Page 68 of Game Face

I sigh and he quickly retorts, “Sorry, but I’m not.”

He glances down to our feet, and I follow his gaze. Our toes don’t match up, his left foot pointing at me while mine veers off to the side. I can’t feel it doing that. I feel the shoe over my foot, the compression sock that squeezes me all the way up to my knee. I even feel the chill in the air bringing my skin to pebbles. But I can’t tell that my foot isn’t ready to move forward. And I was just on the cusp of being able to try a step on my own before one blood clot, and not even a long procedure to remove it, ruined everything.

“Let’s get you inside. If you don’t mind, I’d like to stay for dinner and then I’ll let you have your way . . . for now. I’ll go back to campus and get up for weights in the morning, then prep for our game Saturday. But this conversation is only on pause.”

I breathe in through my nose and finally give him a little nod. When he feels free of the weight of having to care for me, he might realize just how much it’s been dragging him down.

Together, we shuffle our way forward, Wyatt knowing me well enough to understand I want to make this awkward walk without anyone’s help but his. I don’t want the walker—the old one or the new one. And though he’s doing most of the walking for me, I’m doing a little. It’s that little that gives me hope that next week there will be more on my own. And then next month, yet even more.

We make it to the door, and Wyatt holds my right side while I brace my body on the railing that my dad had installed to go along with my ramp. I’d like to take the stairs, but that’s way too ambitious. I was just starting to work on the transition from dirt to concrete before this setback. I’ll need to get back up to speed.

While Wyatt moves to my other side to help guide me up the ramp, we’re hit with the spot of headlights, and we both turn to squint to see who it is. The rumble of Whiskey’s truck stops, and when he kills the lights, I’m able to make out both him and Tasha inside. Wyatt chuckles just then, and I glance his way.

“What’s funny?”

He bunches his lips, staring at Whiskey’s truck for a beat, then moving his gaze to me.

“I was on my way to tell you about it before your hospital trip. But you should know, for your own amusement tonight, that Tasha and Whiskey? They’re fucking.”

“They’re . . . what the fuck?”

“Hey, girl!” Tasha shouts, dropping from the passenger side of Whiskey’s lifted truck onto the driveway with aclompas her boots smack down.

I’m still in shock, and no matter how loud my inner voice tells me to pull my shit together, my face doesn’t get the message. When Tasha steps in close enough to make out my features, hereyes instantly flash to Wyatt and her face turns a new shade of red.

“Wyatt! You told her?”

“You two are . . . fucking?” I say, moving my finger between both of our best friends just as my Aunt Sarah opens the front door.

“Hey, everyone! Peyton’s friend and Wyatt’s friend are fucking! Now we all know,” she announces, poking her head out the door and meeting Tasha’s incredulous expression with one only the queen can wear. Nobody does a mic drop like my Aunt Sarah.

Whiskey moves between us, carrying a case of beer as he steps inside. He glances at me on his way, and the smile on his face says it all.

Fucker wore her down.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Ihaven’t thought about the ring since Peyton set these stupid rules in motion a month ago. I mean, I’ve thought about it because I hate that it’s lost, but I haven’t thought about the moment I’ll show it to her—how to give it to her, the words I’ll say, her response.

It’s her response that scares me most. I thought I knew. I took thatyesfor granted, I suppose. I didn’t think anything could break us, but I get that her spirit needs every ounce of her strength right now to heal. It doesn’t mean I like any of this. I do respect it, though. I respect her wish, but I’ll be damned if I’m not going to keep working to change her mind in those little in-between moments when she’ll let me.

Like now.

Her text asking me if I want to come help her ride was waiting on my phone after practice, along with a message from my finance professor letting me know that the test I blew will be the one I get to drop. Lucky for me. That’s a near quote—he told me I was a lucky SOB. I fought the urge to write back that I’drather be a lucky SOB than just an SOB like he is. Probably not the best way to finish a semester.

“We’re going out for happy hour at Tate’s. You want to jump in with me and Tasha?” Whiskey asks.

I chuckle, still blown away that they’re now six weeks in on this thing and somehow growing more and more comfortable with the concept of being a couple.

“I can’t. The boss wants to see me today, so?—”

“Yeah, I get it. You should go.”

Whiskey’s the only one I talked to about my latest relationship challenges. I needed someone to throw my frustrations at, and I didn’t want to lay this on my mom. It’s bad enough that I can’t find her ring. And I knew it wasn’t time to put up a fight with Peyton. I would have just come across as defensive. Besides, she’s the one who said our situation needed time—that I’d come to realize I need to prioritize and focus. Thing is, though, I think she needs this time, too. And my priorities, they’ve only grown more set in stone.

I love this game. I plan to play it for as long as I can. But I plan to be with Peyton forever. That’s my priority. And the sooner she sees I’m firm about that—the sooner she lets me back in—the more whole I’ll be. And I think she’ll be whole, too.

I head down the corridor from the locker room to the student athlete lot, holding up a hand to wave to Tasha when she spots me through the windshield of Whiskey’s truck.

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