Page 56 of Game Face

“Stone, get in there!” Coach shouts.

Or maybe I’ll get my shot now.

My pulse ratchets up as I slam my helmet on my head just before Coach pulls my face in close to his. It’s a fourth and long, and there are three minutes left, which means if I fuck this up, Cal gets the ball in a pretty good spot with plenty of time on the clock. But if I pull this off?—

“You’re my guy,” he says, his gaze locking on mine, his mouth a stoic straight line. “Get it done.”

“Yes, Coach!”

I rush out to the field, half the stadium losing their minds in my favor, the other half wishing nothing but my total demise. I’m about to fucking ruin their day.

“Hey, look who’s back!” Keaton punches my left shoulder pad, and I give him a nod.

“Time to let it fly, boys You know what to do.”

We break and hit the line, the Cal defense scrambling at our quick change in plans. I count off the snap and my world turns to slow motion. The ball in my hands, I fade to back while the line holds the pocket to buy Keaton time. My eyes are like military target locks, my arm the missile launch, and Keaton the destination. He’s not as deep as I want him to be, but the pocket is collapsing around me. I spin out, avoiding a tackle, and run tothe opposite side of the field, but Keaton’s in lock step with some pretty good coverage. It’s too risky.

I don’t panic. There isn’t time. Instead, I chart my path and run. It’s not what Cal is expecting, not from me, so I easily manage the first down. But then a hole breaks wide open in front of me, and I turn up my speed. In seconds, I’m in the end zone, spinning the ball right before Keaton lifts me up.

“Hell yeah, motherfuckers! Hell yeah!” Whiskey rushes at me, bumping my chest with his, and I ricochet a few feet back. It’s the best feeling in the world, even if it hurts.

Coach grabs my arm when I hit the sideline and pats my helmet a few times, meeting my eyes.

“There’s my guy! There he is!” He sends me off with praise, and I head right to Bryce, who blasts into me the same as Whiskey did.

We end up holding Cal until the half, and I finish out the game with two touchdown passes and two flawless quarters.

I use my game MVP status to get my own seat on the bus, tucked in the back, away from the rowdy linemen and the annoying loud country music being played by one of the assistant coaches. Peyton texted me her own play-by-play reactions throughout the game, and I’ve read them at least a dozen times. My favorite is when she sent the tongue-out emoji for some reason. I’m going to need clarification on that. I promise her I’ll call when we get through the mountains, but by the time most of the guys on the bus are either passed out or watching videos on their phones, it’s close to midnight.

I chance that she’s awake, sinking low in my seat as I press call. I pop my earbuds in so I can keep the volume low. She answers in a groggy voice after about three rings.

“Hey, how late is it?”

I feel bad. She was asleep.

“It’s almost midnight. I’m sorry, I just got a signal. You go back to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.” I’m talking in a hushed tone, but it feels loud on the quiet bus. I maybe should have called during the country music binge. Of course, then I wouldn’t have been able to hear her.

“Hmm, okay. Hey, Wy?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“I’m so proud of you.”

I smile to myself, wishing I video called her instead so I could see the sleepy look on her face. I love it when her eyes fight to stay awake, and I love it even more when she gives in. Her lips always part with the sweetest breath, her nose crinkling whenever it’s tickled.Sometimes that’s my fault . . . on purpose. Because it’s cute.

“I’m prouder,” I say, knowing she’s already fallen asleep and hasn’t hung up. I listen to her sleep for a few minutes, the buzz of the fan in her room, the soft hum she makes when she nuzzles into her pillow. She’s had to train herself to sleep on her back, and she’s still never rested enough.

Since I’m still wired on the high from my game, and from hearing her voice, however brief, I decide the moment we get off this bus, I’m heading right to my truck and driving the sixty-five miles of desert to hold her through the rest of the early morning hours. I want to bring her breakfast in bed.

And then, I want to help her ride a horse again. Because I hate that I missed it, but I love that she can.

Chapter Twenty-Four

At first, I think it’s a dream. Wyatt’s fingers sweep my hair from my face before moving to my arm, painting it with a soft touch that lulls me into a deeper dream.

But this isn’t a dream. This is real. He’s here, in my bed. And his hair is wet as if he just stepped out of the shower. I force my eyelids open for proof and am hit with the faint outline of his jaw. His lip tips up, the room softly lit from the bathroom light through the cracked door.

“Hi,” he whispers.

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