Page 59 of Game Face

Wyatt’s mouth forms an O and he’s at my side in half a second. He’s gentle, taking his time to pull his T-shirt over my head, and though his gaze lingers on my bare breasts, he shows restraint in touching them. I’m a little disappointed, but also, my fifteen minutes is dwindling. There’s time for that later.

Once my bra is on and the shirt is back over my head, Wyatt helps me balance myself as I shimmy out of my shorts. Again, his eyes scan the length of my body, and he bites the tip of his tongue at the sight of my bare ass.

“You should see the front,” I tease, stepping into my cotton panties one foot at a time.

“Fucking hell, that’s not fair,” he groans.

It feels nice to be seen that way, as something sexy. I’ve struggled a lot with my self-esteem the last few days. Not that I need to feel beautiful, but I do need to feel seen. Wyatt gave me that last night. And just now.

Once I’m dressed, shoes on my feet and my leg brace in place to shock my nerves and muscles into the right routine, Wyatt helps me navigate the hallway into the living room. It’s empty, which means my father probably went to the high school this morning to make up for how much time he’s missed with his players, and Grampa is probably at an appointment with my grandma. Wyatt gets the front door for me, and I slowly drag myself through it, staring at the temporary ramp my mom put in to make it easier for me to get up and down the few steps that lead to our driveway.

“Wow,” Wyatt says as he walks beside me along my parents’ ridiculously expansive driveway.

“Don’t gawk,” I say, frustration building in my stomach. I get that this feels impressive to him. I admit that itisimpressive—that I’ve come this far and have gotten this strong. But I want to run. And this . . . it isn’t running.

“Wouldn’t dare,” Wyatt says.

I swallow down that guilty feeling I get whenever I snap at someone. I open my mouth to apologize, but when I meet his eyes, he shakes his head and utters, “Don’t.”

I bite my lower lip and nod, focusing instead on the pathway ahead. Getting on the horse is the easy part of this. It’s the trekover various terrains to make my way to the barn that’s the biggest challenge. I’m sure we’ve gone over the fifteen-minute mark, but I’ve definitely gotten faster. My leg feels steadier, too. I can tell that the exoskeleton is working to improve my sense of balance, but I’m not naïve enough to think I don’t need this walker.

My mom pulls Otis out as we step into the dirt near the barn. He’s our oldest horse, practically an uncle to me at this point. I grew up with him, and his gentle soul seems to be exactly what my heart and body need to heal.

“You ready?” My mom holds the reins out for me to take.

“Yes,” I say, glancing to Wyatt for help. “Just sort of spot me. You’ll know where I need you most.”

“Okay.”

I take the reins in my left hand and brace my body weight on the walker with my right hand. It takes a few attempts for me to shift my body so I’m facing Otis’s side. I grip the saddle as my mom pulls the walker out of the way, and my focus drops to the stirrup.

“Take your time,” my mom says.

Quit racing yourself.

“Can she pull herself up?” Wyatt mutters his question to my mom, probably not wanting to break my concentration, but it still pokes at my pride that he asks her when I’m right here.

“Yes, she can,” I respond. I take in a deep breath, then add, “Sort of.”

“Do you want Wyatt to do it? Or me?” My mom wants me to want Wyatt to do it, probably because I’ve been a little snippy. She’s right. He’s trying to help. And I want him to see me do this. He needs to. For me, and for him.

“Wy, can you help place my right foot in the stirrup?” My gaze flits to him for a second, and I catch the brief panic that widens his eyes and opens his mouth. It kind of fires me up,makes me want to show off a little, which is good, because I’m going to need every ounce of upper body strength I’ve got.

Wyatt moves one hand under my knee, lifting my leg to waist high before taking my foot in his other hand. His mouth is pulled tight with concentration, and it takes him a few seconds to figure out how to maneuver my foot into the stirrup. I fight the urge to hop on my left leg. I know better now. I tried that last time and fell on my ass. Instead, I give myself a moment to feel all the places I’m connected to a base—the ground under my left foot, the stirrup on my right, even if it feels strange, and Otis, my wall directly in front of me.

“You ready, boy?” I run my palm along his body, and he dips his snout, tucking his head enough to see me. He loves me.

“I’m right here. Wyatt’s got your leg.” My mom steps into the left side of my body, her hands bracing my lateral muscles and my upper back while Wyatt’s hands move back to my right foot and my right thigh.

“On three,” I say.

“One. Two. Three!” I grunt the final number out and pull up on the handles my mom fashioned on Otis’s saddle. The straps wrapped around my left hand dig into my skin, and my right arm shakes from the weight of my body. I don’t quit, though. The more it strains my healthy muscles, the harder I work to climb higher. My mom helps with a small boost under my left thigh, and finally, after what feels like several long minutes, I’m high enough to swing my left leg over and embrace Otis from the saddle.

“Good boy,” I say, rubbing his neck and falling forward to kiss this beautiful animal. My eyes tear up, just like they did yesterday.

“Good boy,” I repeat, feeling the warmth of Otis’s neck and the flex of his muscles under my chest and hands as I hug him.

“Wyatt, you want to drive?” My mom holds the reins out for my boyfriend, his smile a work of wonder. I can see the pride etched into the creases at the sides of his eyes, and I know he’s fighting off happy tears, too.

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