wyatt. You are my number one, and you are going to be the face of this program this season as well as long after you are gone. I believe you are that good. I believe you are that type of a man. But we have a chance to give you a little breathing room this weekend, and it’s an opportunity to see what Hampton is made of. It’s not some sort of test for you, but it is a bit of a test for him. If I’m wrong about it, course correction will happen fast, and you’ll be in the game trying to fix my bad decisions. It’s a risk I am taking as the head coach. It’s not just what’s good for the whole of this program looking ahead to possible playoffs and then next season, but it’s also what’s good for you.”

I work my jaw, uncomfortable admitting to feeling weak but recognizing that lately, I have been running on fumes. I’m tired. And I’m worried. All I can think about is Peyton and whether she’s going to be able to meet her own wishes and expectations for herself. I want to fix everything for her, to right the wrongs, reverse time. But I can’t. All I can do is be there. And there’s no way I’mnot showing up. I don’t care what it costs me, or this program.

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