Page 62 of Game Face

“So, that potential you mentioned . . . you think he had a reason to think Hampton had an edge that you didn’t when it came to the start against Cal?”

He waits me out as I mull that question over. I know what he’s trying to fish out of me—he wants me to say I was mentally distracted because of Peyton’s injury. He wants to make this a story about us rather than simply the game. I won’t pull her into it.

“I can’t speak for him, and you know that would be a foolish move. Coach Byers speaks for himself.”

His mouth pulls into a knowing smirk, and his eyes stick to mine for a few extra seconds while he waits me out. I’m not breaking, though. That’s all he’s going to get on that subject.

“Okay, well, I had to try. You know Coach Byers is a man of very few words.” He glances up from his notebook, and once again, I merely shrug. Nope. Not falling for it.

“Let’s move on to your future, then. Heisman talk is something that’s been bandied about with your name in the past. It was a different kind of start to this season, but your game against Cal has people talking. Are you feeling that pressure?”

I relax a little, laughing off the compliments.

“I’m glad I put up good numbers last week. We need all the yards and big stops we can get with this schedule. And while the chatter about me is nice, it’s not what I’m focusing on. I want to win games. Make the playoffs. Leave this place on the highest note possible. Anything after that is—” I shrug, not wanting to get into my future right now.

“So, the combine. We might see you out there?”

“You might,” I say, purposely vague.

I’m having a harder time masking my impatience, and I think Kelly can feel it. I glance out the window and wait until Coach Byers looks in my direction. I hold up a finger, and he nods. It’s a show for Kelly’s purposes, to hurry this along and get my ass back down on the field where I’m far more comfortable.

“Well, thanks for your time, Wyatt. I’m rooting for you. I think you’re an exciting player to watch. And my best to Peyton.”

My mouth tinges with his overstep, and a sneer creeps along my lips.

“Thank you,” is all I utter. And I don’t shake his hand a second time, instead getting up to hold the door open for him as he tucks his notebook away and drops his phone into his bag.

I follow him down the steps toward the field, one of the reps from the university’s athletic director’s office waiting to walk him out.

“Good luck, again, Wyatt,” he says, holding his hand out to me in front of everyone, probably to see what I’ll do. It kills me to give in, but if I meant what I said—that this place is about the team and not the individual—then I have to get over myself and shake hands with this piranha to leave a good impression.His grip is as firm as before, and I try to forget the feel of it by slinging the football as hard as I can for the next hour.

It seems Bryce is ready to work out his own tension, because he fires the ball back with the same amount of zest. When one of his passes nails me in the diaphragm, knocking my breath away for a brief second, I tuck the ball under my arm and level him with a stare.

“You have to talk to that ass face too?” I ask.

“Nope. Not that ass face,” he says, holding his palms out and snapping for the ball. I toss it back as his jaw flexes and he works through his own shit. I don’t have to press him for details, though. Because his headache is related to him. And that kind of ass face is a whole lot harder to shake.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Ididn’t think I would be up for a house full of people, but it turns out having my other grandparents fly in and pairing my Grandpa Rich with my Grandpa Buck was a gamechanger.

“What exactly is this thing?” Tasha pushes the makeshift “speed walker” that my Grandpa Rich put together with a little engineering help from my Grandpa Buck. The two were out in the shop working all day yesterday, and they refused to let anyone in. It pissed Grandma Rose off because she was sure they were smoking cigars and drinking brandy, both major no-no’s for Buck. Instead, the two handiest men in my life were inventing me something to help get me not just walking but hopefully running sooner rather than later.

“I named it Josh,” I say, pulling myself up to stand between the balance bars.

“Hmm, Josh. He’s cute,” Tasha says, tapping the front where my grandpas built in a headlight.

“Yeah, they envision me taking this puppy out at night sometimes. I’m not there yet, but maybe. Eventually.” I move myhands to the more comfortable grips, ones at a natural height rather than at my armpits, which is what I’ve been dealing with.

“So, how does this thing make you . . . faster?” Tasha quirks a brow.

A deep chuckle gurgles in my throat before I press the button for the small motor that kicks on.

“It drives.” I grin, squeezing the two-handed clutch system lightly, which starts Josh in motion. The all-terrain wheels roll slowly, thanks to a regulator—Grandpa Buck’s idea. I move along the kitchen floor with the device, focusing more on the movement of my hips and legs than how to move a hunk of metal straight ahead.

“Josh, you badass. Look at you navigate that engineered hardwood surface.” Tasha pats the headlight like she’s petting a dog’s snout, and I unfurl the clutch and kill the engine.

“The hope is I start doing more of this outside. I’m sick of the house, and I can only ride and walk Otis in circles so many times.”

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