Page 35 of Final Down

I keep walking, and I nod before turning my attention to the bar. I hold my tongue until I spot a familiar round body nestled into the corner stool at the end of the bar. Coach Elgin looks to be finishing up a steak he probably shouldn’t be eating, but he’s still nursing a beer, so I take the seat next to him.

“Hey, Wy. You need a menu?” He runs a napkin over his mouth, then reaches across the bar and grabs a laminated page with maybe a dozen items printed on the front.

“I don’t think I can eat that,” I say, nodding toward his plate. “I’d be a slug tomorrow.”

“Ha, well, good thing my job calls for slugs.”

I peruse the menu and settle on the grilled chicken and veggies. I flag down the bartender and put my order in, adding a beer to join Coach as he finishes his.

“So, how we looking, Coach?” I’ve been dying to pick his brain about this entire situation, and since I have him alone, there’s no better time. I’m not comfortable enough to come straight out and get his take on me showing Chance the ropes, and the knowing laugh that spills out as he pulls his beer from his lips is why. Nothing gets by this man.

“I’ll tell you what I’ve told all my quarterbacks like you over the years, Wyatt. We’re all here to do a job. Best advice I’ve got is for you to do it to the best of your ability.” He lifts his beer and tips it back, draining the mug before setting it down next to his plate.

He wriggles his way from the stool, his legs not quite long enough to reach the floor. It’s funny to see a man with his pedigree in a game of big men lumber around at five-foot-six. It’s even funnier to watch him dismount from a barstool.

“Quarterbacks like me, huh?”

He pauses and quirks a brow.

“You picked up on that, did ya?”

I nod.

“Yeah, I did. And all due respect, sir, but I don’t think you’ve ever coached a quarterback like me.” My mouth works before my brain sometimes, and I instantly swallow, hoping that wasn’t too bold.

The long, quiet seconds before Coach laughs are torturous. He finally does, his eyes crinkling at the sides like Santa Claus. His hand lands on my back as he leans in close, like he’s about to tell me a secret.

“I’d love for you to surprise me.”

He winks, then drops a hundred-dollar bill on the counter to cover his tab. It’s the same wink my dad used to give me after dropping one of his classic lines. The same wink he taught me. I can’t help but feel there’s a sign in there somewhere.

Chapter Fourteen

“Pick a hand.”

My dad grins while standing in the open driver’s side door with his arms tucked behind his back. It’s the third gas station we’ve stopped at on our way to LA, so I could pee. I probably should have made him stop a few more times, but I’m stubborn and held it.

“Right hand,” I say.

“Damn it!” He bows his head and hands over a pack of Reese’s.

“Yes!” I fist pump with one hand and snag my snack with the other.

I could’ve flown to Wyatt’s first pre-season game with both our moms and the rest of our family. I’m sure I wouldn’t be stressing about getting there on time like I am right now if I did. But I would’ve missed out on this. My road trips with my dad have been fewer as an adult, and I’m sure they’ll be even less when I add a baby car seat to the mix. I wanted this time with my dad. I need it.

“Okay, that granddaughter of mine starts messing with your bladder again, just holler, yeah? I know every gas station from here to the stadium.”

I rip into my candy while my dad revs up his truck.

“Deal, though I don’t think the baby is kicking my bladder at this point. I read it’s mostly hormones and my uterus getting bigger, and?—”

“Yeah, I’m out when you start saying the word uterus,” my dad jokes . . .sort of.

I’m about to hit the three-month mark, and half of my family has placed their bets that Wyatt and I are having a girl. I don’t know, though. There’s this thought nagging in the back of my mind that this baby might just break the girl streak my dad started. It’s not like Buck and Millie, his late wife, had girls either; it was my dad and my Uncle Jason. And my mom’s brother, my Uncle Mike, goes against that theory too. And Wyatt’s family is split fifty-fifty girls to boys, and he carries the damn chromosome anyhow. But no way do I breathe a word of those thoughts out loud in this family. My dad and grandpa will be stocking up on shoulder pads and footballs for every size.

I’ve told Wyatt my thoughts, and he’s still sure it’s a girl. We have a wager on it for the first month of diaper duty.

We’re about an hour out when my dad’s phone rings through the truck’s speakers with a call from Wyatt. Kick-off is at six, and it’s three-thirty, which makes this a really strange time for him to be sneaking in a call.

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