Page 67 of Game Face

“I just want to sit in the air with you for a little while. Help me to the back of the car?” I look up at him and he nods.

Kneeling, he scoops a hand under my thighs to help me twist in the seat. I loop my hands around his neck and hang from him as he holds my hips and helps me into a standing position. I feel like I’m choking him, and my body feels heavier than it did before.

I prompt Wyatt to brace me under my right arm, and he holds me tightly against his side, my feet barely needing to work as we slowly make our way to the back of my grandmother’s car. I lean against the bumper, not quite sitting but not standing either. It will have to do. Wyatt mimics me.

“Until the sun sets, yeah?”

“Okay,” he answers.

I close my eyes and inhale the desert air. There’s a thread of coolness running through it, like fall wants to happen. It’s different out here. The heat has levels, and when it’s football season, it’s still hot in the desert, but notashot as it can be. But this ribbon of coolness isn’t warm at all. It has a chill. I’m ready for it.

“I don’t want you to come for a while,” I say.

“Peyt—”

I hold up my hand, unable to look at him.

“I’m not being a brat or trying to be dramatic. I’m just being real, Wyatt. I know Bryce had nothing to do with the story that guy wrote?—”

“Pssh, that was just bullshit press, Peyt. That’s nothing.”

I give in to the temptation to look him in the eyes, and when I do, as hard as he’s trying to hide it, I can see his reservation.There’s a weight pulling them down. His upper lip twitches. He feels the pressure.

“You said the Heisman talk wasn’t important,” I point out.

He shrugs.

“It’s not.”

I laugh, then lean my head back to look at the sky when my eyes water.

“But it is, Wyatt. You’ve known for years that this draft class is going to be tough. You’ve put in so much work. It’s the finish line. You cannot take yourself out of the race. Not when you’re this close. And I . . . I have to go back to the starting line. It’s going to take me years to get back to something close to what I was. At least a year to walk on my own.”

“So, I’ll help you,” he says.

My gaze snaps to his.

“But I don’t want you helping me. I want you fighting for your dream.”

We stare into each other’s eyes for several long, quiet seconds while the sun drops below the mountain crests. It paints us with a hue of orange, then violet. It’s beautiful. Wyatt’s beautiful. I love him so much. But I can’t be the thing that pulls him away from his dream.

“I don’t want to be the reason you have resentment in your heart,” I finally say.

“Peyt, I couldn’t. Not ever.”

I shake my head because I know he means it, but I also know it isn’t true. Nobody plans to be resentful; it simply creeps in over time.

“I’ll be right here. We’ll talk every day. Even after the draft. And I’ll memorize whatever time zone you’re in when you get there, to whatever team is lucky to score you. And then, maybe . . .”

“Fuckingmaybe?Peyt, there’s no maybe. There’s us. This isn’t going anywhere. You’re being?—”

“Real. I’m being real, Wyatt. And I agree. I believe in us. But for now, I need to know that you are giving football your all. And I promise I’ll give this my all too.”

He shakes his head again, his gaze drifting off to the side before he steps in front of me and cups my cheeks with both hands. He licks his lips, then closes the short distance to press his mouth to mine, taking his time to suck in my top lip before my bottom. It’s a deep kiss, his tongue tangling with mine until he pulls a soft moan from my body, and my hands move to clutch the front of his sweatshirt on instinct.

When he pulls away, he holds my stare, his mouth a hard line, his eyes devoid of tears—but nothing about his expression is happy.

“We’ll talk about this more later. I’ll let you have your way for now, but . . . uh uh. I’m not done with my argument just yet.”

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