Page 60 of Game Face

“You can cry a little if you want to,” I say, maybe teasing him a little but mostly giving him permission to feel. This is big. I’ve done this twice now, and this time? It was easier. As hard as it was to get up here, it was easier.

“Ha, yeah. Maybe a little,” he admits, running his forearm over his eyes as he sniffles away his reaction.

He takes the reins from my mom, who walks alongside him in case something goes wrong. Otis is the horse my mom uses for her most delicate clients. He is also the horse of choice for all the autism families who come here. He has a way of bringing out joy. And as he takes long, slow steps across the dirt pathway that leads to the arena, he gives that joy to me.

“Is this right?” Wyatt glances over his shoulder to my mom, his eyes locked in an open position, his body rigid. It’s funny, because for a man who flings his body into other men and into the air just to move a ball a few yards, he’s being awfully cautious.

“It’s perfect, Wyatt. You can go a little faster,” my mom says.

Wyatt’s eyes flit to me, and I smile and nod.

“I’m comfortable. And Otis doesn’t really run anymore.”I don’t run so much anymore, either, Otis.

Wyatt picks up the pace a bit, and we make loops and figure eights around the arena, the warm Arizona sun stinging my cheeks with welcome heat. Otis’s tail flaps at flies, and the ends tickle my legs—both of them. I’ve started noting everything I feel, like a mental journal or list for me to appreciate. There are still things that don’t quite feel right when I encounter them, like certain motions and pressure against my bones. But I get hintsof my old self coming back. I miss her. I can’t wait to blend her with this new version of myself. She’s stronger.

She can do anything.

Chapter Twenty-Five

I’ve never been great at interviews.

I know it’s part of the game, at least at this level and beyond. The media side of things is what drives the train, so to speak. Celebrity begets TV contracts, and advertisers bring money to programs, which, in turn, brings more talent. It’s a vicious cycle, the business of sports. And it can get nasty.

While I like to be honest and transparent about everything, I also try to be private. When my dad died, there was a lot of local press about it. He was a big voice in the cancer community for firefighters. And our battle to get him care and coverage was an important story. I just hate that we had to tell it. It was hard on my mom. Hard on me.

I’m coming off the best game of my career, though. And we’re looking at taking on a tough Texas Valley at home this weekend. I’d like to remain Coach’s “guy.” So here I am, at practice an hour early to talk with the guy fromAltheticoabout who knows what. Coach asked, and I said yes. Running away is no longer an option, either, because he’s here now. Coach Skye is walking himup to the press box in the stadium. We thought he might like the view. I hate that I’m in a glass box with only one door out.

“And here he is,” Coach Skye says. He eyes me for an extra beat, the tension still very much present between us since I blew up at him last week. We never discussed it beyond him calling me an asshole as he stormed out of Coach’s office. On the field, it’s been business as usual. I’m kind of bracing myself for him to call me an asshole now.

“Wyatt Stone, meet Kelly Brooks,seniorcollege football reporter forAthletico.” The senior thing must be important, I guess, since Coach Skye leaned into it.

“Kelly, nice to meet you,” I say, standing up from the swivel chair I’ve been spinning in for about ten minutes. I reach out a hand toward the stocky man who appears to be in his forties. He grips my hand back, his shake firm. There’s a certain former-coach vibe emanating from him, from the short-sleeved plaid button down to the nylon cord attached to the temple tips of his glasses.

“Likewise, Wyatt. I really appreciate your time. I’ll try to keep this to the hour they set aside.”

We smile at each other, and I hope like hell he can’t read through mine, becausewe set aside an hour for this?

“It’s fine,” I lie. My chest is tight, but I’m sure I’ll relax when we get into it.

Coach Skye pulls up a chair, and it helps having him in the room as we run through some of the nitty gritty stuff for his story. We cover my background, my love for the game, high school, and my dad. Turns out Kelly’s the son of a firefighter, too. When we start to nerd out over firefighter culture, Coach Skye excuses himself, I think feeling a little awkward and left out. Of course, the second he leaves the room,seniorreporter Kelly dives into the hard stuff.

“So, whose idea was it to run two quarterbacks this year?” He sits back in his chair, his phone recording everything from the table between us. He jots down my key comments in a small notepad propped on his knee.

I smirk and turn my head a tick to give him a sideways glance. He chuckles.

“Yeah, I’ve been doing this a long time, and I know the best answers come when the stiffs leave the room.”

“Stiffs, huh?” I glance through the window to where Coach Skye is jogging out to the sidelines, waving a hand and blowing his whistle.

“Yeah, very few coaches make for good interviews. I mean, there are exceptions, of course. I interviewed Bobby Knight back in the day, and he was colorful. Had plenty to say, most of it unprintable.”

We both laugh. Also, he’s got some good street cred.

“And I’ve given a good interview or two in my time, back when I coached in Texas.”Ah, yes. I heard that accent.

“I had a feeling you coached. Call it instinct.” I leave out the clues I got from his fashion. I need him to like me, at least until this story goes up.

He smiles and shakes his head, holding up a hand.

---