Page 20 of Final Down

“Dude, I’m youronlyclient,” I laugh out. I close the slick wooden cabinet where my change of clothes, phone, wallet—life—is stacked into a neat little pile. There’s a security guard outside this room, and another two by the main entrance. And probably another dozen wandering around the stadium. I don’t think we have any fans yet to keep out, but I guess it’s the non-fans I should worry about.

Bryce slings an arm around me as we walk into the concourse together, and his grin is wide.

“What’s got you in a good mood?” He’s always been hard to read in this way. This man can get excited about the dumbestshit. Hell, I remember he got a sponsorship deal that basically paid in free subs for the rest of the season when we played together that final year. You’d think he’d been given a new kidney.

“You do,” he says, patting my chest in the same spot Whiskey attacked. I wish they’d quit hitting me there.

His arm drops from around me and he walks a stride or two ahead of me so he can spin and walk backward to look me in the eyes.

“No pressure in that. Wow, thanks,” I say in a wry tone.

“Ha! I’m not worried in the least bit. Iknowyou. And today? Today, we’re gonna see the Wyatt Stone I know still beats inside that chest of yours”

His smirk makes me laugh, and not because his pep talk is working some magic, but because I think he might be full of shit.

“Looking past the idea that you supposedlyknowme, tell me, Bryce . . . what is it that’s in store for me today that has you so sure I’m going to hit that turf suddenly a decade younger and a million miles faster?”

He makes a hard stop, and I halt a few inches before running into him. His palms land on my shoulders, and our gazes square up. A few seconds pass, and frankly, his smug grin is starting to piss me off. But then he tilts his head to the right, and I follow his direction, my eyes scanning the field behind him where Chance Hickory, the Cyclone’s hyped QB draft pick, is tossing long balls into the end zone to Coach Phillips.

“Fuuuuuck,” I groan.

“Right? Let’s show this fucker,” Bryce says, squeezing my shoulder pads and shaking me where I stand.

I think he misread myfuuuuuck.

My eyes flit back to his, and his smile drops a hint.

“What? You’re not hyped for this? Since when does Wyatt Stone not thrive under competition? Man, this is where you’reat your best! And this kid, he’s a lot like me when I was in high school.”

“A total dick?” I say, my lip twisted up on the side.

“Ha, ha, very funny,” Bryce says. I move to walk forward, but he stops me, putting pressure on my shoulders again. My focus returns to his face, and I hold on to the stern look in his eyes.

“Okay, maybe a little. Yeah, he’s a dick. And I was a dick. But he’s also arrogant to a fault. And he thinks he knows everything. He thinks he’s invincible. He thinks he’s the second coming of the football quarterback gods. And Wy?”

I tilt my head a hair, mouth closed, brows raised.

“He’s not. He’s no god. He’s a twenty-one-year-old with a whole lot to learn. And he isnotthe guy to lead this team when they host their opening kickoff in a few weeks.”

I blink my attention back to the field, where Chance takes a ball from the basket and instantly drops back a few steps before flinging it fifty yards down the field. It looks easy for him. I bet it doesn’t hurt his elbow the way it sometimes does mine. But I get what Bryce is saying. He’s showing off. This little exercise is meaningless. And it’s careless. If his arm is a commodity, I’m shocked Phillips is putting it at risk by letting him act like a fool. Which means maybe they’rebothlike Bryce was in high school.

Arrogant assholes.

I nod slowly, then meet Bryce’s gaze again.

“Yeah, okay. I see what you’re saying.” I slip my helmet on and come back to his waiting stare, letting him manhandle the sleeves of my practice jersey for a few more seconds. We nod at one another as if we’re back in the tunnel at Arizona, ready to beat our rivals.

“Show them who you are,” he says, sending me on my way with a swift slap to the ass.

I jog out to the sideline, meeting up with Coach Elgin and Jerry, who is dressed more like a coach today than a guy who bought his way into the front office.

“There’s the man,” Jerry says. I smile because all this ego-inflating is well-meaning, but fuck is it embarrassing.

“Morning, Coach.” I pull my helmet off and set it on the sideline the way my dad always taught me. For every team of mine he coached, he would have us line our helmets up as we ran and stretched. We set up in perfect lines. We shouted in unison. We listened and respected, and I carried those lessons with me through high school and college, getting my teammates to follow suit.

“Respect your equipment. Respect your teammates and coaches. And respect your family members who work hard and show up,” my dad always said. It’s the simple things that set the example, and treating this game with respect shows. I just hope Mickey is up there in that box watching.

“You ready to show this kid what’s up?” Jerry’s chuckle crackles, and he snaps the gum in his mouth as his grin pushes into his cheeks. He’s wearing reflective sunglasses, so I can’t make out his eyes, but I sense from the rest of his expression that he’s amused. I think he’s waiting for me to shame this kid a little, maybe knock him off his pedestal. I just hope I don’t get knocked on my ass.

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